Thursday, August 30, 2007

Merdeka or bust?

It's understood that there isn't any equality in this country amongst the races, and that the underlying foundations of the Social Contract in the Constitution stated that affirmative action would be taken to allow the Bumiputeras to advance themselves at a level that was found to be on par with the other two dominating races. It was also understood, and accepted, that this would also be a permanent arrangement of sorts in order to grant citizenship rights to the two main factions that had somehow found their way into the country: the Chinese and the Indians. It was also stated that Islam would be the official religion of the nation, but that the country would not be an Islamic state. This was drafted out, agreed upon and accepted for the better part of the last four decades.

When you compare the Malaysia of today to the Malaysia of yore, things are (obviously) better today. Critique it as you will, but widespread education is provided for the children. The Klang Valley's development has branched out into its surrounding satellite cities, and in turn, development has taken a regional stance; the Government has taken measures to ensure that development is spread out throughout the regions, and eventually positive changes will also be heralded in East Malaysia. The fact that we're blessed with relative safety and security and a lack of rampant extremism (when compared to the world around us) should already make us realize that things aren't too shabby.

But it's in the intricacies of the execution in which we see the cracks. The dubious allocation of funds in general. The Government's adversity to investigating problems proactively as opposed to offering solutions only when the issues arise. An incredibly opaque (I'd dare to call it solidly blocked) view on transparency, a factor that this current administration ran on without exhaustion in the beginning.

To an extent, all these problems pale in comparison to the fact that we're all racial bigots in this country. All of us. I heartily believe that we're all headed toward a general direction of tolerance, as opposed to a state of understanding. And there's a genuine world of difference between the two. We can be showered with propaganda, telling us that it's alright, but it's not. And we know it. There's a climate of fear, paranoia and distrust; it's never been more evident than during these last few years.

We're also guilty of being nonchalant to the troubles around us. Ignorance does bring bliss. To an extent. But to pilfer from the Manics, if you tolerate this, then your children will be next.

I just wish that we could all pry ourselves from all the arguments over who has the true rights to live on this land and transcend that line of thought to pull ourselves together and make a better
future for everyone.

Am I a patriot for saying that we're all fucked if we continue in this direction? Yes. I'm as much as a patriot as every one of you to your respective nations.

It's just so strange; the values and ideals that founded this country in the very beginning have been bastardized and muddled during the last 50 years. The next 50 will probably be just as chaotic and confusing...only that there'd be more of the sour than the sweet.

Bangsa Malaysia. T'was a great idea. Where the fuck did it go?

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Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Pentathlon.

For someone who'd rather avoid confrontations, I'm highly prone to ruffle feathers a bit too much. Whether or not it was something that I was imbued with at birth, or something that I've picked up whilst feeling the pain of losing skirts to philanthropic playboy poseurs, my tendency to annoy and repel people with only the lightest of easy has yet to be surmounted or outdone. I suppose it's more of a passive ability than anything else. It's a reflex action.

They say that humour can be a saving grace in the gravest of situations. If that's the case, it's safe to say that my life has been one of hell of a tragedy. If only that were true.

I don't spend my time picking fights with a shortlist of people; I find that I get bounded over in the most unusual of situations. The only real fight that I've been in saw me get bounded over; not because I was a pushover, but because I was punched at the back, without any forewarning, or even a witty quip ('Hey, fat-ass, whoop-ass is here!').

No. I wasn't even granted that luxury. Someone was jealous that my geography teacher had made a remark about how I was sharing a textbook with a girl he fancied. This was in Year 7/Form 1. Schoolyard fights were few, and far between. And it's not like I even got to pull a punch.

I was an overweight dweeb. And I still am. And mighty proud of it. I'd probably excrete whatever testosterone you'd give me. Though I've never had a secret wish to have adamantium bonded to my skeleton. Or to become the Thing. Or even Superman, for that matter. Superman's a pussy. Captain America's a hero. (I wouldn't mind picking a fight with you if you're a fanboy who disagrees with me on this one.)

I suppose that I'd take the Alan Shore option and pay a bunch of barflies a good deal of money to beat someone up when it comes to a bar fight. It saves me the trouble. And it wouldn't crease my suit.

Plus, despite not being much of a fighter, I'm also not much of a lover, either. So I suppose that it doesn't work both ways.

Back to the drawing board, then.

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Sunday, August 26, 2007

Shades of grey and sour grapes.

The harder I try to extract myself from the monotony that life has become, the deeper I get into it.

I'm in desperate need of some stimulation. Motivation. A good reason to shake my money maker.

I've uploaded two new songs...both lack the Vienna Boys Choir and that operatic vibe that I love. Not that I love the Boys Choir. I really don't.

Anyway, suffice to say, I might have to change the titles because most people associate them with other songs. And I've never felt so much pleasure from having a repetitive one-line chorus before.

Bring on the dancing girls!

(It's going to be hard to please the hip, youth-grasping bistro-going crowd.)

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Friday, August 24, 2007

Help my Vibra.

If anyone has the full installation disc that comes with a Creative Vibra 128 sound card, I'll commit myself to absolute servitude at your beck and call if you'd be so kind to lend it to me.

This is a tier below a life-or-death situation, but the brevity of the repercussions would just be as detrimental towards my life as a gun held to my head, ready to blow.

I'll be your bitch if you've got the disc that comes with the card. Even more so if you've got a card that was purchased, at most, four years ago that you're not using now...that'd call for a happy ending of sorts. For your benefit, of course.

You can tell that I'm desperate.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Help save Malaysia from everyone else. Please.

In a nutshell, whether you're wagging a keris around in a show of supremacy or making a video to 'unintentionally' drive the supremacy on both sides to a boiling point, you've got to love this country for its cheap thrills.

Once again (as is usually the case), a whole new wave of paranoia on both sides of the racial divide is brimming.

And once again, while a bunch of boys with atrocious grammar and pockmarked faces flame each other needlessly and endlessly on message boards over a video with incredibly bad rapping and bad production values whilst arguing over who's got the bigger phallus (no doubt while simultaneously rubbing their respective cones to stimulation), I'd like to remind everyone to come to JamAsia on Friday, September the 28th.

Because good taste is always around. In liberal doses.

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Finger frickin' good.

You've got to love those terms and conditions.

Fly, fat ass, fly!

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

She was a sour girl the day that she met me.

I've learnt that coffee makes me happy (or at least not as unaccomodating as I usually find myself to be) in the morning. Then again, my disposition's normally sunny at dawn. I'm not sure of myself in this respect; I'm also not sure about what my favourite position while sleeping is. If I did know, it'd most likely be easier to sleep, as opposed to endlessly pondering over what my favourite position was prior to actually sleeping.

But as I slowly creep out of the caffeine-induced episodes playing in my head, I've come to the realization that I miss being a muddled, unorganized brat of a child who didn't know how to properly tie his shoelaces until he was 10. At least as a child, pompous behaviour could be attributed to simply being young. I suppose that it explains my brimming, ever-present inclination towards the most unattainable, extremely attractive and terribly outgoing girls with a sense of Parker Posey mirth and quirk. Because I treasure eccentricities that others would disregard as being plain...strange.

No, childhood pompous leanings don't really explain my inclination at all. And a very low number of the aforementioned apples of my eyes could ever be considered pompous.

It doesn't sound that strange when I think of all my past relationships being adventures. Not so much because of the drama, but because of how inextricably different each girl was in comparison to the other. There's no pattern; no links; no commonalities; no method to the madness. (And it gets better in terms of those who got away.) Neither can I say that I was randomly trying my luck and casting a net whilst trying to ensnare multiple catches at once.

I respect the softer sex, if only because it's hardly 'soft'. I could probably gush about the fascination I have with them in general, but that'd betray my standing as a (failed) misogynist. Or would it only contribute further? I'll leave that particular vote in your hands.

More java, please.

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Monday, August 13, 2007

Bummed and not exactly loving it.

Yes.

I woke up grumpy.

I'm still grumpy now.

I can see cascades of joy overshooting their mark.

The bastards.

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Saturday, August 04, 2007

24.

I don't like this aging business. I don't want to be like a fine wine. My youth isn't wasted enough for me to complain about the concept of it being wasted on the young. I just want to lay in my bed, with one pillow between my thighs and one under my head, idly dreaming about the nonsense that people dream about.

I don't care about the commitments I have to keep, the responsibilities I have to assume, the bricks I have to lay or the lies I have to tell. All I want is to find a clear valley with emerald grass that isn't too long, sunflowers growing all over it, with an azure sky overhead, puffy white clouds overcast and a golden sun suspended in stillness. I would then dig a hole and take a crap over some poor hare's subterranean lodging.

The last two weeks have been fabulous. The last month before that was extraordinary. The previous 23 years were excelsior.

As I scratch my way through an itchy scalp, without any sleep other than a light nap in the afternoon and without any sustenance other than a cup of very thin coffee, thinking of the words that can articulate the way I feel right now, I've come to the conclusion that I shouldn't really bother. Because I don't know what I'm feeling, and because I can't be arsed to find out why I can't put my knobby fingers on it.

The aforementioned knobby fingers could very well have picked up a pulse aeons ago. But there wasn't a pulse; however, despite the lack of a proof of life, the fingers kept searching until time stood still and Rasputin took out his thwang and whipped me with a great fury from on high.

And with that, I found myself back where I'd started. Staring down at my feet, with my hands rolled into balls of fists, ready to take on the day. And that's where I'm going to stand. Because I was given a pair of feet from a higher power that saw it fit to endow me with such a gift. And with this gift, I shall run.

Or at least stumble on to the next day.

There's no fruit more forbidden than the fruit at your feet.

And with that, all you'll be left with is:

Because there's nothing more divine-like than being alone and sucking it in.

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Thursday, August 02, 2007

Leverage.

It's been said to me today: I'm a lousy poker player because I can never hold on to all my chips. There's nothing like the drama of going all in and making it known to the world...or at least, the perceived tension and drama that goes on in my head while doing so. The thrill of the plunge. The desire to know what the others are holding.

I'm proud to be part of the pack of idiots who have no clear understanding of the game, other than that patience, planning, foresight and a good dose of common sense are vital to winning a good round. But realizing these things doesn't mean that we have to play with them in mind. Skirting on playing with plain irrationality might not be the smartest thing to do, but it'd be good, as Tyler would say, to let the chips fall where they may.

To thrift off from a song I know, chance is a kind of religion where you're damned for plain hard luck.

No truer words, no?

Dive deep. And pray you don't drown.

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Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Band wanted.

Needed: a guitar guru who's able to make a miracle worker out of me by September 25th. It's preferable if the aforementioned guru is willing to back me up and save me the trouble of playing the guitar myself. Payment will be made in beer, or pornography; whichever option's the most suitable. It'd also be wonderful if the guru could sing harmonies. And play a wide range of obscure 60s torch songs that could be credited to me. Oh, it'd also help if the guru could play the bass as well. Or knew a willing, kind soul who plays the bass. Just in case.

Needed: a totally untested bedroom DJ who's willing to spin beats for me on the same night. It'd help if he believes that he's the second coming of Geoff Barrow, Robert Del Naja and Grant Marshall combined. Payment will be made in weed, or pornography; I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. It'd also be wonderful if the aforementioned DJ could also play the congas, bongos (for stage versatility) or has a shaker.

Needed: a mad hatter who can make a nice fedora for me. Payment will be made in Brand's Essence of Chicken, or pornography. Mayhaps the headgear can distract everybody from the fact that I have ladylike fingers.

Needed: an estrogen brigade comprising of friends, school mates, college buddies and random readers of this blog. This is an appeal to your hearts. Payment will be made through your entertainment and amusement, at my expense.

Friday, 28th of September at JamAsia (I was looking at the wrong calendar the first time round). Please don't cross me off, Mr. Delphie. It should be an interesting 15 minutes, to say the least.

I'm praying to be hit by the Lord's stick for inspiration. Or some initiative.

(Seriously, does anybody know any overzealous bedroom DJs?)

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