are we human or are we Dancer?

I think I'm a rather good dancer.

In the club, that is.

Yeah, there used to be moments when I wasn't inclined to move my arse off the stool as I knocked back shot after shot of whiskey.

But somehow the 'old' old me has managed to emerge from the thorns and shrubs and bushes that have enveloped me over the past ten years or so.

This XO me that used to head straight to the dance floor instead of the nearest spot on the bar. And it feels good, just moving and grooving (do they still use this word?) to the sound of the music. Five minutes on the elliptical, and I'm struggling to stay on my feet. Two hours on the dance floor, and I'm hoping it's not the last call for the night.

Maybe there's still some youngish blood running through my cholesterol-clogged veins; maybe I still have the tar-covered heart of a 20-year old. Who knows eh?

What I do know is that it feels liberating just prancing about without a care in my head; every dark page just flies out the window the moment the notes starts caressing my brain.

So yeah, just dance. And dance.

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.

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.

capsquare, but in lower case

Found: the world's most expensive beer.

I kid you not. Headed down to CapSquare over the weekend and made this stunning discovery. Well, I was stunned. Firstly, by the fact that the much-hyped about clubbing locale was anything but hyper. It was 'd' to tha 'ed'; dead. The only outlet with a semblance of Saturday night normalcy was Red Square, which is apparently KL's pioneer vodka bar. Every club these days seems to claim a 'first'; first to be this, and first to have that. And most of the time, after experiencing the club for the first time, it's back to the first impression one gets when entering the joint - BFD.

Anyways, I digress. Due to the zombie-like atmosphere at Modesto's and Urban Attic, I hopped across the impractically-built pavement and waltzed up to the entrance. As usual, the door bitches were anything but helpful. After repeating my question for the second time, the magic number comes trickling out; RM 50 cover charge, one drink provided. I mean, are these people living in 2009, or still stuck in 2007?

And then they seek sympathy by talking about how the economic slump is affecting business. Keep up those ridiculous prices, and it won't just be the economy that's slumping, mate. I have to say, sometimes I reckon KL coughs out clubs at a faster rate than Dubai erects hotels. It's stupefying how more and more clubs are littering every nook and cranny in town. Almost all advertise some form of uniqueness, all end up serving the same old roti kosong air suam. You name it; winter bar, ice bar, fire bar, water fountains, pole dancing; gimmicks which eventually become a bore, after a couple of months.

And since we're on this matter, it's mighty annoying to find 'working girls' infiltrating some of the trendier clubs these days. Where they once operated in Hard Rock and Beach Club, now they've even penetrated TwentyOne. I doubt any decent chap is going to be overly-attracted to a person who's lazing at the bar, and who's been sipping from the same drink for the past two hours; emphasis is on 'decent'. All they do is take up valuable bar space, which is a priceless commodity in rather small joints.

And leopard print dresses? Major time warp alert.

sobriety is relative

Ever since I fell in love again, life has been nothing but a bed of roses framed by a star-filled canvass.
Yeah right! Ah well, at least there's still one in a million chance...
Hmm, this turn of events (also known as subject of infatuation) shows that I've progressed from tall blondes (farewell Maria, it's game, set and match).

Back to serious business (matter of relativity, of course). Okay, I'll begrudgingly admit, Hartamas isn't that bad a place to jolly about. Two consecutive nights there, and I'll say this much: it has its attractions. In terms of sights and space; the latter referring to, of course, the relative ample free parking available during the earlier part of the night. And the clubbing hive of Hartamas is undoubtedly Supper Club. Sit down at the mamak opposite (next to 7-Eleven) and you'll nod in agreement. Really.

Thus far, I'm pleased with my resolve. Barring certain idiots who have tried spiking my drinks, I've kept away from alcoholic beverages with relative ease. True, it takes more effort to loosen up the tongue and body movement, but slowly and surely, I'm getting the hang of it. So maybe I'll treat myself to a binge sometime in December this year. If only I could say the same of cigarettes.

Then again, I said I was quitting drinks, I didn't say I was becoming a saint.

drunken ox in a china shop

CNY has come, and gone. Ya ya, I know it lasts for 15 days, but for those who don't actually celebrate the festival, it's over.

Funny how future financial plans are always scheduled for after CNY, and not so much in tandem with the Gregorian New Year. Really, think about it. Whether it's finding a new job or starting a business endeavour, almost everyone seems to set post-CNY as the starting point for expected prosperity. I guess that's another indicator of how multi-cultural Malaysians are, despite the government's best efforts to polarise the different ethnicities.

Still with CNY musings, it's been one DVD after another for the past three or so days. I reckon I've watched more movies in 72 hours than most do in a year. The roll call: Slumdog Millionaire (bloody fantastic), Outlander (bloody crap), The Good Shepherd (quite engaging), Pontianak Harum Sundal Malam (bite me, please, ponty baby), Rec (freaky) and Prince Caspian (decent battle scenes). I would have watched more, but almost all the DVD shops (including my regular one) were closed. Next on my list: Valkyrie, Pontianak Harum Sundal Malam 2, Puteri Gunung Ledang, Histeria (hattrick of Malay shows?), A Wednesday, Gran Torino and Changeling.

I'm so in love with someone from PHSM, I tell you.

Back to reality. Got a healthy dose of clubbing over the weekend. I've got to find an alternative to alcoholic beverages; one that doesn't screw up my digestive juices. Two Citrus Presses later, and I could feel the acid in my stomach swirling. Coke and Ginger Ale are way too sugary, I realised (finally?), while I definitely can't be sipping coffee throughout the night, can I? I'm thinking mocktails, but not every club serves them. And no, I won't be caught dead drinking a Bloody Mary or Shirley Temple. Bailey's, I don't mind. A Drinker's Dilemma.

The Battle of the Bulge resumes, for the twenty-second time. This time, it's six-pack or bust. Hmm, one unintended pun too many there.

festival of lights, marlboro and all.

I just realised my previous post was a full week ago. Have I been that busy? Or is it further proof that time flies?

Either way, I'm quite surprised I haven't posted at least one rant in the past seven days. Maybe I'm more forgiving eh?

The Festival of Lights has come and gone, leaving me poorer financially and richer cholesterol-wise. My word, it was just one meal after another, all in front of the TV. From spicy chicken curry to sweet milk kovas, it was one sinful indulgence after another. And now it's payback, big time. It's going to be one long, arduous workout routine, this week and the next.

Went to Sanctuary on Deepavali eve, after a very long time. Good to see nothing has changed, much. Except the Ice Bar, don't recall it being that cold. I think the situation wasn't helped by the fact that I (and some amigos) entered the Arctic zone dripping with sweat after some age-defying moves on the dance floor (i.e. around our table area). I felt the sweat down my back freeze, literally. Still wondering if the two test tubes of Bailey's which I downed were a big help in warming up my insides, or merely overpriced shots. I must say, Sanctuary is quite a decent joint; it'd be a better place if the crowd were more heterogeneous and the damn janitors more mannered. Seriously.

But yeah, recreation-wise, it was a good weekend. Friday's stint in Bistro 7, Saturday's feast in Jarrod's and Sunday's feet-tapping fare in the Curve somehow revitalised the youth in me. And most importantly, I didn't spend any of the three nights puffing away at some mamak. Well, I did yesterday, but that just served to wind down the weekend's festivities. Can I just say Darussalam Mamak in SS 15 is quite happening, especially the first floor? Nice decor, nicer patrons, if you get my drift. Watching who comes up the stairs can be quite, well, engaging.

Let me end this post by wishing all readers a belated Happy Deepavali (since everybody celebrates everything in Malaysia) and enjoy the curries and sweets, or what's left of them.

weekend whitewash

Sometimes, even the best laid plans get, well, laid. Deja vu. What seemed like a promising weekend petered out into boredom, disappointment and loneliness. It was a downhill slalom from Friday night onwards, and only came to a grinding halt sometime last night.

Quattro's launch was one big disappointing can of sardine. Literally. It seemed like the organisers went out of their way to ensure guests were thrown every possible inconvenience conceivable. From having to line up to enter, to having to line up for drinks, this was without the doubt the worst launch I had ever attended. The lines outside the club were akin to the IC department, with queues broken up according to names in alphabetical order. Question: why ask people to pre-register or RSVP when half the names do not appear on the guest list on the day of the function? I was literally rubbing shoulders with the patrons, that's how fucking packed it was.

Getting in was mildly annoying, getting a drink was downright pissing off. It took 25 bloody minutes just to get one drink, having had to stand in queue for the entire duration. If that weren't enough, some microgenius in the bar decided to split the drinks line into beer and whiskey. I was about five people away from the bar when suddenly one of the bartenders smugly announced they had run out of drinks, and those still thirsty could try the other line across the bar. Several minutes later, it was the official end of the free flow. I was so bloody tipsy, on one bloody beer!

Even then, the organisers didn't let up. Obviously being rude was one of the requirements to join the cleaning service in Quattro, and that's exactly how the waiters and janitors were. Barging into people, shoving patrons aside, pushing through the masses - they were at their element. Not a single excuse me, or sorry to be heard.

Okay, but there must have been something nice right, you ask optimistically. Well, the radio 4 DJ's were fabulous, that's it. Sorry folks, no silver lining. Bad air circulation, too much sound interference in the Summer/ Spring sections, a long flight of stairs to Winter, and concealed restrooms. To be fair, though, give it another three months, and then it will probably be quite a decent joint. At this moment, too many posers adorning the furniture there, eager to be seen and maybe heard there.

Which brings me to a sub-post - posers. My word, they're so stereotypical. Typically, a group of both genders. Must-have accessories include black dresses, a multitude of bottles and loud voices. The boys (somehow 'men' does not fit) try to act cool; the girls go for 'cooler'. There's a distinct paradigm shift as the hours pass by and the bottles lose their contents. Voices become louder, and actions more uncivilised. Then the puking starts, and whatever class they think they have just goes down the toilet bowl. That's if you're lucky; more often than not it's sprayed across the floor or sofas. Which is why, sometimes the clothes (and bottles) do not make the man. Money is fleeting, class eternal.

Yeah, so that was Friday. Thanks to a series of unfortunate events, I was home alone on Saturday night. Even the prospect of watching Everton play could not keep me hooked to the tube. Which led to a solitary beer at Savanh Too. Sad, but true. Quite a decent crowd, though, and the music was quite the happening. However the prospect of drinking and driving alone didn't appeal to me, though, and I was back home within an hour.

Like I said, a real tear-jerker.