sing when you're drinking

It's been ages since I last posted; more than a week constitutes ages in blogland, I reckon. Just didn't have the mood, the drive, the mental capacity to write anything beyond the darkest shade of black. Which would have bored most of you, I'm sure. Oh no, not another morose post, I would have heard you sigh. So does that mean I'm in a better mood now? Hmm, by the merest iota of difference, yes.

Some credit has to go to the Famous Grouse. Yes, that scotch bird who looks out furtively over every bar shelf. And it's not a bad drink, by any means. One of the more under-rated drinks, if there ever was one. Whether with soda, coke or ginger ale, it goes down relatively smoothly. Then again, after five shots, everything goes down smoothly.

I wouldn't say I've fallen off the wagon, but I'd say I've missed getting sloshed and having my brain cells die in the rushing flood that is booze. And momentarily submerging all the demons in the swirling mixture of malt and barley and rye and God knows what else. The fact that sobriety is constrained to the day is even more liberating, for some convoluted reason.

So yeah, only time will tell how long the drunken debauchery will last, but while it's alive and kicking, then all I can say is "kampai".

Here's a completely random piece of text; a verse from The Smiths. Can't find the video for the song, though.

Loved and lost
And some may say
When usually it’s nothing
Surely you’re happy
It should be this way ?
I said "no"
And then I shot myself
So, drink, drink, drink
And be ill tonight

one-two combo

I am calm.

Surprisingly so.No more confusion, no more drama.

Everything's been forcibly put in perspective. Which is what should have been done in the first place. There is no one else to blame, no circumstances to bemoan. There's just me.

Time to grow up. Time to grow out of this cocoon of debility that I've allowed to wrap me in. Time to stamp out the little imps creating mischief in my brain. Time to bring the misplaced affectivities under control. Time for action.

But above all, time for a cigarette.

i like girls, they like me

I just realised, I've been listening to two songs over and over and over again for the past two hours. Yeah, they're catchy and bouncy and danceable and all that, but still...

Weirdo alert!

On top of that, I spent another two hours people-watching down at Starbucks, black, white, Puerto Rican, Chinese etc. Some sort of a pseudo-spacing out session. I hardly touched the magazines I'd greedily plucked off the rack; was too engrossed looking at people, and through them, to some far away corner where I re-examined all my schemes and plans. I lie, there was just one. Yeah, yeah, yawn yawn, blah, blah.

TGI Friday, huh? Nothing more than another round of cigarettes, loud music, sardine cans and aching muscles. But you know what, there's really nothing else to kill time with once the sun sets. A movie; yet again? Stay in; right. So we scour the night, revelling in the cover of the dark. I think clubbing on a Friday night given; the only variables are the venue, and the crowd. Make that 'company', two and three and all that.

You know what, sometimes it's difficult to see where tantrums end, and realisation begins. Like, seriously. So at this moment in time, am I throwing a tantrum, or am I wisening up? My problem is I often oscillate between the two, at the wrong moments. I'm oblivious to being taken for granted when it's blatantly happens, yet I'm petulant when there is no slight. That's more one ingredient to the boiling pot which is my confused state of mind. I inevitably get annoyed with beings who remain confused for long periods of time, so I guess I'm displaying a small degree of favouritism towards myself. Just a small degree, mind you.

And guess what, there is no such remedy as 'just chill'. Who 'just chills'? No one that I know of. Everyone says it, but come on, honestly? Unless one has a fatalistic approach to life and surrenders everything to fate or destiny or such, I reckon there's a reason for horns on the bull.

So enjoy the weekend, get laid, get drunk, dance till you drop. Yeah, whatever.

pick me up and lift me down

Not an auspicious start to Thursday. Some results go your way, some don't. Today, they didn't. Ah well, there's always the penultimate round.

The only consolation? It's Friday tomorrow. What the connection is, don't ask me. I'm just stating the obvious.

"Look baby, I'm a heartbreaker, I'm a heartbreaker".

Okay, I confess, I'm confused. Which is why some conversations don't have a point. It's not that I'm being wishy-washy about things; I just don't know what I want. Not at the moment. And honestly speaking, I'm comfortable with being confused; gives me a certain blanket of acceptability to behave unadult-like now and then. But seriously, who cares right? Just go out, have fun, chill about, socialise around, everything's easy-peasy. It should be. Trick is not to over-think things. In fact, it's better not thinking at all. Go with the flow, Joe.

Good thing is, I'm looking forward to another round of clubbing. It's mind-numbingly pleasurable, I tell you. I doubt I'm going to be able to practise corny pick-up lines. Question: do guys still use pick-up lines these days? Do dodgy men go up to women and wax lyrical about stolen stars and fallen angels? Or is it more a case of familiarity breeds conversation? You sit down next to a person long enough in the night, and channels open up. There's something about pick-up protocol in The Game, but my memory fails me. Or it could be that I never read that particular chapter; the chapter on 'scoring' in the club.

You know what, I've got to get myself a cookie jar. And fill it up with delicious cookies of all shapes, sizes and ingredients. Hmm, that would be something constructive which takes up my time.

Yeah.

bangkok dangerous

I just had to. The irony was too tempting to be ignored.

On saying that, I'm feeling a tad bit antsy over the situation in Bangkok, just a tad. Hopefully, there'll be no need to postpone, or even cancel, my trip. I'm hoping the spirit of Buddha will prevail upon the good senses of the Thais, and they'll resolve their political mess before Wesak. Otherwise, I'll have to sort out the refund mess with Air Asia.

Some sort of a deja vu, this whole incident. The 2006 army coup occurred just a couple of months before my most recent visit there; luckily, it was more of a cordial and festival-like atmosphere.

This time around, things look pretty nasty, what with the Redshirts bent on provoking the powerful military. Still no sign from the Palace as to where their support lay. It doesn't help that the former owner of Man City is openly calling for a revolution; based on the revolution in Man City, I don't think it'll be create that much of an impact.

I think the one overriding lesson to be learnt here is that mob rule begets mob rule. Yellowshirts, Redshirts, Blueshirts, it doesn't matter. All it takes is precedence, and everyone starts getting delusions that wearing a certain coloured T-shirt and demonstrating around town will topple a government and bring about a new one.

Democracy, and the ballot box, may not be the solution to every political, economic and social woe, but it's the best system as yet. It's just the implementation of the system that's creating room for discord and dissatisfaction. All that this turmoil will only achieve is the total loss of income from tourists, like moi; estimated to stand at around THB 2 billion (correct me on the figure). Ultimately, it's a lose-lose situation for everybody involved, from the roadside hawker all the way up to the aristocrats.

And the many loyal tourists who make their annual visit to the Land of the Buddhas.

So yeah, fingers crossed, spirits appeased, coconuts shattered.

the gods must be crazy, to send such gifts

God is benevolent. God is giving.

You don't believe me? Take a walk around town; admire the blue skies, treasure the green trees. Give thanks for His Gifts to Mankind, for they are in abundance. In the sky, around us, in the clubs. Eh, what's that, you ask quizzically. In the club? Yah yah, you heard right.

Even in the clubs, divine treasures are aplenty. Spend one weeknight clubbing away, and you'll nod in agreement the next time we discuss this matter. And if you're a woman, you've more reason to get down on your knees. For among the mere mortals, between the throngs of the common males, walk God's Gifts. Solely for women. Yes, capital 'G's.

They are not just flesh and bone, no siree. They are Adonis personified, the Achilles' of the modern age, immortal Casanovas. Looking at them leaves you in awe. Their black greasy hair, combed slickly to the back. Some sport ponytails, some have sworn off hair. Others parade a straightened mane, strands of silky threads that do not ruffle easily. The fairer they are, the more majestic the walk, the higher the tilt of the chin.

A number wear sunglasses, even in the dark, for such is the intensity of their stare that you might swoon from ecstasy. They don't walk, they swagger, perhaps stagger.

And if you happen to be brushed aside or knocked against, give thanks, you've been Touched. If they deign you worthy, then they will grace you with their eloquent repartee. For they are men of few words, known. Since they're GGWs, they know your heart's desire, even if you have no inkling of it. You may shirk away from banter, but they feel your attraction towards them. Which woman will spurn the chance to be grabbed by a heavenly being, only God knows.

And after the revelry, the GGWs depart the club alone. But do not even think for a second that they have met with failure. Nay, au contraire, it is the women who have failed to convince the GGWs of their worthiness of being allowed to walk by the side of these magnificent creatures. Believe not the fishwife tales that speak ill of them; nothing but wagging tongues of lesser men. The GGWs bear their burden with great angst, for every woman that slips through their greasy palms is a woman deprived of delectation.

But fear not, daughters of Eve. These noble beings will return the following weekend. And the following weekend, and the following weekend, and the fol...I think you understand.

So ladies, the next time you hit the floor, seek after these Gifts. Watch them walking towards you, and step aside.

Step aside all the way to the other side of the club.

gimme the night

I was sitting down with a homie yesterday, doing the usual PJ Tea Party circuit. We went through the all the compulsory topics - politics, crime, football, relationships; before we climbed aboard the time capsule and headed back to the hedonistic days of the 90s.

This time around, it wasn't about who-did-what at school, or who-said-what. It was more a 'review' of the many nights spent gallivanting about, painting the town red and brown and any other colour that defines puke. And despite all the holes in the memory and the depleted brain cells that hold the grey matter together, two things stuck out, like a not-so-sore thumb.

One was the fact that we had patronised almost every pub/ club that existed back in those days. Some serious nights out they were. Our tours had taken us from the streets of Telawi, to Sultan Ismail, up and around Tun Razak and almost everything in Bandar Utama/ Damansara Utama. PJ was a given, considering there were only two places of note, DV8 and Waikiki. Just roll-calling the places reads like a where's where. Hard Rock, Jump, Boom Boom, Renaissance, Baze (and all its manisfestations), Spoon's, Spike's, Uno's, Rio's, Twelve SI, Emporium and its predecessor, Modesto's (every outlet around town), good old Brannigan's - the list just goes on and on. I mean, at one point or another, we had popped in every watering hole along Telawi, left, right and centre.

Okay, I know you're going "big fucking deal, so what?" Well, the fact that we weren't working is one; the other is when oh when did we sleep? Maybe that explains the constant eyebags that haunt me to this day.

The second recall was darker; we were running through the list of synthetic organics that we'd ingested during that era. Yes, it was an era. A time when roadblocks were next-to-none; when the crowd almost everywhere was heterogeneous; when one could smoke essentially anywhere under the Sun. But yeah, it's a small wonder my body has been able to expel all the toxins accumulated over the past 15 years or so; I've ingested more than my share of rubbish. Blame it on the times, the age or the crowd. Whichever way, it's a good thing I outgrew it rapidly. No, I don't mean size-wise.

I guess all's well that ends well. Personally, the itch to knock back a couple of shots has subsided. After all, I use to knock a bottle of cheap ass Balailayka every night for months. And if that doesn't kill you, then rejoice, nothing else will.

And as for The Others, well, all I can say is Puff! Vanished the Magic Dragon.

i really should rate this post 18+

Wow, we are already two days into the new week, and I'm still recovering from the weekend that was. The super long nights (I don't recall crawling into bed anytime before 5AM) have really made it very, very difficult to wake up for work. Really felt it this morning especially; what's in your head, zombie. I hope the power nap (felt like 15 minutes) helps later in the day; do need to do a spot of cross-skiing (that's elliptical trainer to those not in the know).

Just a quick note: Mist is definitely the new Bangsar. No, it's just one building. But the crowd, well, it was just one flashback after another. Faces last seen at Modesto's or Big Willy's or Gasworks. Which puts the club in perspective, a homing beacon for the Bangsar diaspora long dispersed for the past decade, a homecoming of the prodigal children. And now that you know, doI need not mention the demographics of the patrons? The music oscillates between great and grating. Drinks are expensive, but I guess that's the only way to keep out the pariahs. And finally, las chicas there will leave you misty eyed. Hot Peri-peri all the way.

I was sitting down with some fellow wise men (pardon the presumption) for nasi lemak last night; oddly enough, our conversation steered towards the subject of sex. Philosophically, of course. Or, we'd like to think it was philosophical, and not downright perverty (copyrighted word alert).

Anyways, where was I, yeah, sex. Specifically, the hardware needed to perform the action. Too technical? How about sticks and pits? Better? Good. So basically, over the years, I've read some literature on the 'erotic arts'; mainly Chinese and Indian (in English, of course). And it's very apparent that Eastern eroticism (henceforth Ee) emphasises more on technique and spirituality for orgasmic satisfaction, rather than the specs of the tools involved.

Think about it, I doubt it's mentioned anywhere in the Kama Sutra that for best enjoyment, the two key figures are 36 D and 12 inches. Neither does Ee stress again and again on methods of elongating appendages and ballooning up mammaries. All they espouse, in a nutshell, is learn how to blow (breathe that is, breathe) and you'll be a bedroom Eros or Nymph.

Admittedly, some societies who practise Ee take things to the extreme; tiger penises and rhino balls and antler horns are not going to make things jiggy in the bedroom. Many wannabe Romeos in the Orient have contributed to the drastic reduction in a number of fauna species. Stop fucking kidding yourself. Cheaper alternative, fool, Viagra.

For all the sexual liberation brought on by Western erotica, it's obvious that a second, more discrete phenomenon has followed. The need to supersize. Now seriously, does anyone really want to be the next Dolly? The singer, not the sheep. Or perhaps, the modern Long Dong Silver? And if these names sound Greek to you, then obviously you missed out on the greatest of decades, mate.

But like I was saying, what's so erotic about plasticky (c.w.a) sandbags or a vericose garden hose? I mean, really.

wii-ing around in the universe

I'm going to sound like I've just stepped out of the Stone Age, but Nintendo Wii is really cool.

There. Raise your eyebrows as much as you want.

I had an all-too-brief go at Star Wars yesterday, and it was quite exhilarating swinging the remote around, and watching the lightsabre slice through the enemy on-screen. The fact that my arm was aching after some 5 minutes of slashing, and thrusting and parrying added to the realism of the experience. The interface wasn't that great, but the graphics were impressive. Pity there wasn't any blood splashing around ala Kill Bill; that would have been uber cool.

And for a brief moment, I was entertaining the thought of actually getting a Wii console; the price tag did more than enough to stop me dead in my tracks. A thousand seven hundred bloody ringgit. Woah! Easy, Darth Vader. Then, once the euphoria of having executed a jumping-slash-like manoeuvre was totally flushed from my system, I got to thinking, am I really going to stay at home and play every night? Or even every weeknight? I think not. All honesty, I reckon I'm more inclined to get a N96 with that amount of money, with plenty of change to spare. But if the price were more in the region of RM 1000, then perhaps.

On a related matter, I remember many years ago (we're talking in the mid-80s here), almost anyone who had watched the Star Wars trilogy harboured secret aspirations to be a Jedi. I mean, what's there not to like (in the mind of an eight or nine-year old): cool weapon, black ninja-like outfit, potent hand movement and agility beyond human capability.

Fast forward a quarter of a century, and all I can say is Jedis are wusses. Really. Come on, think about it. They have this constant constipated look on their faces (the precursor to the Clive Owen look), they can't display emotions (even in bed), they can't procreate (which probably explains the previous point), and they always have to clasp their hands together and nod sagely in front of a green gremlin-like creature. And their fashion options are pretty damn limited; one can easily place them on a camel, if you get my drift.

And frankly speaking, does anyone really give a damn about the balance between good and evil and all that jazz? After watching countless good vs evil flicks (home and away), I've come to the conclusion that good means drinking orange juice in a cafe, and evil is drinking whiskey in a pub.

So yeah, watching Star Wars these days (all six of them), you just hope Vader had just finished off whining Luke. I know I enjoyed watching Vindoo get vindalooed by Anakin 'I'm-so-torn-apart' Skywalker. Given, some Jedis were quite bearable - Qui-Go Jin and Obi-Wan (their idiocy in buying son but not mother still defies logic); but in terms of the bigger picture, I didn't shed a tear when the Republic/ Empire went on their backstabbing (literally) Jedi pogrom.

I must reiterate, I don't dislike the Jedis, I just find them a tad bit overbearing and pretentious. Which obviously made it easier for the dark side (the perennial villain) to pull the wool over their heads. I mean, for how long did they expect to go on blaming everything that was wrong with the galaxy on the darker cousin of the qi-cosmic energy ray-like-midi-chlorian thingy that's the force? Somebody attacked Endor, blame the dark side. Somebody kidnapped the princess, blame the dark side. Somebody stole my sandwich, blame the dark side. I'm suffering from constipation, let's hear it now, altogether now - Blame the Dark Side.

But I reckon the Jedis forgot the cardinal rule of all lifeforms - once you go black, you'll never go back.