Friday, January 30, 2009

I, Freedom Fighter

As a person of astronomically high moral standings, I believe you should all suck my dick.

You see, I'm a freedom fighter. I fight for freedom. I'm like, a superhero and shit.

I believe that all races are equal, but some are MORE equal than others.

Especially the liberal ones. We, liberals, stand higher than any of you mere mortals.

We are men, women, and trannie of principle.

We are like 60s Americans - the unshaved ones - except we're not black. Or, tragedy of tragedies, we are not white. Not white enough.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Revelations: Rocky's Corruption

Recently, it has been revealed that Rocky had a meeting with Datuk (Seri?) Jamalud(d?)in Jarjis, (Datuk?) Mukhriz Mahathir, Nuraina Samad and a mysterious man known as Khairudin, whom some believe is Rocky himself.

Yes. Rocky had a meeting with himself at La Bodega, BSC.

He was most probably talking to himself, in an open and public place. The sure sign of a corrupt man, doing a very hush-hush, behind-closed-doors deal.

And the audacity to do a behind-closed-doors deal in an open air restaurant is pure and simple arrogance! Arrogance, I tell you!

Since Haris Ibrahim, the accuser, have come out of the closet, I too want to jump on the bandwagon and attack Rocky. Why? Because after the fall of Pak Lah, the biggest Malay in Malaysia is Rocky.

At six foot two, he is the tallest Malay in Malaysia, as far as I know.

During the alleged meeting, one of the supposed attendees, Mukhriz, was out of town. However, this is nothing as Mukhriz has been known to teleport himself time and again.

Instantaneous travel was a Dr M mega-project and was hinted on in dr Sam's songs. Malaysia invested 50 million rupiahs on a portable black hole in the 80s. Coincidence?

Mukhriz, JJ, Rocky and Nuraina all are members of a secret society called the Fleemasons. Yes. Flee. And Mukhriz's teleporting abaility will indeed come in handy. To flee the masons.

See, I first heard of Rocky when I was a very small boy, watching TV, and seeing him bind his name to a big brand corporation aimed at brainwashing children.

I was so enamoured that I kept on singing the theme song even past my 28th birthday.



Rocky One!


Though some contest that Rocky One was actually masterminded by Lazarus Rokk, Sylvester Stallone or journalist and my friend Gerald Chuah.

Rocky had sold his name almost 30 years ago, when he didn't really have a name. Such is the evil of the Fleemasons.

I will contact my Big Bird shortly, in the toilet, and I shall bring you more Revelations. End of times, brother. End of times.

NEXT: Haris Ibrahim and Haris Rajahdin: Same-Same?

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Hitting the Ground Running

Today, I woke up in Kuantan, at my parents' place, at 7am.

Had breakfast, said goodbyes and went on my way, back to KL.

Reached KL at around 1pm. Freshened-up a bit and then left the house at 2pm for a 3pm meeting.

I met a VERY experienced animation director, with over 20 years experience in the business. I am very much excited at the prospect of sharingan-ing his way of doing things. I mean, you don't stay 20 years in an industry for nothing.

Already, I have a good feeling about this.

Now, I am in a cab hurtling back to my apartment, where I will catch a few deadlines, read a few contracts, maybe clean the house, translate some movie scripts, make some calls, finish some proposals and organise my Saturday meetings.

When I decided not to have an office job at the end of December, I did not think I would be this busy.

The good thing is, I can do all this in my underwear.

Tomorrow, I am going back to the gym.

Hopefully, everything goes well.

Dead are All the Gods; Now do We Desire for the Supermen to Live!

I heard recently that some Christians in Malaysia will be banned from using the noun 'Allah' in their publications.

Might I suggest these alternatives, then?

1. Yahweh

- my first choice because it sounds Jewish.

2 Jehovah/Jenova

- my favourite choice, as Jenova is Sephiroth's mother. I whooped Sephiroth's ass without attacking, due to FOUR quadra magic Ultimas and one magic counter Ultima. And it sounds even more Jewish.

3. Eloheim

- umm. Dunno. Thought it was God's name, right?

4. Elaine Belloc

- from the Lucifer graphic novels.

A god, by any other name, is just as...whatever.

Aphrodite, Venus, Ishtar, Astarte.

Amon, Apollo, Amaterasu.

Thor, Petir, Susano-O-No-Mikoto.

Mars, Ares, Guan Yu.

Horus, Mithra, Jesus, Krishna, Anakin Skywalker.

Kelpie, Poseidon, Ctulhu, Nyi Roro Kidul.

In Hinduism, each god has many forms and many names.

Krishna is an avatar of Vishnu. It also has like, ten other forms like Vamana the dwarf, Singha, Kalki and the rest. I got that from watching January Low dance.

I love God mythologies and creation tales. Been reading them since I was very small.

I was always intrigues with why people believe what they believe. And how seriously they take things, once they are written.

I can write a few sentences right here, and I could ruin my entire life. Or I could write a few scribbles and all women would want to suck my dick.

Let me demonstrate:

Swallowing my ejaculate will result in weight loss and clear skin.

Licking my ass will get you two million Euros.

See? How seriously we consider things when they are written down.

That's one of the reasons I became a writer. To understand why these things so affect mankind.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Breeding Hazards

I just got back from the beach, where a 12-year-old drowned himself in the turbulent waters off Cherating.

He and his parents did not heed the huge red flag and the 'no swimming' notice placed by the hotel people.

And the hotel did not have a lifeguard on hand.

Yesterday, two bodies washed ashore, also caught in the waves and the violent winds.

If adults can die, then the kids would have no chance.

Any local would know not to go out when the winds are this strong. It's the fucking monsoon season, for God's sake. All fishing boats - the smaller ones - are grounded and you can see the fishermen painting their boats by the roadside - a sure sign not to go out in the fucking waters.

They sure can breed, but they can't read.

Stupid breeders. Stupid fucking breeders.

People who have kids as some sort of fashion statement, in order to belong with the rest of the cattle.

As a Malthusian, I am tempted to say good riddance, but that would be too cruel.

It should have been the parents in the water. The kid knew no better. And the parents should have.

If I have a beach, I need a shotgun as well. If any stupid kids and their stupid parents want to kill themselves, at least give me some target practice, instead of sacrificing themselves to Poseidon. Or Nyi Roro Kidul.

Zodiac Killer

According to Chinese Zodiac, I was born on the hour of the rooster, on the day of the white metal dragon, the month of the rabbit, in the year of the Yin metal monkey.

Which means I should be piloting a giant robot this year.

Rai, Rai-deeeeeeeeeennnn! Ummmh! Aaah!



Pilder ON!

Shin Getter Robo! Get IN!

Combine, OK! Combine, OK!

Buiiiii togethaaaaaaaaa!

Let's Volt in!

Variable formation! Ikkei!

Activate, interlock! Dynatherms connected! Infracells up - megathrusters are go!

To activate my auspicious direction, I need to put a transforming robot dragon on the Southeast direction, to welcome luck, wealth and sex.

I need to put a Tiger-Dragon Lord robot west, to scare away bad luck.

And I need to put RM2 million in my bank account in order to be welcome the greatest of all luck.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Fengshen Yanyi

The investiture of the gods.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Stories to Tell

So I sat down with some friends to develop some movie and TV ideas.

Apparently, some of my friends like movies that have some sort of gimmick to it.

Story in a story in a story and they're happy.

Insert a twist and they like it.

Cheepork has his fixation on chick flicks. I mean, he calls me a fag for my love of musicals, but a guy who digs chick flicks?

Next step is chicks with dicks.

Me? I watched gimmicky movies all my life. Narratives that went backwards. Unreliable narrators. Twists up the wazoo.

The first three movies I worked on last year are all action-adventure, epic types. And even more stuff I got lined up this year are all in the realm of the fantastic. Most are commissioned work.

It is a fantastic learning experience. I see how things work, and know what a key grip is. A gopher.

The absence of unions or guilds among creative people, which could have protected their rights.

So anyway, for my own movie projects, I want to do simple, straightforward stories.

Woody Allen instead of Takashi Miike. Wong Kar-Wai instead of Spielberg.

The psychedelic Hideaki Anno instead of post-punk Masamune Shirow.

Gainax, not Gonzo.

Grave of the Fireflies instead of Spirited Away.

I don't like M Night Shyamalan's movies. Because too much hinge on the twist. The big pay-off. Shyamalan's movies are too gimicky.

I want to do something like Mighty Aphrodite. Mr Holland's Opus. Big Fish without the CGI.

No special effects. No wires. Nothing.

Problem is, it might not make money.

The highest-grossing movie in Malaysia was Transformers, which was almost 80% special effects and CGI.

Like it or not, the maths, the commercial aspect does come into play.

Some friends tell me to make art films.

The problem with art films is that they belong in a museum, and they're priceless. In the sense that you can't put a price to it because no one will buy it, and not many will pay to see it.

I see the challenge for my generation of wannabe Malaysian filmmakers would be to marry off artistic integrity while pandering to the audience. And their RM10.

To find the balance.

It is a universal thing which has been going on everywhere, for almost forever.

But in Malaysia's film scene, it seems to have just been possible a number of years ago.

When 'artsy-ish' films or the Malaysian new age are shown side by side with established money-churners.

And it has just been demonstrated that it is possible for Malaysian films to make more than 7.5 million.

If Miramax buys your film, they could pay you a chunk of money. But it has to be good. Good enough for the international market.

I dunno. I will continue to propose stuff to various places and avenues. Many, many stories.

Hopefully, one day I will get the money to do a story about my father. After doing that movie, I can just die.

For now, though, I got my movies to do. It's my job.

Kong Hee Fatt Choy

I am in Kuantan, to celebrate the Chinese New Year with the Chinese side of the family.

Though I am not sure if we will do much celebrating, out of respect for the oldest relative who passed away recently. My uncle, who was a police officer in post-WWII Malaya.

He killed Communists, he told me. And showed a badge and an old photo last Chinese New Year, when I went to his house.

His giant dog had died and we were not as protective of the little kids.

Later on in his years, the man had almost lost his hearing. He wore a hearing aid on his right ear.

He passed away a few months ago. Bone cancer.

Anyway, Happy Chinese New Year. May the year of the Ox brings you whatever you need.

Lost Heroes

Lost is back with its latest season.

Yes, John. Ben is back.

I was thinking if Lost and Heroes were to have a crossover, that would be fantastic.

Now imagine if CSI, 24 and House were in the picture. Man, I could come.

Hiro Nakamura getting caught in a time loop with Desmond. Sylar killing everyone on the island, starting with Locke.

Then Jack Bauer gets on the island to chase Habib Marwan.

Meanwhile, House diagnoses the women on the island.

Grissom and gang do the mop up and frame the entire story.

And then Sylar blows up the West Bank.

Friday, January 23, 2009

Phuket Aftermath

Excuse me as I bask in the white-hot nothingness of a Phuket aftermath.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

National Pornographic Sexplorer: The Impermanence of Everything

Everything changes. Nothing is truly lost.

People come and go. It's been five years since the first time I was in Phuket. A lot of people have left. People I know. But they did not really go; they're not really gone. They have a way when they become irrelevant at one place, they go elsewhere, and others take their spot.

It's like politics. It's like entertainment.

Some are still here. Some of the bar owners, and some faces who never really change.

Anyway, it presents an opportunity to meet new people and make new friends.

For Cheepork and myself, it was no longer the rah-rah kind of excitement we used to look for a few years ago. This time around, it's more of a laid-back visit rather than a hellraising trip. Only having two extra guests on our last night did we really go for a full-blown party.

We also decided on a few possible stories that could be movies in the next few years, or few decades. I got one, that could be a Malaysia-Thailand cooperation in the vein of a Woody Allen movie, based on Cheepork's sordid love affairs. Titled Phuket. I am sure there are a lot of people who love this place - oldies who have been here 10-20 years before I came - but I am not sure whether the movie would actually make money.

It's a nice, small movie, with a small story. The kind I would like to make on my own, given the chance, and a grant. No fireworks. No CGI.

Cheepork has a few ideas for a series developed here, but not in any way based on Phuket or Thailand. They're commercially viable and we will be preparing a proposal or two once we get back.

I feel the power moving within me once more. The shift in location has skewed my perspective a bit and I am once again interested in stories.

I shared this with a wonderful girl last night. How Phuket has always seemed to me to be full of wonderful stories.

She said, "Everyone have their own story."

True. Very true. Everyone back in Malaysia have their own stories to tell. The difference is, in Malaysia, I am more self-centered and think mostly about myself. Other people only exist in relation to me. Myself as the point of reference.

Once I leave the country, I find myself lost in the background as I focus on listening to people's stories. It happens everywhere I go. Bali, even Singapore. Not necessarily just Thailand. But since this is the most relaxing place on earth for me, I get more interesting tales here than anywhere else.

Anyway, I am enjoying a few hours of relaxation before going back to KL. It's been a fantastic trip and for the first time in months, I can't wait to write.

Monday, January 19, 2009

National Pornographic Sexplorer: Phuket

"I ugly, no?" She said, standing in front of the mirror.

"I poompooi, no?"

Poomp pooi, or pumpui, means fat. The etymology is an ad for a food product featuring a very fat-faced fish.

"No," I said. "You are neither fat nor ugly."

Still, she primped and posed some more with variations to her uniform, before leaving. All the while, she sang a very weird Thai pop song which goes something like, "nyoonyenyek-nyek keniiii." over and over and over again.

"What song is that?" I asked.

"Oh, it's from a singer, Fat Ass."

"I'm...sorry? Who?"

"Big Ass. Thai singer. Very good."

"Okay. What is it about?"

"It's about falling in love is bad. In song, there is big, big party. And falling in love is bad."

Big party. And falling in love is bad. Well, at least it's not about thongs.

Finding nothing better to do, and without any of the Superman movies on the almost-40 movie channels, I went out as well, 10 minutes later, into the cool Phuket air.

This time around, Cheepork - the Earl of Cunt and myself, Count Clitoris, spent more than two hours walking around - fresh off the airplane - trying to find suitable accomodations. It's a throwback to the first time we were here and were looking up and down for a hotel or guesthouse that would suit our needs.

Our usual haunt, Sand Inn, has upped the price by more than 60% because of the peak season. Even though 2009 is one of the worst peak seasons in Phuket history.

Peak season is between December to January. February till March and October to November are the high season periods. The rest of the year is low season. In the low seasons, Sand Inn charges from RM70-RM100 per night. Now, it's around RM160.

Prices have indeed increased all around Phuket, since two years ago. Thai massage is up by 10 ringgit, making it RM30 per hour. And now, if you go two hours, you no longer get a 10 ringgit discount. It used to be that one hour is RM20, two hours is RM30.

Same goes with a lot of things. Too many to list here. Some things, though, remain the same. Rock Hard A Go Go more or less charges the same price as they did when I first came to Phuket around five years ago. And Roxy doesn't skimp out when you ask for a Scotch.

But times are hard. Air Asia cancelled one of its three flights to Phuket - ours - and put together the morning and the afternoon flights together. According to one of our informants - a resident who is usually online - one street was hit so bad that they only had five customers, one night. A whole street. Five customers.

You can point the finger at a lot of factors. The global economic slowdown. The stronger Thai baht against the US greenback, the Euro and the Aussie Dollar. The move by previous Thai PMs to turn Phuket into a family destination and not so much a Sin City.

Anyway, after two hours of searching, under the hot Phuket sun, I asked Cheepork, "So what are we looking for?"

"I can't remember."

"You can't remember?"

"I listed the names of the hotels down, but forgot to bring it. But I'm sure if I see the name of the road, I will remember the name of the hotel."

Problem was, there were no road signs. Hidden behind multiple layers of sellers and hawkers, trading anything from sandals to sarongs.

"Oh, great, so we're just going to walk around for hours, with our bags, inches from massage parlours, looking for hotels whose names you can't remember, on streets with no signage?"

I felt my asshole taking over myself.

"It's okay," said Cheepork. "Let's go to a cybercafe and let me look them up again."

We did, and I must say that the hotel Cheepork got for us was a revelation.

It has a jacuzzi in each room, and each floor only has two rooms, making it the biggest room I have ever paid for myself. The biggest room I was ever in Thailand was The Metropolitan in Bangkok, where the bathroom was as big as my living room back in Malaysia. I didn't pay for it, though. Somebody else did. That was, however, a lifetime ago.

Anyway, we met the owner of the hotel, a guy called Tony from Scarborough. Nice bloke.

The hotel is at an area of Phuket which I have never been in. I did not even realize its existence. It's like finding a Phuket secret or something. I'll write about it later. It is about 10 minutes (walk) from Soi Bangla, which is far by my standards. Sand Inn, in comparison, is a mere 10 second dash through traffic.

But a clean, spacious room with a jacuzzi at RM100 a night during peak season - plus almost 40 channels - and both fans and air-conditioning is nothing to complain about. And I do feel guilty for being such an ass to Cheepork earlier.

No worries. I'll send him a massage tomorrow.

So, I went out into the cool Phuket air. I saw a roadside stall and, saying fuck you to my regimented food intake, went and ordered a plate of fried rice. I was loocking forward to having those chopped chillies in fish sauce again. And I love the way Thais prepare their rice.

An American couple joined me, as we tourists are wont to do in these parts. 30ish. Good-looking. They wear Old Navy, which usually alerts me of douchebags and assholes, but they seemed nice.

"So what's your take on Phuket?" asked the guy. Can't remember their names already.

"Well, it is as it is. What about you?"

"I think it's very quaint," said the woman.

"Quaint? Strange choice of word."

"Well, yes. With their little decorated Tuk Tuks and names and Thai kickboxing promotions. I find it cute."

Cute. Cute. And I remember K, with her daughter growing up in these parts, her American husband having taken custody of their boys. Aoh (whom I call Psycho Gundam) with her insecurities and erratic energy of a broken-hearted and broken woman. The absent Anne, whom Cheepork still loves and pines for. Tuk 1 who developed wiry muscles capable of bending steel because she had to carry water every day of her life. Tuk 2 who was beaten up by her gay husband, and whose children were taken away from her.

Cute? To them, this is life, and this is their world.

"But I don't get it," lamented some of my foreign acquaintances. "There are less people coming. Less business. They should lower prices, not raise them."

"Well, it's their country," I said, having had too much to drink and needing to go to the toilets again. "They can do whatever the fuck they want. If you don't like it, then you can git out!"

Fortunately, I remembered to put in as much humour and parody of a Republican as I can. And they laughed with me. Or at me, for being a dirty Asian monkey who has learned how to speak. I do not care.

The night is cool. There is that Phuket energy in the air.

I am going to take a motorcycle taxi (RM4 instead of RM2) and go visit my friend Sandy who manages Sand Inn at Soi Bangla.

For the first time in months, I am calm and content. The hurricane that is my emotions is gone. The blizzard that is my mind is still. Surrounded by the facade, the lies and the heartbreaking honesty (when you take the time to sit down and listen, and not make it all about yourself all the time ) I am safe. I am humbled.

I am home.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Tales from the Drunk Side: Sukiyaki Western Django

Tamashi no namae wa, Garaktus desu!

Kore wa, doreeming no naka.

Moofeeus-sama wa, dorobo da!

Hitotsume no kotoba wa, yume!

Nemuri no naka kara.

Ore wa, oni desu. Kokoro wa, arimaseng.

Omae wa, jitengsha da! Sore no mangko wa, warui da!




Shiiiiiii neeeeeee, onna!

Tales from the Drunk Side: Hidden Talent

I discovered that I have a hidden talent.

I can move my ears.

I have superpowers.

I am a Thanos of the Titans.

Infinity Gauntlet is mine!

Friday, January 16, 2009

Raped in the Face

A continuation of the previous posting.

Now, I do n ot believe that the Rockys and the Nurainas of the blog scene will start carving Stephen Francis with a machete, in the name of God. No, I am not worried about them.

Neither am I worried that upon reading the Koran, non-Muslims might faint, wake up, and start speaking Arabic.

I am concerned with the anonymous motherfuckers. And the hate they will brew in other anonymous motherfuckers.

Anonymous Motherfucker: I have so much anger, I feel like I've been RAPED. In the face!

Steve Coogan, yo!

Now, I have been online since 1996. 1994, if you consider trading porn pics in diskettes as 'being online'. That's 13 years.

I know how the net works, when it comes to arguments and debate. It's very simple. Go on the offensive. Never be defensive. Make fun of people's mothers. Smart arguments don't really work, because the Internet is a place to be stupid.

Be anonymous.

Then you will always 'win'. If that's what you want. If it's even attainable.


I have talked often with people about religion to understand that it's not something you talk about. Publicly. And like it or not, we do live in an unfair, unreasonable world.

The best bet is to simply watch Religulous. Or read my gospel on Testiculous.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Dangerous Minds

Religion is dangerous.

It is not the religion itself, the bureaucracy we seek to put between ourselves and a perceived higher power, or God - any God - that want to destroy all of mankind. It's the people. And religion is one of the things that set people off, because it brings out the righteous animal in them more than anything else.

I am writing this, against my better judgement, because there is a growing number of people who are suggesting that we read the Koran. Rocky has the story. I find this to be quite worrisome.

They are inviting people from all walks of life, all races and all religious beliefs - even atheists - to read and understand the Koran, between now and Valentine's Day.

I am worried that though the intention seems good and nice, it might result in social breakdown. Anarchy. Moreso because it was a call made primarily to bloggers, i.e people who will voice their opinions online, sometimes anonymous, and quite possibly emotional or drunk.

I guess there is no better way to illustrate my concerns than painting this pessimistic views on how it will turn out:

Stage 1

The first few postings. Nothing major. Some people will point out that they've never realised that the Koran was written as a book of poems. That the verses are in iambic meters and that they rhyme.

Some over-eager Muslims will point this out as some sort of miracle. And that they are right and everyone else are wrong.

Of course, people reading translations will find none of this and start scoffing. Privately.

Publicly, those who want to be seen as open-minded and not the racists and bigots they are will say that they have ALWAYS thought of the Koran as a mighty book, and that they have no problems with the religion or with Muslims.

Stage 2

People start quoting passages that suit their agendas, whatever that may be. Feminism, terrorism, political ideologies, left-wing rhetoric, Anwar-worship. All, regardless of context.

Some jokers start to make fun of some of the verses. Usually people who read wikipedia articles and believe they know more than Malaysian Muslims who each have studied the faith for at least 11 years. In school.

Vitriol is flung at every side. The racists and bigots have a field day. The half-baked Islamists start back-pedalling and trying to explain something they hardly know anything about.

The hardcore fundamentalists start coming out of the woodwork and tell people that the answer is in the book and they have to study it for 80 years from multiple dead people before understanding anything.

Stage 3

Now on to nuclear war.

Honestly, I do not believe mankind has evolved past the stage where we can discuss religion in a civil manner, on a large scale. ESPECIALLY on the Internet. And no, I am not talking about YOU, but about the collective herd-mind.

And it only takes a few idiots to get people to start killing each other.

People would only be interested in showing others how WRONG they are, making them RIGHT in contrast. Like what I'm doing right now, but less intelligently.

There are only two possible outcomes to discussing religion on the Internet:

1. "We will respect your views on religion if you respect ours. Let's agree to disagree."

2. "We will kill you."

AFter 9/11, I went online and debated religion with the international online community. And when I say the international online community, I meant 14-year-old racists and bigots.

Years later, the community has not changed. Sure, the Malaysian online community possibly has a higher average age than the rest of the world. But they are all 14-years-old when it comes to religion. Well, when it comes to anything, really.

It is filled with people trying to prove you wrong. WHat do you hope to get from it, really? Will people agree with you?

People already have made up their minds. People, as a herd, are stupid. And obstinate. They will not change their minds. Which make me wonder why I'm writing this in the first place.

Why do we need to discuss religion, anyway? Openly or otherwise? It serves no purpose. Other than to incite hatred, fear, anger, racism, stupidity and bigotry. Mostly stupidity. Do we get brownie points from God? Do we get to convince people that we are going to heaven because we could copy and paste translations to certain verses?

DO we get to show how smart we are by showing people they are wrong? How RIGHT we are? Bla bla bla?

Look, in the 50s and 60s, there was respect between people of different faiths, even with people of no faith. They did not have an open dialogue on the matter. They just lived and went about their business. Without needing to convince people of anything.

If you want to believe, you believe. If you don't want to believe, you don't. That's all there is to it.

I am concerned that this move will in fact drive a larger wedge and could escalate into something really horrible. And it all starts when people - of different faiths and belief systems - push their opinion down other people's throats.

The alternative to this is simply letting the system continue as it is, where misguided clerics, priests and whoever we elect as super-powered telepaths and PIS-M affiliates decide how we should live our lives and who we should kill, and who we should hate.

Body-snatching will continue, and mothers will be forcefully separated from their children, in the name of God. Memali might happen again. Al-Arqam might have a resurgence - a few years back they tried to do it in Phuket, of all places.

At the end of the day, we are only looking at a few thousand dead, and several hundred lives destroyed.

With the 'open discussion', we might see more, really.

This is a potentially dangerous proposal, in my opinion, and I call everyone not to go through with it. At the very least, it will create some displeasure and heightened emotions. At the worst, it will kill people. On the flip side, IF it works, then Malaysia will somehow be transformed into a mature, informed, open Islamic society with a healthy, respected and respecting non-Muslim community.

Somehow, I doubt that.

So knock it off. I pray that this thing will not get enough of a buzz to spark something stupid.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Halt! Blasphemer!

There is a fast-growing movement in recent years to discredit and debunk religion.

Actually, there has always been a movement to discredit and debunk religion. But this time, they got a few movies out, several television specials, and numerous books.

Bill Maher's film Religulous makes fun of Judeo-Christian religions and beyond. Richard Dawkins, an Oxford professor, Khairy Jamaluddin's teaching staff, wrote The God Delusion which is a best-seller in the past few years.

Here is Bill Maher in one of his stand-ups and also a segment of his show Real Time on HBO (not available here):


And here's Richard Dawkins on the same show, talking about Pink Unicorns, Fairies and god:

Yes, my fellow Americans! Religion, Republicans and Bill O'Reilly is under attack, as is seen on this interview with David Letterman:

Rise up, the soldiers of god! Rise up, the armies and kneeeeel before Zodd! Lay down, before Zodd. Now, take your light leg and push it to your left shoulder before Zodd.

One, before Zodd. Two, before Zodd. Three, before Zodd!

Religion, faith, belief itself, indeed, god is under attack by the likes of Maher and Dawkins!

We should pledge our faith again in the Talking Snake and find whales so we can live inside them. And go to Gaza, because that's where Hiro Nakamura teleported.

We should spread the word of god! And I am going to start with these heathens right here:

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Gnothi Seauton

The past few weeks, I've been spending some time with young people. People my age.

One time was a front-yard movie projection potluck party at Tapai's house, where some artsies congregated. My suggestion that we watch Religulous was not met with enthusiasm because of the heavy subject matter, albeit being a very funny movie.

Religulous makes fun of faith. And shares filmmaker/comedian Bill Maher's dread that leaving rationale and logic out the door in favour to what is the equivalent to following the readings of the entrails of a chicken, will eventually lead to a self-fulfilling prophesy of armageddon.

With the recent Gaza massacre, another one in a series of Israeli bullshit, is making Bill Maher sound like a prophet. Like Richard Dawkins.

Anyway, we watched Ocean's Eleven. Rodek wanted to watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Booo.

Anyway, the artsies commenced playing Oasis songs with their guitars. I never really liked Oasis. So I stayed away and made my cough worse by eating ice cream.

I bought, for the party, two chickens. Having failed to locate KFC, we went for Ayamas which we saw by chance. Cheepork and I ate one of the chickens, and left the other one for the rest.

Spending some time with these people, I find that most of them are grappling with some things that are quite alien to me.

Rodek has his mission to redefine the performing arts scene, by making more real, inventive, and fun plays. Tapai wants to be an actor.

And most of these people, the people at the party, they seem to be talking about stuf f I hardly even think about these days.

"Tertiary education is a farce."

Yeah. And?

Having a degree gave me RM2,000 extra when I started out. That's 2,000 more than the next guy without a degree.

And people seem to still be comparing resumes. What you do. What you did the past few years. Bla bla bla.

I hate comparing resumes, because it will often blow up into some sort of invisible, unsanctioned competition.

I hate it when people ask me, what I'm going to do. I don't know what I'm going to do. I have plans. I always have plans. But that doesn't mean the plans are gonna unfold the way I want them to. The next best thing to come along, I'm jumping on board. I don't know what it is. Not yet.

I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. And I'm not going to waste my time worrying about it. What do I look like, a future stock broker? Hedge fund humper?

I also don't know what's gonna happen after I die. No one does. Anyone who claim they do - holy men, PIS-M fuckers, idiots, politicians - are claiming to be God. Saying 'I don't know' is humble. Certainty about this shit is arrogance.

And arrogance usually comes from insecurity.

So anyway, young people. People my age. Been spending time with them. That's all.

A Serious Discussion About the Arts

So Rodek and Tapai talked to me about the arts late last night.

Rodek: I don't believe in method acting. I believe in practical aesthetics. Method acting is about if you want to play a beggar, you go and live the life of a beggar for a while and access those experiences, perspective and emotions in your performance. Practical aesthetics, meanwhile, approaches things line-by-line. Say the beggar wants to ask you out for a drink. So the beggar simply asks you out. If you want to create urgency, instead of having a whole life's story behind the character you portray, simply imagine that you were fucking someone, and your wife just got back.

Tapai: I need to know the aesthetics of a gay. I am going to play a gay man soon.

Rodek: I don't really care or know about post-modern or whatever. I believe in something real, not vague.

Me: Yeah.

Inside my head, though, I was thinking only of this:


So tonight I went first to the National Press Club, as Arnaz promised that it would be full of horny women.

It was not, so I left with Cheepork and went to see a couple of friends - Rodek and Tapai.

Rodek is writing a play and Tapai is going for an audition tomorrow. They brought their scripts and I asked to see them.

Being rich kids, they can afford to indulge in the artsy fartsy shit.

Me, the only way I will do a play is probably if I have three million to burn to do Amir Hafizi - the Musical. At either Istana Budaya or Stadium Putra.

It would incorporate tales and passages from the Bible, the Koran, the Talmud, the Torah, the tenets of Scientology, South Park, Sandman, Deep Purple, Eminem, Mazinger Z, Rig Veda, Yagjur Veda, Atarva Veda, Tao Te Ching, Watchmen, Sin City, The Far Side, Dilbert and Planet Simpson.

It will start with my birth, skip my childhood and teenage years, cause that's mostly me being asleep and avoiding getting raped in the ass, and continue with me as an adult, travelling through time and killing Kublai Khan and fucking the most beautiful women in history.

Then I would die saving the earth from a Xenu-Joseph Smith hybrid, only to be resurrected four days later as a planet-sized transforming robot. With a dick the size of Asia.

I then destroy the universe and explode for another Big Bang.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

A Brief History of Time: The Last Testicle

And lo, Testiculous woke up one day, and Testiculous was horny.

Testiculous lived on the star Oa. Which is Green Lantern's star, thing.

So Testiculous created the rest of the universe. Forget who created Oa. Neil Gaiman wrote about it.

Still horny, Testiculous travelled back in time and fucked his own mother. So Testiculous is his own father. Something like in Arnold Schwarzennegger's movie Terminator.

Then to create life on earth, Testiculous stuffed a volcano with souls and blew it up with a thousand SCUD missiles.

So Testiculous came to the Jews. In the Americas. And demonstrated his powers of teleportation by going from what will be New Amsterdam (the original name of New York) and going to California in just a few minutes. Just like Hiro Nakamura.

Then Testiculous came to Testiculous in a dream and told Testiculous to kill his own son, which was Testiculous himself.

So Testiculous killed himself. About a week later, he rose up, like Claire Bennet in Heroes.

A few hundred years later, some people started writing about Testiculous. They erected big statues and started praying and worshipping Testiculous.

Then, rival factions emerged and they started fighting each other. First with stone knives and later with nuclear weapons.

Eventually, everyone dies.

Friday, January 9, 2009

Tales from the Drunk Side: Kingdom Come

I stopped watching the news. Cause I got so pissed off with the Israelis bombing the shit out of the Palestinians.

No matter what your faith is, you can't seriously agree with the terrorism perpetrated by Israelis against the Palestinians.

And just because Israel is doing it as a country, with organised troops and military effort, not as some disorganised splinter cell does not make it un-terrorist.

Yeah, despite the backing from the US government and their companies.

I don't blame them for doing that. Just don't blame the Muslims if they retaliate and make the prophecies in the Book of Revelations, the Koran and whatever the Jews read come true.

I fear we are heading towards nuclear confrontation.

Thanks a lot, Jews. Thanks a lot, fundamentalists.

Just get me to Thailand one last time. I want to spend some cash with my loved ones.

After that, I might just see pictures of mushrooms on the front pages of newspapers.

If everything goes to hell soon, I have a list of people I want to kill.

It's machete time, brother!

And why? All of this crap?

Because some people were arguing who is right and who is wrong.

I guess the bombing and killing of civillians is so right.

I don't give a fuck who started it. I just know that we are ending it for the human race and leaving this planet for radioactive roaches to rule.

Oh well. Maybe the insects will do a better job running this earth than the Jews ever did.

Tales from the Drunk Side: Monarch of the Glen

I kicked away Jaka Denial, cause supporting Jaka is supporting the fucking Jews.

Global Jihad! Global Jihad!

So I'm with the Monarch of the Glen.

We is buddies, we is.

L'enfante du Sang

I am walking around with this new do, and I get a different treatment from people.

Purchasing a mocha latte, some Malay monkeys started making fun of my awesome, sexy hair.

I gave them a banana up the ass and they got even crazier.

Then, a Chinese chick peddling something, who completely ignored me at a shop, pre-haircut, started talking Chinese to me.

Me: Do I look fucking Chinese to you?

Chinese Chick: But, the hair...the hair...

Me: I not Chinese! I Koreans!

Then, a Malay chick sitting at a nearby table went up to me.

Malay Chick: Sucky sucky?

Me: I'm sorry?

MC: Me sucky-sucky. Only fifteen dawlah!

Me: Oh, you want to borrow my lighter. Here.

I lit her cigarette. And off she went, with her sucky-sucky.

Man, this new haircut will take me places.

Blowdown at the AK Modal

So I walked into the saloon.

All eyes were on me, as I made my way to the counter.

"Cut me, Lou."

So they took me to a chair and asked me what style I would like.

"Surprise me, you filthy bastards."

And they nodded. And they did.

A New Hell

I have lived most of my life as a judgemental fuck.

I thought it was necessary, being a life scientist, like Tesla - Tesla! - to judge and re-judge things. Pretty Aristotlian, though I admire Plato more.

I thought it was the smart thing to do. It probably is, you know, because I am smart. And this is what smart people do.

Judging, in itself, is not harmful. It simply is. Then, it grew to becoming about being smart. Not about judging.

Therein lies the rub. The crack. The weakness. And like Karnak of Marvel Comics' the Inhumans, I see cracks. In everything, and everyone. Everyone has a weakness. Everyone cracks.

When I got over feeling sorry for myself, and started doing things rather than complaining about them, I found that it was harder to communicate to people.

I find that we, humans, have a culture of encapsulating everything in pain. We tell our stories as victim stories.

"Oh, dahling! I would have been soooo ladida if only he/she/it/God ladida."

"Do you know what he said to me? The nerve of the man/woman/ho/slut/whore-priestess/it/God."

Listening to humans, they are constantly in pain. Eternally tortured, downtrodden, poor, poor things. Souls in purgatory.

And the thing is, I find it easier communicating ideas, news and thoughts, if I follow this manner of communicating.

I can't really say to anyone, "Hey, I honestly don't give a fuck what happens." And get desired results.

I tried to maintain a neutral tone when communicating, but some people complained. A group even said that they were worried because I was not being as vulgar as before.

As a person who makes his living through the business of communication, I do care about how information travels. Information, I find, is also very much about the form as it is about content.

Conversing with idiots and victims, I would have to suit the manner and method of communication to a form, a level, that would be easily understood. That professional side of me would have to stay away from the personal side, as mixing them up would be fatal.

Notice that when I position myself as the aggrieved party in this piece of writing, that it would be easier for people to sympathize with me. To relate to me.

Pain is the lowest common denominator. And I am so in pain. So, so in pain. Though I would often very much like to suggest, to anyone who would say these things to me, "If you're so much in pain, then put yourself out of misery. Take valium. 30 tablets. And wash it down with some Kool-Aid and vodka. And some shotgun shells, through the barrel, down your throat."

Oh, dahling! I would have been soo much happier, if the world and its people weren't sooo negative.

How to Get Back at Society

So you're not rich. Boo fucking hoo. Join the club.

You begin to realize that rich people are, well, richer than you are. And all that crap about money not buying you happiness? Well, that's true. But money buys the pussy of that girl you like.

Money buys that company you like. Money buys cars you like. Money buys jobs you would like to have. And they don't give them to you.

So here's what you do.

See a car parked somewhere? Now observe the make and model of the car. As well as the year.

Check online with your Blackberry for the price of said car. Oops. You're poor. You can't afford a Blackberry. Even a RM400 second hand one at SG Wang or Imbi Plaza. Or steal one like that fucker at Redbox Karaoke where I lost my previous one. Sucks to be you.

So you don't have a Blackberry. Or any of Nokia's overpriced bullshit. Take a wild guess how much that car is worth.

If it's below RM200K, walk away.

If it's more than RM200K, check what year it was released. If it was more than five years ago, forget it. Unless it's one of those fancy vintage cars.

Now, observe the condition of the car. If it's clean and doesn't have any bullshit in it, this is your prime target.

Slowly take out a 10 cent coin from your pocket. Look carefully to the left, then right, then left again. Look towards your back as well. In a sudden move.

No one there? Good.

Now, before you commit this act, remember that rich people must have done some bad things. Like hook up with a politician or two. Swindle money from your company which fired your ass. Raised interest rates. Fucked your girl. Whatever.

Rich people are bad men. They don't deserve your sympathy. Rich people should be Palestinians. And get bombed every day.

So now take that 10 cent coin, and scratch that car out of existence.

And then go back home, take out that bottle of vodka you've been saving for whatever, drink half the bottle. Then take out your gun. Oh. You're poor.

Okay. Now look out the window. If you live higher than the 10th floor, jump out. Make sure there is no swimming pool below. If you're poor, this is not a problem. If you live lower than the 10th floor, douse yourself with the remainder of the bottle of vodka and light yourself up on fire.

Wait till you die.

You're not dead?

Find a good, strong wall. Now go and ram your head at the wall until you can smell your brains. Brains have a sickly sweet smell, before it turns horribly gross.

No brain yet? Repeat the steps above.

This way, you get back at society. Stick it to the MAN (who cleans walls for a living. What a loser).

Boo Fucking Hoo

I remember going to the neighbours' houses at night, beyond midnight, to watch Summer Slam. Survivor Series or WrestleMania.

Video tapes rented at RM2 a pop from the local video store that also rents out Hindi movies and Chinese serials.

I'm watching this movie with Mickey Rourke in it. The Wrestler. Also got Marisa Tomei flashing her tits.

You know what always get to me? Professional wrestlers. Not the multi-millionaire Terry Bollea (Hulk Hogan), Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson or whatever the fuck.

I'm talking about the little guy in the small circuits. In the '80s, they were gods. Worshipped. Loved. Then the 90s came. Kobain happened, Milli Vanilli, MC Hammer, Rip Van 'Vanilla Ice' Winkle and kids all wanted to show how jaded and unbelieving they are. How they are not fools, like their parents. How sophisticated they are, with their underwear on the outside of their pants.

Funny. When I was a kid, the only guy with his underwear outside was Superman. And friends.

The only professional wrestling that survives, properly, are the big promos. Since all of NWA and later WCW and ECW got eaten up by WWE, there's only one place to go. Up or down.

When you got onto the WWE roster, you might be making millions a year by having people jump all over you and ramming your head to a chair.

When Jake 'the Snake' Roberts left, the only way he's going is down. Down a path of drug abuse and alienation.

I have always sympathised with the professional wrestlers. Especially the little guys. They're like boxers, except they get injured in other places.

I saw Beyond the Mat and several other wrestling documentaries. This movie, The Wrestler, just reminds me of those things. Sad, sad shit.

They always seem like those stupid 'autobiographical' essays they teach us in school. Though it's 'autobiographical', the teachers always tell us to write about the life of some stupid pen that eventually runs out of ink and gets thrown out or something.

How can an eight year old relate to a fucking pen? I complained to a teacher, and she told me that, well, kids are stupid.

And I do agree. Kids ARE stupid.

Anyway, back to pro wrestlers.

Yeah, I know, they chose that life. It was their decisions, over the years. The steroids, the manic personalities. Always their choice. Like how some Palestinian kids chose to live in Palestine and then get killed by Israelis. And vice versa.

Count your lucky stars, they say. Just fuck 'em. Be thankful you're more fortunate than other people, and just chuck 'em aside. Who the fuck cares about them? Anyone who is less fortunate than you. And for all you know, they get off on being victims.

And if you do, for example, feel sorry for hookers and wrestlers, and do something good for them, they might just take advantage of you. Think about yourself. Don't think about other people.

Oh well. Nothing I can do anyway.

Where Do Strippers Go To Die?


They go off somewhere to die, right? They have some sort of funeral ground. Some sacred thing where they go and they die. Leaving their unharvested tusks and the rest of their bones. As a kid, I wondered if the entire elephant skeleton is made of ivory.

When strippers die, do they go to some ho heaven? Some secret stripper graveyard? And then they dance their last, and then they die? And I'm not talking about afterlife. I'm talking about elephant-graveyard dying.

One night, well into my drinks, I asked that question to a Canadian fisherman in Phuket.

He said, "Son, when strippers feel like dying, they go to Pattaya."

I've been to Pattaya. There was no stripper graveyard. But it was close.

Then I wondered, where do writers go, when they need to die?

When you've written your last word. On an LCD screen, a page on the typewriter, a notebook or a piece of papyrus, parchment, whatever. Where do writers go to die?

In Hamlet 2, the narrator implied that dreams go to Tucson, Arizona, to die.

I don't think I can go to Tucson. They won't give me a visa. And they'll strip search me. And probably arrest me for being a terrorist.

Oh well. I don't think I'll have to worry about dying for long. I mean, for a long time. Though I do think about it a lot. Whatever I do, I think to myself, when I lie down on my death bed, or death train, or death aeroplane, would I have any regrets? Can I live, or rather, can I die, with the decisions I made?

The people I helped. The people I didn't help. The path I chose. Can I stand tall, flash the Karmic bullshit wheel, jack off, and feel proud of myself?

Have I lived a life worth living? Have Milx paid me my fucking RM11,700?

I think, when I die, I'll go to Pattaya. Hell Town. What a way to die. What a place to die. At least they have strippers.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

Rock Me Sexy Jesus

Okay. The results are in!

Beating WALL-E, Gran Torino, Religulous, Choke and The Strange Case of Benjamin Button is a movie that ALL pretentious, artsy fartsy motherfuckers in Malaysia HAVE to watch. ESPECIALLY Rodek and Tapai.

Yes. It's Hamlet 2. 2008 MOVIE OF THE YEAR!


I've been coughing and coughing all day long, punctuated by periods of free-breathing.

It is hard for me to breathe, sometimes. As I can feel something in my lungs.

And yet I soldier on. Unlike some people.

I've worked through worse shit.

Today, I went to a 5-hour meeting, which gave me loads of valuable insight.

And I got a phone call, asking me to save a situation.

There are many things happening, and I need to control my temperament and my emotions so I would not start coughing.

I find that if I get excited or if any type of emotion agitates me, I start coughing my lungs out. I constantly need to keep my mind on an even keel.

No matter how bad or good the situation is. No matter how great or irresponsible people can be.

In order for me to keep breathing and not start coughing till my head throb, I need to be in a constant state of zen.

I have to be aware of my breathing.

Goddamn it, man. I can't even feel victimised, abused or happy or fortunate. I feel nothing. Otherwise, I start coughing again.

People throw their political bullshit at me and you know what I do?

Nothing. Or I smile at their stupidity. Their victim stories.

I just relax. Because the alternative is choking on my own saliva.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Badan Kebal Loceng Emas

Batuk aku tak seteruk dulu.

Semalam, aku hisap 12 batang rokok sahaja. Biasanya, 60 batang (3 kotak) sehari.

Pagi ni, aku bangun dan dapati ada 8 batang lagi tak terhisap dalam kotak.

Terus aku hisap 6 batang rokok sekali duduk.

Pastu batuk.

Aku minum madu panas. Kalau teruk sangat, aku masak air panas dan larutkan madu organik mentah. Dua sudu segelas.

Aku akan berhenti batuk selama setengah atau satu jam lepas segelas air madu panas.

Aku ada ubat batuk, dan painkiller. Lepas minum ubat batuk, aku akan tidur sekurang-kurangnya 5 jam.

Painkiller, kalau campurannya betul, 8 jam.

Aku ada cukup untuk satu dos saja lagi. Untuk malam ni. Pasal esok aku ada meeting.

Kalau aku kaya, sakit-sakit macam ni, tak payahlah kerja. Inilah akibatnya tak dilahirkan sebagai anak orang kaya.

Dan ini sebabnya, selagi aku tak kaya, aku akan membenci orang yang kaya.

Melainkan bagi aku sejuta dua.

Tetsuwan Buddha

I just finished the Buddha comics by Osamu Tezuka. Again.

While the first time I read them was over a course of three years, as the books were published and imported here, I now can read the whole story from beginning to end in one sitting.

I now know how some of my friends and acquaintances got their names. Probably.

Ananda was a Shakyan bandit who was baptised by the demon Mara. This gave him regenerative abilities.

Falling for a slave girl Lata, he later became Buddha's closest and most loyal companion.

Buddha's wife was Yesodhara, and his son was Rahula, which means obstacle.

Anuradha also had humble beginnings, as a thief or murderer or something like that. Later becoming a monk.

Ahimsa was a prince-turned-serial-killer who later had one Buddhist precept of non-violence named after him.

All in all, it was a good comics series, that do not dwell too much on Buddhist teachings, but focuses on Buddha's life.

And there were lots of nudity in it.

Best character? Devadatta. Bandaka's son who became a wise guy and plotted to kill Buddha.

And Tatta, the pariah who was Buddha's first disciple. He killed the most people in this comic book.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

The Adventures of Boron: World's Most Boring Man

I am at Pusat Bandar Damansara, renewing my passport.

The new KIosk Pembaharuan PASport (KIPPAS) allows pasport renewal in just two hours, instead of two weeks.

Great stuff, if not for the fact that I had to dance in front of the damned thing, juggling my old passport, a passport-sized photo, my MyKad, RM300 cash and a photocopy of my MyKad. Anything I put on top of the kiosk would slide down behind the machine.

And it has a time-limit. Tardiness would reset the whole thing back to square one.

So I'm now waiting for the passport to be issued. As long as you do it before 2.30pm, you can get it on the day itself. Otherwise, you have to pick it up the next day.

My lungs are healing well. I did not cough up blood this morning.

And my limit of one pack a day seems reasonable. I simply buy one pack, and that's it. Without extra packs, I am forced to live and die by that one pack of 20s.

The next step would be to buy only one pack of 14s.

It helps that I live alone and can't bum a cigarette off anyone.

I am taking January off. Meaning I will only do some freelance work this month. Am not going to any office.

And I will be taking a much-deserved vacation soon. To Thailand.

And I will go back to Kuantan for Chinese New Year.

I did not realize how tired I was from 2008 until I spent the past few days - the first days of the new year - doing almost nothing.

My body creaks, and my mind, well, it squeaks.

Been running empty for months. Used, abused and whatever the fuck.

I need to go back to Motherland and hold aloft my magic sword. And say the magic words.

I will replenish my energy. My depleted energy.

Monday, January 5, 2009

The Adventures of Boron: The Man from UNCLE

I am Boron - the Most Boring Man in the Universe!

With my super boring explanation powers, I can get girls to sleep with me.

Today, I, Boron, checked my e-mails and saw: a message from NAJIB!

Yes, a message from Datuk Seri Najib Tun Razak, my uncle twice removed, who will be the next heavyweight Prime Minister of Malaysia!

Sensing millions, maybe even billions in free IJN money, I, Boron - the most boring man in the universe - opened the e-mail.

It was a new year's greeting! Sent to anyone and everyone who registered with Najib's 1Malaysia website, handled by the shady Ethos company.

Alas, it was not free IJN money for me.

But I, Boron - the Most Boring Man in the Universe - will not give up. Never surrender.

One day, I will bore this country and its people to give me my millions!

Beware the wrath of Boron!


The Adventures of Boron - the Most Boring Man in the Universe

I feel like taking a crap.

This teh tarik got some fresh cow milk in it.

I am debating whether I should go and bother a friend of mine and her daughter, or go straight home and watch movies on my PC.

Man, these rubber sandals are chafing my ankles. I wonder if I should get some sort of cream.

Oh, and I bought a few sachets of cheese mushroom instant soup. I had one last night. Maybe I should buy some crackers or perhaps a toaster to make toast.

I need to get some honey because it helps my cough.

My credit cards are broken. As in, split in half. My passport is also set to expire. I need to renew them quickly.

Age of Dentistry

Scaling, which used to be RM45, is now RM100.

One of my fillings fell off. So the dentist used a jumbo bonding thing and now my teeth can transform into Fortress Maximus.

On the bright side, my smile can now generate enough power to keep a small city running.

I think I'm gonna try out for a toothpaste ad model.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Be Cool

I believe in cycles. Karmic wheel bullshit. What goes around, comes around. The balance.

It used to be that everyone would be knocking the Government. Malay supremacists were evil. And fundamentalist Muslims were stupid.

That was cool back then. You make fun of the Government. Everyone believed that the G-men were all stupid.

And more often than not sympathising with the opposition.

Now, tides and tables have turned.

What would be cool for the next few years is to make fun of the stupid fucking opposition, and either supporting the Government or leaving them alone.

Cause the ruling Gs lost everything they could possibly lose last March 8. Well, there is a bit more, but we're talking about face here.


Humiliated beyond measure in the last GE, the G is equivalent to a small-penised man with herpes and genital warts, left naked in the middle of Dataran Merdeka on New Year's.

Job done, the herd will look to destroy the remaining target - opposition holier-than-thou racist hypocritical motherfuckers.

Fuck you, Pakatan Rakyat. Chickens will come home to roost.


I can't sleep.

The internet on my PC is crap, though. So I only got my Blackberry with me.

I got no cigs, cause I am limiting myself to just one pack a day. I used to smoke three.

I notice, though, that I smoke less when I don't have to talk to people. Goes to show that just by being around people, I feel like killing myself.

I'm going on a proper holiday soon. And I may go back home for a while.

KL is not looking very enticing these days.

Been here 11 years. I don't know why.

Am going to the dentist this Monday.

And I got a few more proposals to do on Sunday.

January will prove to be a very busy, experimental period. I am figuring out a few things. And if the math adds up, well, we'll just see.

Wayne Banner Lee

Nihil fieri non protest nobiscum.

Nothing is beyond our reach.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

Scenes From a Moving Picture

So I went up to the bar and I said to the bartender, "Hit me."

She slugged me on the ear.

"Ow! Fuck! What did you do that for?"

"You told me to hit you."

"I wanted a drink."

"Then say you wanted a drink."

"I did. I said, 'hit me'."

And she punched me again.

So I slid back to the table and picked up my cards.

"So?" Said the dealer.

"Hit me."

Mecha Mecca

One of my greatest influences are Japanese robot cartoons. They are called 'mecha anime'.

The grandfather of mecha anime is Go Nagai who did the very first one - Mazinger Z. He is what Osamu Tezuka is to anime in general.

Go Nagai also did Great Mazinger, Getter Robo, Cutey Honey, Devilman and Devilman Lady. Yes, not Devil Lady, but Devilman Lady. He is a sick bastard, with a fixation on rape fantasies. Go Nagai also did Violence Jack - one of the most violent manga/animes of all time.

It was postulated that mecha anime was done in part to placate Japanese children whenever there are earthquakes and tsunamis in Japan. The adults can simply say that there are giant robots fighting outside, instead of explaning tectonic plates and such.

The design of robots/mecha has evolved over the years. Starting with 'giant robots as sentient, ancient forces' such as Raideen, Mazinger and Getter Robo - Getter Robo incidentally is the FIRST combining robot in anime - to the Japanese armnor-inspired Gundam series.

The first batch is called 'super robots' with their impossible dimensions and power, while Gundams and the ones inspired by Haruhiko 'HAL' Mikimoto's Super Dimensional Fortress Macross, Super Dimensional Cavalry Southern Cross and Genesis Climber Mospeada (which incidentally make up the Robotech series) are 'real robots'.

'Real robots' because they have some explanation as to their power sources and design.

For Gundams, it was the advent of Minovsky particles - the next step in nuclear energy. Minovsky drives, psychoframes, I-Fields and the like all have the same genesis.

While the previous designs of mecha/robots were masculine, later designs were more feminine.

This was influenced heavily by Neon Genesis Evangelion with the anime auteur Hideaki Anno and his studio Gainax.

The robots, Evas, are more living beings than machine. And the pilots are more like children in wombs than actual military men.

Dual, a series which is more a re-imagining fan fiction of Evangelion than an original work, even has the giant robots in high heels.

I don't know what would be the next step for mechas.

I just hope that one day I will be able to pilot a giant robot as big as the galaxy and start destroying the universe.

Friday, January 2, 2009

Nouvelle Vivid

For some reason, I have a hatred for Anne Hathaway.

I do not know why, but I hate her. She is so...ugh. I do not know why.

I like Natalie Portman because she's a smart Jew. I'd love to fuck a smart Jew.

Kiera Knightley is a bag of bones. She should be playing Scarecrow in Wizard of Oz and Batman.

Scarlett Johansson - the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Emma Roberts, niece of Julia and daughter of Eric. Presents a most...Republican treat.

Emma Watson - novelty factor. Hermione getting it in the ass. Wingardium Leviosa my dick.

Eliza Dushku. Doomed forever to be a B actress. But her tits are of the most perfect texture and viscosity I have ever seen. I only saw the same type twice before, in my yearly pilgrimages to the tomb of Nyarlarhotep. And I tell you, it melts in your mouth.

Citizen Amir

I was floating in the depths of space when a planet-sized variable formation robot came across my path.

"I," said the planet-sized robot, "am Orson Welles."

"Geez, man. Cut it with the eating. Control your diet. Take some psyllium husk or something."

"Oh, man," whined the planet-sized robot. "No one appreciates my craft. I gained weight for my last role on film, and they declare me dead."

"You got that right," I said. "No one understands my writing. Not completely. They fail to sense the subtle nuances and HUGE, HUGE pop-culture references I put in. And I'm so fucking meta. Post-modern, yo!"

"People are ignorant and stupid. Boo hoo hoo."

"You got that right, big guy. Can I call you that? Big Guy?"

"Why? So you can be Tetsuwan Atom?"

"Ahah!" I said. "You are referring to the rip-off Big Guy and Rusty the Boy Robot. Tetsuwan Atom had no backup."



"The butt of Rose McGowan."

"The freaky white chick? I prefer Thai myself."

Regeneration X

I am getting better.

My lungs are adapting to the smoke and the pollution.

I am becoming...


Now, I will use my super-speed to become...

I call upon - the SPEED FORCE!
You know what I hate? Explaining myself.

For some reason, I've been doing it a lot.

Example: I met a girl with some really funky braces in her mouth.

So I said to her,"Is that a swatchell?"

And everyone would give me a blank stare.

Fucking blank stares, man.

And I started and stuttered an explanation. I fucking hate that.

A swatchell is a device used by Punch and Judy professors - the puppeteers are called professors - to do Mr Punch's voice, a shrill, freaky tone. A swatchell is made of tin and cotton and tapes and it is inserted into the mouth.

God, I fucking hate explaining that.

And yet, that is what I do.

A dear friend commented recently that I sound angry.
I was like, "Wha?"

Said that I was curt and all.

Man. I hate explaining myself.

I suffer from shortness of breath, because of all the smoking and coughing. So excuse me if I don't sing any arias, unless it comes out of my ass or something.

Growing up, it was hard for me to play with kids my age. I mean, they say they want to play Silverhawks, so I start explaining to them about the formation on their space jet and the different types of Silverhawks - the special green and orange ones and Stargazer - and before you know it, they start playing Thundercats.

I hate explaining myself.

Oops. My friend arrived. Gotta go.

La Petite Mort

Lots of little deaths.

I swallowed antibiotics and been coughing up phlegm with green-yellow mucus. Means I've been killing a lot of bacteria.

I'm doing a massacre of all the little bitches.

Tomorrow, I think I'm good enough to go for a big burger. A burger big enough that I would have trouble taking a bite.

And huge fries. To choke on.

Bottomless grapeade. No ice.

And a cigarette after I'm done.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Sudiro Sukiman, Mr Punch dan Aku

Aku terlupa.

Betul-betul terlupa.

Aku baca AKu Bimbo tadi - blog Saniboey - dan baru aku teringat yang Sudiro Sukiman dah meninggal.

Aku sibuk sangat dengan diri aku sendiri sampai aku lupa mamat ni dah takde.

Yang kelakarnya, aku ada telefon dia pertengahan tahun ni. Pasal nak mintak buat puppet. Dia ni pernah jadi pensyarah ko-kurikulum UM untuk puppetry.

Ko tau tak berapa orang yang boleh buat puppet kat Malaysia ni?

Aku nak buat puppet untuk satu show bebudak. AKu nak basekan macam Mr Punch - hero dalam Punch and Judy.

Aku tertarik dengan puppet pasal Neil Gaiman pernah tulis komik pasal Mr Punch. Mr Punch berdasarkan watak commedia dell'arte, Punchinello. DiAnglicisedkan menjadi Punch and Judy dan akhirnya masuk ke dalam minda kolokuial sebagai Mr Punch.

Dalam Mr Punch, Mr Punch membunuh bayinya, pegawai polis, hakim, seekor buaya dan akhir sekali, Syaitan.

Bila aku cakap pasal Mr Punch kat Malaysia ni, ramai yang pandang aku dengan separuh senyum. Pasal apa senyum? Pasal dua benda:

1. Diorang senyum pasal diorang BODOH. Dan tak pernah tau pasal Mr Punch.

2. Diorang senyum pasal diorang ingat aku GILA. Pasal aku cakap pasal Mr Punch.

Ok, aku dah cakap pasal aku.

Sudiro Sukiman berlakon watak Tapa dalam Rumah Kedai yang biasanya akan disiarkan bulan puasa. Dulu, aku tak pernah miss benda ni.

Tapa dan Remy (Harun Salim Bachik) merupakan dua watak off-beat yang walaupun taklah menarik sangat, tapi kekal dalam ingatan ramai orang. Termasuk aku.

Selain itu, aku sering terjumpa Sudiro Sukiman dalam pelbagai rancangan yang pelik.

Aku pernah sekali menonton TV 2 tengah-tengah malam buta, sebab TV2 kadang-kadang tunjuk filem-filem pelik yang best tengah-tengah malam, macam Goodbye Mr Chip dan JFK.

Apa yang keluar? Si Tapa dan puppetnya. Dalam satu telemovie pasal puppet hidup.

Aku takdelah suka sangat telemovie tu, tapi aku tengok pasal pelik. Dalam satu kelab komedi, Sudiro memainkan watak orang yang tak dihargai dan sering diperkotak-katikkan. Pasal dia buat lawak pakai puppet.

Dalam minda orang Malaysia yang tak jauh bezanya dengan ungka ni, puppet=bebudak. Puppet = tak kelakar. Walaupun sebenarnya, puppet ke, pepet ke, cumalah bentuk. Pengisian yang akan menentukan ke mana hala tujunya.

Pertengahan cerita, puppet tu hidup dan mula mengacau Sudiro Sukiman. Macam Child's Play, tapi lebih mendalam.

Fast forward beberapa tahun, aku pergi cover Anugerah Skrin. Sudiro Sukiman diberikan tugas jaga audience.

Dia keluar je ke depan, orang dah gelak. Gila susah nak buat orang gelak dengan hanya memek muka. Lainlah Memey. Dengar nama pun dah boleh gelak.

Lepas habis Anugerah Skrin, aku pergi jumpa dia. Aku tanya, "Tak buat puppet lagi ke?"

"Ada. Ada. Buat lagi," dia cakap.

Dan itu sajalah dialog yang aku pernah ada dengan dia sampailah tahun lepas, bila aku ke hulu ke hilir nak cari orang buat puppet.

Siap contact mamat kat LA tu (Los Angeles, bukan Labuan), pasal nak buat puppet.

Aku nak puppet macam Mr Punch - seorang pembunuh bersiri yang ganas dan bersenjatakan kayu. Diperbuat daripada kayu.

Malangnya, Sudiro tak boleh buat. DIa boleh buat pakai barangan yang lembut, atau pakai pelampung(ya! pelampung!). Kalau nak kayu, kena ukir dan ambik masa.

Aku tak tau pun dia sakit. Mesti, masa aku telefon tu, dia tengah berlawan dengan sakit buah pinggang, kencing manis dan sakit jantung. Ketiga-tiga penyakit ini akhirnya meragut nyawa Sudiro Sukiman pada Oktober tahun lepas. Ha ah ye, 2008 dah jadi tahun lepas dah.

Malangnya, aku tak rasa aku boleh lagi menonton TV2 lewat malam dan dikejutkan dengan telemovie Melayu yang pelik. Dan impian aku untuk suruh Sudiro buat Mr Punch versi Malaysia terkubur bersama orangnya jugak.


Everyone's going to say that 2009 will be a great year for them. Much better than any other year so far.


Well, it's been two hours into 2009, and I don't see nothin'.

People want to believe that another year or month or week or day will be better. Or worse for other people.

Truth is, time is linear and doesn't come with divisions. All this time that we refer to today is man's invention.

Yes. Time is man's invention.

Fuck the years. Fuck the months.

In order for me to succeed, I need to rely on myself and my balls. I need to get better. At everything.

And when I'm rich, you're all fucked.

Krisis Identiti

Identiti kita ni, boleh dijual beli. Dengan wang ringgit.

AKu duk nengok orang yang habis mat salleh gila babi. Mat salleh pun tak mat salleh macam dia. Tapi, bila menulis (dalam Bahasa Mat Salleh), mengaku Melayu.

Bagi aku, takde hal. Pasal Melayu ni banyak Cawangan UMNO nya. Banyak Bahagian UMNO nya. Tak kurang jugak, Melayu ni ramai orang PIS-M yang menerakakan orang.

Kalau ke-Melayu-an tu boleh dicecairkan, aku punya Melayu aku rasa cuma 25ml je kot? Selebihnya, komik. Pasal aku baca komik.

Tapi, dengan 25 ml Melayu aku ni pun, aku heran.

Aku duk bercakap pasal cerita-cerita dongeng dan cerita rakyat orang Melayu dengan orang yang aku fikir Melayu. Diorang tak tau, siut!

Kuda Hijau
Petir dan Guruh
Sang Kancil
Lebai Malang
Pak Pandir pun diorang tak tau camana.

Aku baca himpunan kisah Pak Pandir kat perpustakaan sekolah. Pak Pandir ni, nampak je bodoh-bodoh alang. Tapi, dia ni boleh rekacipta tali-pinggang terbang. Camana? Dengan melekatkan banyak gila burung kat situ, burung kena getah burung, sampai dia boleh terbang.

Jatuh kat laman istana, kahwin dengan puteri Raja. Puteri Raja tu lah Mak Andeh, kalau korang nak tau. Rasa aku la. Tak pun, Mak Andeh marah kat dia, tarik telinga sampai balik.

Cerita Pak Pandir ni aku ingat masa tu, sama dengan cerita HG Wells, pasal sorang mamat yang naik belon, sampai ke bulan. Man in the Moon ke hapa ntah.

Aku sorang je ke yang ingat cerita-cerita ni?

Cerita pasal Kuda Hijau. Seorang putera raja disumpah menjadi kuda hijau, terbang lari dengan adik dia.

Pastu, dapat kerajaan negeri lain. Pasal saktinya Kuda Hijau tu. Macam Perseus dan Pegasus. Korang tak ingat ke? Tak pernah baca?

Cerita pasal Petir dan Guruh. Petir anak si Guruh. Petir ni macam Human Torch. Kerja dia duk bakar rumah orang. Pas tu, mak dia marah dengan kuasa sonic scream. Macam Banshee.

Raja Kayangan tak puas hati pasal diorang asyik buat kacau, dihantarnya duduk atas awan.

Pastu, Petir yang nakal masih sambar rumah orang dari atas awan. Mak dia, Guruh, pergi marah kat dia. Maka terjadilah fenomena guruh. Pastu mak dia nangis la pulak, maka hujan pun turun.

Serius tak pernah baca? Apa yang korang baca? Mona Gersang? Azi Iparku?

Hang Nadim, tau? Hang Nadim?

Arwah datuk aku suka nak bercerita kat aku pasal Abu Nawas - watak trickster dalam sastera Arab yang diMelayukan. Habis Jungian Archetype lah. Biasanya, aku tak nak dengar. Pasal kat sekolah aku dah baca berpuluh-puluh kisah Abu Nawas.

Hikayat Seri Rama dan Sita Dewi. Bukan Ramayana. Ni hok versi Asia Tenggara punya. Hanuman rupa-rupanya anak Seri Rama dan Sita Dewi masa diorang kena sumpah jadi ungka putih. Pastu beromen.

Hanuman versi ni jauh lagi terrer. Dia boleh letak tujuh gunung atas ekor, pastu baling kat Rakshasha. Atas ekor je tu. Gunung, beb.

Ungka ko tau apa, kan? Cenekoh. Mawas. Beruk. Beruk tau? Beruk? Haaa. Yang duduk buat Superman atas motor malam-malam tu, beruk la tu.

Ko tau tak napuh tu apa? Macam kijang la. Dalam hikayat tu, Ravana bertukar jadi napuh putih, pasal nak suruh Seri Rama dan Laksamana kejar.

Gergasang? Gergasang? Korang tak pernah baca pasal Gergasang ke?

Aku pelik bila benda-benda yang aku baca masa aku muda-muda dulu, dan cerita-cerita rakyat yang aku dengar banyak yang orang lain tak pernah dengar. Apa mak bapak korang buat? Beromen je ke?

Bapak aku, suka cerita aku pasal Tarzan. Tarzan duduk dalam telinga gajah putih. Dia cakar taik telinga gajah, pastu bakar. Pastu, dia masak Maggi Ayam kat dalam telinga gajah.

Cerita rakyat kontemporari. Post-modernist.

Ada banyak lagi cerita yang aku dah lupa tajuknya. Tak kurang yang aku dengar dan baca, mungkin dicedok dari tradisi lisan negara lain.

Macam cerita sorang mamat yang belajar ilmu. Dia kena rompak, tapi pasal dia takde wallet (yelah, zaman purba) perompak nak bunuh dia.

Jadi dia buat deal. Dia ada satu ilmu yang dia boleh buat sekali dalam masa tujuh tahun. Ilmunya ialah memanggil turun hujan batu permata.

Jadi dia buatlah. Pastu dia blah. Yang si perompak empat ekor ni pun sukalah. Maka mereka mengumpul batu permata tersebut. Diorang duduk dalam gua. Pastu mula berbunuh-bunuhan pasal tamakkan batu permata. Sampai semua orang mati. Habis.

Cerita ni aku jumpa balik dalam himpunan kisah-kisah seribu satu malam. 1001 Arabian Nights. Sastera Parsi.

Lepas tu, ada kisah pasal empat orang adik-beradik. Anak orang kaya yang dah nak mampus. Orang kaya tu cakap, sebelum kiok, yang dia jadi kaya pasal dia pergi ke satu tempat dan bawak balik batu, air dan pasir. Bila sampai ke rumah, batu jadi berlian, air jadi mutiara dan pasir jadi emas.

Jadi empat ekor anaknya pun pergilah ke tempat tersebut.

Yang sulung ambik batu sahaja, pasal berlian paling mahal. Yang kedua bodoh, jadi dia penuhkan karung dia dengan air. Yang ketiga tamakkan emas, pasal dia rasa harga emas takkan turun, dan takut kalau berlian tu, berlian Sierra Leone. Yang paling muda, ambik sikit dari semua jenis benda.

Masa nak balik - balik asing-asing tau? - ada seorang kerdil menahan setiap seorang, meminta sedikit apa yang diorang ada, sebagai balasan dia menolong mengangkat karung diorang.

Semua taknak, lepas tu mati, kecuali yang muda, walaupun dia kena pow empat kali. AKhirnya, dia sorang je kaya.

Cerita ni sebenarnya diadaptasi dari kisah-kisah rakyat himpunan Hans Christien Andersen. Dari Eropah tu, beb.

Banyak lagi. Dan ya, tak tau pasal kisah-kisah ni, tak mengurangkan keMelayuan kau. Tapi, aku musykil, kenapa orang Melayu tak ingat tradisi oral mereka sendiri. Dan lebih suka membaca Haruki Murakami, serta Salman Rushdie.

Happy New Year

Oh well.

I guess it's the New Year. 2008 was okay. 2009 will be better.

I still hate you. But I wish you all well.