Famous faces, lots of places.

Sometimes I wonder if my life prior to being a superstar would come back to haunt me. I wonder if there're any skeletons in my closet that might justify the media crucifying me. Although I'm hardly even at the fringe of breaking into third-rate stardom, I never fail to wonder about the trappings of fame and the amount of prying that would be done on behalf of the hounds and wolves.

Even my own blog can be used against me.

I suppose that my life has been quiet. I have no lovechilds. I've never used drugs in my life. I tend to be sober 99% of the time.

Yet there's that niggling feeling that somebody's got something incredibly trivial, yet controversial, to say about me if I ever break into the big, big leagues.

Firstly, there's probably Sreeman, the rather rotund and short Indian who stays behind me. He'd probably start sprouting rumours about my being a racist because I tend to crack the most tasteless Indian jokes and insults whilst playing football/basketball against his tubby being.

Secondly, ex-girlfriends might suddenly pop up. How about that one-time, two-week thing I had with the Internet hookup? I swear, there's an inverse relationship between a cutesy voice on the phone and the actual reality of the face behind it.

We could also talk about my failure as a Christian. I'm sure that it'd stop some hardline chuchgoing parents from allowing their children to buy my albums or to watch my movies. Studies have shown that it's hard to be a matinee draw when you're jumping on couches or insulting Jews (though I'd do the latter, too, only if I didn't find being a Jew to be a somewhat bittersweet experience).

Whoops. Someone could use that last one on me. Save me, Tom Cruise! I still love you, but I've got to admit, Scientologists are whacky. Ooooh.

I can think about someone who'd be willing to dish dirt on me for a price. Even if the dirt isn't even grainy. Someone with a totally big mouth. Someone who'd suddenly become my close friend again after years of not even being in the peripheral. Take a bow, Josie!

You still owe me a hundred bucks.

And who knows? Maybe those nice folks at the Malay Mail would find an ex-girlfriend or two to talk about my...never mind.

Then again, being a male celebrity in Kuala Lumpur isn't all it's cracked up to be. There's a good chance that everyone would think that you're gay. The highlight of my week would probably be telling my friends about the grand ole time I had, having Chef Wan try to pick me up while dancing at Velvet.

Man-tastic!

No, I seek fame at Bono-fide levels. Mega. This country isn't big enough for my dreams. But there's no use in having dreams without acting upon them, no?

I had this plan once: to get the Girl That Got Away by becoming this major rock god (perhaps with band in tow), securing a gig in Coventry and then showing up at her doorstep, whisking her away with me to see the sights of the world, whilst sleeping out of our suitcases. I would've given her the world. Nowadays, I'd probably only give her syphillis.

I kid. I kid! I really do. (Lord knows they'd use this one against me. The shrimps.) Firstly, it's not nice to curse things like these upon people you really do care about; secondly, I'm not even getting any action whatsoever that requires me to get tested for anything. (I can see it now: "Tai denied entry into the Hard Cock Cafe!")

Nevertheless.

Oh, well. Fame will probably come my way once I find Death at my door.

If all else fails, go out with a bang and nobody'll forget you.