If thou shall not rock, thou shall stray.

Thank you for coming, those of you who did. And accept my apologies. (I sense a drama queen moment breaking through.)

I'd much rather sing than play guitar. Performing live is fine as long as I've got someone backing me up...therefore I won't have to worry about getting the chords right. Nay, I lack the dexterity to properly pull off a C#m sus 7 B7 C7 Asus Asus7 C#m simultaneous wank without choking finger-wise. Although I do attribute it to a lack of practice (and a high aptitude for ruining things by default), I strongly believe that I'm an adequately capable vocalist...once you take the guitar away from me. I'd much rather record six-part harmonies and let somebody else worry about the musicianship while I just idly sing away, engage in banter and enact peculiar noises on stage.

Everybody's happy in the end. And the fat Chink frontman has his moments in the much-needed spotlight.

Regardless of it all, it was a great lesson to learn. And good fun. Plus, I've figured out what the stronger songs are, thanks to some constructive input; and I can safely say that I can make a living out of covering Britney.

This will not be the end of me. Nay!

Here's a list of immediate pipe dreams:

1. Start a podcast where all I do is bitch about things.
2. Start a novelty music act.
3. Do a 180 and only record music.
4. Try to start a band full of competent musicians where all I have to do is sing and play the tambourine.
5. Try to start a band full of inept musicians where all I have to do is sing and play the tambourine and be singled out as the special one.
6. Add an additional sixth chord to any future songs to create the illusion of depth.
7. Solely record vocals and bribe a particular someone to add the finishing touches (I'm looking at you, you Tagalog Tiger).

Anyway, thank you for coming. You know who you are. It must've been the strangest, most painful RM 12 you'd ever spent, but it meant a lot. Especially since you came early.

Punctuality is still alive in our tardy Malaysiana.

Oh well.

I am still the loveable attention whore you knew me as. And now, it seems that I've been given a mission by the gods. Zounds!

It was fun sitting on a stool. Now, please excuse me; I've got a date with Armitage Shanks to make one.

What's a wonderwall, anyway?

Destruction is an awful lot more efficient than construction.

A house of cards can be destroyed with a swipe.

A wrecking ball can be easily dispatched against a wall.

A mis-shave of a month-old goatee can ruin its symmetry, thus causing a preference to be clean of pubes on a chin.

But in whatever way you look at it, breaking down is a lot easier than coming up.

You don't appreciate things until you see them through a time-lapsed lens.




My feet hurt.

Tossers!

Just a few more days until the (terribly small) big night, so another friendly reminder: 9:00 p.m. does not mean 9:30 p.m. If you're coming, come early. And I can reserve a table. As long as you're there. Be punctual! Because it'd be a terrible waste if nobody's around to listen to the better songs before I proceed into an awful second half.

Please try your best to make it at 8:30ish.

Banners are welcome, though they'd be incredibly awkward.

Ah, the life.

I'll give you more.

Oh, Britney. My heart rings out for you.

People might say that you're washed up and that, horror of horrors, you're fat; I digress.

These same people (or at least the men) would still love to have you over for dinner. How about an appetizer of a flaming Fellatio del Fuego with your company? Or the flexibility of a meal like Copulation Ala Carte? And perhaps, for dessert, a good, solid Creampie.

The naysayers see no future for you; they say that there's no hope left. But there's always a light at the end of the tunnel, especially if the light rushes in, like a gushing geyser of overwhelming fire, filling up the tunnel with such brilliance that even the most numb would feel the slightest prick.

What you need, like the song suggests, is more.

I'm waiting.

But of course I am.

Love is not an aphrodisiac.

I like blaming my long-suffering girlfriend for everything that goes wrong, and right, in my life; it's as if she's the center of a large intricate weave of occurrences that somehow become effortlessly networked. Lest you think that I'm a bit crazy, I suppose that I should share the (blasphemous) logic behind my conclusion.

My girlfriend is the physical personification of God on earth. Now, here's the clincher: she's not the only one. Barring Jesus, I think that there's an invasion wave of God's People on this planet who aren't irrevocably Christian. Like how the Gentiles became God's second wave over the Jews, I believe that there's a new wave of Gentiles who've been picked, plucked and dried.

I'm not saying that she's blameless or guiltless. It's just that she's got a rack that's not too shabby (though I'm never around to paw at it), a fit pair of legs (that I'm never around to bite) and a good head on her shoulders (that comes packaged with a bad case of acne). And she's also smart, witty, and diligent, to boot. And she cooks. Is that not Heaven on Earth?

Though she has done the odd dirty deed every now and then. And at times, her logic is baffling. She's a patsy, whereas I am a pansy. She's incredibly gullible, yet not overly naive to ditzy proportions. And in her, I find an equal in terms of knowing about the things that matter that don't matter to everyone else who think that they do matter.

Then again, I don't really care about the augmented product because in my own eyes, she's rather fetching. Though it's a pity that she doesn't really believe that I think so. An apple of one's eye could be a prune in another's. No doubt.

Anyway.

Let's say for instance that God did spawn a new invasion wave; a wave so big that'd delay the Rapture even further...what would that mean? Would the people who now frequent the churches so religiously (pardon the pun) accept that fact that they're last season's congregation? Or would they buck up, suck it in and assume their new roles as the stewards of Ye Olde Faith? Would it segregate the denominations even more? Would it bring them together?

Splinters.

However, take solace in this: no matter what denomination you belong to, God's street team comprises largely of immensely nubile, unthinkably attractive, incredibly intelligent girls who'd whisk you away at a snap of a finger and a toss of long, straight, luscious hair.

As for me, I give three cheers to the invisible church, where there's nothing to prove. It's a place that's truly ours. And ours alone.

I do feel guilty. But I'll leave the judging to the Big Man Up There.

Goodbye, Mr. Pavarotti.

Farewell, Luciano. I didn't know you at all, but you gave much inspiration to this fat boy who always urged for the opera voice. You will be missed.

You were a truly funky one.

God Bless you.

And may you have all the fettucini you want in Heaven.

Gig!

Yes. Join in the fun. It'll be a blast, I swear. And at the very least, there's a very good chance that the four other acts will elevate the viewing experience.