“No son, she’s gone to heaven for awhile. What’s that? Yes, you’ll see someday.”

I hate getting lost only to find out after 30 minutes of circling in the same area and in the pouring rain to find out actually, I wasn’t lost at all. If this were the Amazing Race I would have dragged someone to help me locate the elusive house. Turns out my uncle did give the correct directions, it was only the reverse of it. Left became right, straight became back, and I nearly gave up in the end. When I did finally arrive my aunties, uncles and cousins were all there and other relatives I knew I’ve seen them before but I couldn’t remember their names. The atmosphere was decidedly calm, laughter could be heard and one or two relatives still were slightly shell-shocked from the sudden departing. I’ve met the departed auntie a few times and all of the encounters were full of smiles and she saying “Wah, lu dah beser!” (Wow, you’ve grown!). And all this while I wondered who she was. She was my grandmother’s sister who makes her my mother’s auntie therefore she’s my great-aunt or something to that effect. As well as if you twice remove a certain uncle and further removing an auntie you’ll get my cousins.

Only in a Peranakan family will you hear a myriad of languages. Besides the usual English and our mother tongue, Baba Nyonya, there was Hokkien, Cantonese, Mandarin, Bahasa Melayu and even Tamil could be heard in one corner. The amazing thing is that you could speak a different language yet the whole family has this built-in translator of sorts in which you’ll be able to understand each other. I kept telling my grandmother that I have already eaten in English while she answered me in Baba Nyonya.

I asked my other auntie as to how she died. It seems that she was alone one day and fell awkwardly, landing on her back. Her son came to drop his son there, as usual, and the son came running out telling daddy that grandma is on the floor. When the ambulance arrived, she was declared dead. The little boy was oblivious to the crying and sombre faces surrounding him. He knows his grandma has passed on, yet he knows not what death means only that his dear grandma won’t be there anymore to take care of him, to feed him when he is hungry or to soothe him when he feels ill. But what he does know is that she is at a much better place and will look out for him, always.

The quiet murmurs of the Buddhist priests chanting could be heard amidst the hubbub of people catching up with each other. A short prayer performed by the priests and the immediate family members was done to appease her soul, and to wish her a safe journey into the exalted halls of those who have left their mortal shell. A cymbal rings and a light tap on the Chinese drum told us all that it was time to send the dearly departed mother to the heavens. As is customary in Buddhist tradition, the burning of effigies and paper doll deities signifies that her soul has been released from its earthly bounds. The burning paper ascends to the sky, the moon shining even brighter as though she was smiling at us, thanking us for being good sons and daughters.

As I approached the coffin, I said a small prayer, wishing her all the best in the afterlife. It was the least I could do for a woman who meant so much more to others. She looked calm and at peace. I think that was what she wanted, everyone to be happy and not be sad with her passing. I was about to leave and the little boy ran pass me, happy and laughing. I smiled and went home.

Gute Nacht und Gutes Glück.

PS: This post is dedicated to the memory and family members of EePoh. May her soul rest in peace.

A man’s not a man when he doesn’t admit his wrongs

A man builds a mansion without the proper authorisation. This same man has a restaurant built on land that wasn’t even his to begin with. It belongs to the government. His family members have been nominated to hold positions of power in the local municipality. This man has also failed to pay assessment fees for his own house—which is an understatement considering it’s now a palace—together with two other buildings under him. Other follies of his include backing a project that would have deprived people a place to have their walks, exercise and other healthy doings and breaching party ethics during political polls. Yet, this seemingly pompous and discourteous man has humble beginnings; he was a former railway gatekeeper and office boy. The Sultan of the state summons him, wanting to get to the bottom of this, but he informs the His Royal Highness he is ill from hypertension. This man was so ill apparently that he had to travel to another state and “recuperate” by celebrating a festivity ironically would no doubt increase his hypertension because of the sumptuous fare that would have greeted him and his family. He lies during a period where sins are severely frowned upon and simply ignores the same people he was entrusted to lead. So how do you respect a man who wears sunglasses when summoned to speak of his actions? You can’t deny the fact that he has done his part, and some good has come from it but going easy on him when a small time restaurateur had his extensions demolished almost immediately because he forgot to submit the proposal earlier on is akin to exonerating the now disgraced politician without even a trial to begin with.

Why do former leaders think it’s all right to berate and tarnish current leaders and do so without the merest hint of regret thinking they’re doing it because in their mind it’s the right thing to do? And I hate when they say, “It’s for their own good,” or “I’m doing this for the good of the people,” when it’s nothing more than a veneer to divert attention from their own insecurities. The people are grateful for what they have done. You could say that without such leadership the country wouldn’t be near where it is now. But it’s time for them to let go and let others lead for they have a job to do. What they need is teamwork, positivity and sometimes a pat on the back; they don’t need constant scrutiny and disparaging criticism. It’ll make the toughest of people even nervous. Let’s also admit that during their time they’ve made mistakes. No one is perfect, hello. It’s okay to admit them, but instead they choose the proud route, why should I admit my faults when I can point someone else’s?

The small people are always the first casualties simply because they have no power whatsoever when those who are above them, who often deign to do things for them, wield their magical wands with an air of extreme derision and smugness. It’s okay for the big guys to take 3 steps out of the line but if a petty person treads even half a step he’ll find himself the recipient of a cruel and senseless punishment. It’s also funny to note that people who speak about “upholding the law” and “no one is above the law” are the ones who flout them unflinchingly and sleep well at night when their actions have caused nothing but pain to those who have to bear the consequences.

Apologising and publicly repenting your actions means absolutely nothing when you don’t follow up by rebuilding your already destroyed image. It is never too late to admit your wrongs and trying your best to regain the respect and love lost. But if you’re going to hide yourself in a corner hoping that it will all go away only makes you a coward. It’s a far worse title for a person formerly held in high-esteem.

We all know that there are always two sides to a coin and he is after all still entitled to a fair trial. His backers and supporters will surely defend him till the end because there’s no other way and it doesn’t make sense if they were to turn around and say that “Oh yes, he pinched my bum once. Very rude indeed.” But when evidence is so against you the right thing to do would be to say sorry. It’s the first step only a real man can do redeem himself.

Gute Nacht und Gutes Glück.

PS: This is by no means a personal attack on any person or organisation of any kind. This is merely sentiments from a disgruntled citizen who’s had enough with double-standards and abuse of power. It’s time we stand up for us.

PPS: My other blog is updated! Check it out! Go on!

Non-conformity in my inner self, only I guide my inner self!*

When I was but a wee lad, I always wanted to be like James Hetfield of Metallica. I copied the way he held his superb black ESP Explorer, stood the way he stood and tried to sound like how he sounded. I was about 15 and was steadily losing interest in all the Green Day clones and dreary rock bands (read: Creed). I was slowly being indoctrinated into a new music faith and I wanted to look the part, to be uber cool. So I had three-quarter pants and a chain that was actually a combination of a short wallet chain and one from my police cadet uniform which gave it a one of a kind look. It was ridiculous and radical. You could have chained a pit-bull with it. It screamed poseur but I didn’t care. I just wanted to look like my then idols.

I fell for the whole “wanting to fit in” stage of my teen life. I remember vividly that what I wanted whenever I saw anything on TV my dad would shoot me down with a resounding “No.” It echoed in my head, the No bouncing off the walls of my sanity. Thankfully I was shot down so frequently I just gave up in the end. Otherwise I think I would have turned out a depressed child wanting a strawberry lollipop and have an imaginary friend named Bob who likes kittens. Preferably dead.

It’s a common occurrence for parents to send their young children to one tuition centre to another, one music class to another and having them play sports whenever their little feet can. Parents are in a way, trying to compete with each other to see who can go all the way to outdo each other. Whatever happened to friendly competition?

For awhile when I was in college I used to envy my friends who had the latest things. You name it, they had it. I just couldn’t figure out where the heck they got so much money. One would have the latest mobile phone, another would be wearing a pair Dockers I always wanted (the best trousers ever), or the newest whatever. They were so cool and I was so bland that I got envious. Try as I might I couldn’t be like them. Yet again, thankfully I got so downtrodden, and so sick of all the bullshit media feeding me images of what is cool, that at last I said, fuck this, I’m going to get people to try and fit with my style.

So what does conform mean anyway? According to the dictionary, it means “to comply with accepted standards, rules or customs.” By that definition then a good percentage of the planet’s population is a conformist of some form or another. Conforming to the norm while everyone wants to go against it is like going against the tide, you’ll tire yourself quicker and you’ll eventually drown. It is an inevitable part of life. We are all guilty of conforming. By not conforming to the norm we are in reality conforming to another norm. Think about, if you’re against guys who wear pink and you choose to wear black, then I’m afraid to say that you’re part of the anti-conformity conformists of the Black Brigade. You’re either a part of the bandwagon of commonness or you’re a pedestrian that goes against traffic just to see if the cars would swerve to avoid you.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I would like to buy that pair of Nike shoes. People look cool wearing it.

* = refers to Brazilian thrash metal legends, Sepultura with their classic Inner Self.

Gute Nacht und Gutes Glück.

PS: I feel the need to apologise. I feel that I didn’t make myself as clear as I had hoped. Some parts in this post I feel that I’m slightly off tangent with regards to the topic and for that I apologise.

PPS: Since we’re on the subject of conformity, I’ve decided to *GASP!* convert Whacker Inc into *GASP!* Blogger Beta!

PPPS: And since I felt like doing it, here's my new blog where I give my 2.666 cents worth of reviews from books to music to even toiletry products.

Whacker Inc's Reviews and Ughs

S L A Y E R – Live in Singapore

When I first heard that Slayer was going to play in Singapore, I thought no fucking way. Last year when Malaysia hosted German legends Kreator I just couldn’t believe it either. It was only when I entered the hall did I finally believe that I was going to witness a real metal concert! But with Slayer it was totally different. I was alone for the best part of the 2 hours I waited. I didn’t mind really. And something happened which doesn’t happen often, I felt short and small. Some of the guys there were huge. There were the ubiquitous fans screaming and clamouring.

The hall was divided into three sections: those who paid $65, $85 and $125. Since I had the $125 ticket I was let in first. As I was walking into the hall my heart started to pound rapidly and I had to calm myself down lest I start to headbang even before anything started. I had actually positioned myself at a very strategic spot; it enabled me to see all the members but at a price. Being smack in the middle means you’re in primo moshpit territory. I valued my well-being so I decided to move back. I came to see Slayer perform and not be crushed by rabid fans. It was almost 8 p.m. and my friend, Brandy, was running late. Thankfully he arrived in time.

The atmosphere in the Max Pavilion was electric. The crowd were chanting “Slayer!” at every opportunity they got. The hall all of a sudden became dark. Then it was bathed in blood red light, and the opening riff of South of Heaven started resonating. A sense of eerie danger and intrinsic madness was building up and when Dave Lombardo blasted the cymbals, Slayer signalled their arrival. I remember clearly that I didn’t intend to sing the words but I did. Everyone sang at the top of their lungs. As the song ended it segued into Silent Scream, arguably one of Slayer’s most brutal songs. When Lombardo did his double bass run I could feel a rumble in my um, family jewels, so I shook the feeling off and started headbanging wildly with my short hair. When Tom Araya asked us if we were ready for war, I was sent straight into metal heaven. War Ensemble is probably my favourite Slayer song of all-time and they delivered a blistering rendition. I told Brandy that my metal soul is now complete. I could die now a happy boy.

I swore to myself that I would never enter the moshpit. I’ve always maintained that the pit was for reckless and stupid kids. I became a reckless and stupid kid when Dead Skin Mask was played. By the time Raining Blood arrived, I took off my glasses, and got ready to get into the pit. Brandy even lost his mind then as we started to mosh together with his friends. I could feel my neck started to ache, my legs slightly heavy from the stomping, my throat a parched landscape yet I was empowered with a primal urge that scared me even. I was running purely on adrenaline and feeding off the crowd’s energy. With my initial fear of thinking that Angel of Death might be axed from the set, it was put to rest instantly when the unmistakeable riff reverberated in the hall and in my head. Setting aside my decorous inhibitions, I started slamming into people with reckless abandonment. In hindsight what I did was gosh darn immature and silly. I could have been hurt or worse. But it was a Slayer concert after all, if I had wanted to boogie and gyrate I would have gone to a Michael Buble gig (he’s great by the way). Even Brandy later confessed that he too didn’t want to be part of the moshpit. By the time the opening riff of Angel of Death kicked-in everyone and I mean, everyone, went berserk. Nobody was spared. It was either you were part of the moshpit or you stood way back. It’s also funny to note as I was headbanging I was also taking down the songs in my mobile phone and snapping pictures away. Araya (he’s like Osama and Santa Claus if they had a love child), Jeff Hanneman (he’s the man yo) and Kerry King (who is quite short) were very obliging with their headbanging. But it all wasn’t good…

Some Bum Notes:

• Hanneman’s solos were not audible enough. I’m not too sure whether it was my being more to the right which also happened to be King’s side.
• There were some who actually stood and smiled. This ain’t a friggin’ Linkin Park or Il Divo concert. It’s a Slayer concert. At least headbang a little!
• The brevity of the show. It started half an hour late and stopped at 10 p.m. sharp. They didn’t take many breaks in between songs so it wasn’t that bad. Though another 15 minutes would have been greatly appreciated nonetheless.
• They didn’t play some of their more enlightening songs due to the restrictions imposed by the authorities. Araya was apologetic which softened the blow somewhat.
• The girls, some of them rather attractive (albeit they had weird makeup on and horrible fashion sense), were clearly there because they’re boyfriends were.

All in all, it was the best concert I’ve ever been to, which is a stretch since I’ve only been to 2 thus far. I had an awesome time. I’m so looking forward to the next time I see Slayer if I ever do get the chance. Till then, keep on slaying all!

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: To the people I moshed with, sorry I banged you guys.

Have I or have I not? I think I have. Um, I don’t think I have. Ugh.

After what seemed like the longest time I finally found a parking spot. It’s a bit far from the entrance but what the heck, the walk would do me good. I get out of the car and lock it. I walk about 5 meters and realised I didn’t lock the car. I walk back, cursing myself. It’s locked. Shit. I walk to the entrance again and I feel a sense of anxiety crawling up in me. I run back to the car to check that I have indeed locked the car. It was still locked. Satisfied I tell, no, I force myself to remember that I have locked the car already and there’s no need to go check again. The last time I did that the car-wash employees gave me queer looks.

We all have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). It’s just that ours is not as extreme as others and we don’t need to go to therapy for it. The feeling you get when OCD kicks in is not pleasant. It really is an itch that can’t be merely scratched, it has to be thoroughly dispatched off. For people who have it mildly they have another word for it, Habit. Like for instance, I normally start off my day with a song, preferably something that is upbeat and galvanizes me to carpe diem. It’s something that I’ll do but isn’t a must. If it was OCD, the minute I’d get up from sleep I’d have to run over to my stereo and start blasting music. That would be bad.

Here are other OCD quirks of mine:

• I have to wear a wristwatch whenever I go out. Even if it’s to the sundry shop that’s about 2 minutes away I’ll still wear it.
• I can’t litter away. I have to find a rubbish bin to dispose of it.
• I have to put my money in order; RM1 in the front, RM5 second and so on. And they all have to be face forward.
• I tend to air guitar at the most unfortunate times. Sometimes a song just pops into my head and triggers an automatic response where my right hand will curl and goes into an all out riff jam. Many think I’m a pervert since my hand is ahem, positioned, at an angle.
• I tend to headbang as well. Though even I have to admit it’s a bit scarier since people might assume I’m having an anaphylactic shock.
• I shake my legs quite often. It’s not because I’m a sufferer of Shaky Stevens Leg Syndrome, but rather the fact that a song randomly pops in my head I’ll immediately do a drumbeat. And if I’m really into the song, in tandem, my hands will shake and bang an imaginary drumkit too.
• The way I arrange my CD collection would make a systematic person cry inconsolably. It’s not in alphabetical order, it is however, in order of “greatness”, which translates to the CDs I frequently listen to.
• I have to read with music on.
• My blog posts have to be written in more than 500 words. Only on extenuating circumstances will I be forced to blog with a post of shorter length.
• I normally proofread my posts as I go along. I can’t do it when I’m done otherwise it won’t be finished.

I think that just about does it. There are probably a bit more but I’ll have to proofread which means this won’t get posted at all. These quirks are the reason why there’s only one me and you. Of course, there’s bound to be others with the same symptoms as the above but that would be coincidence. Weirdness afflicts anyone, anywhere.

Chris is signing off. For now… He thinks… He hopes… He… BAH!

PS: This is sort of a meme, so I tag Syar, Mawar and whoever who wants to tell us about your OCD quirks. Please do check out Maria’s blog as she has hers with some pretty interesting quirks.

Going solo

Coldplay. Franz Ferdinand. Keane. The Killers. The This and That. Snow Patrol. Razorlight. The Argh...!

What do the above have in common? Apart from being the forerunners of the new wave of “rock” (I could debate this all day, but for the sake of not wanting to have a protracted and possible rancorous war of words with the exponents, I’ll keep my sentiments to myself (for not the time being of course)) these bands are currently ala mode, with kids getting into them because of their out of this world catchiness, unbelievably varied hooks and singers with distinct voices.

And most importantly, these bands do not subscribe to the Church of the Solo.

What is a solo anyway? And what’s the difference between a solo and a lead? Some say it’s the same thing. People like me however, know what they both mean to a song. As a non-musician trying to explain it to another non-musician, it’s been a difficult task to elucidate because the minute I hear a song with the above components I immediately recognize which is which. This ability to distinguish solos and leads didn’t come easily. Try 6 years of almost non-stop listens. It’s an ongoing education you could say.

Of course solos are meant to be indulgent! They are called a solo, duh! Like any good recipe, a solo can be used to spice up a song or to give it a shot of much needed adrenaline. Bands who say that solos are archaic are whiners who can’t play more than 3 chords. But what do I know right? I’m an old school guy who appreciates good song-writing. What I don’t like is when people talk claptrap (this is a cool word) about things they think they know.

Can you imagine Deep Purple without Ritchie Blackmore’s solos? Iron Maiden without theirs? Judas Priest without the solo duels? Or even The Beatles who normally didn’t incorporate them into most of their song but when they did it matched perfectly to much effect and create masterpieces of utter brilliance. Soloing is an art. You have good ones and you have bad ones. That’s why I listen to the good ones!

So here is Chris’s Top 5 Guitar Solos of All Time (because I couldn’t think of 10):

Metallica – Fade to Black

Without a doubt Kirk Hammett’s finest hour. As we all know, the former Exodus shredder was tutored by the one and only Joe Satriani. I guess Hammett wouldn’t be the guitarist that he his without the guidance from Satch. Metallica’s first “ballad” of sorts came out of nowhere, proving that the former thrash gods could write a moving, brooding and ultimately one of the finest metal songs of all time. All this is largely thanks to Hammett’s solo which extends the song’s meaning of wanting to end it all to its glorious climax.

Dream Theater – Voices

When 5 musicians came together, 3 of them with their Berkeley background the obvious was that each member were masters of their chosen instrument. The song is monstrous; a 10 minute marathon of epic proportions culminating with quite possibly John Petrucci’s best solo of his career. It is sweeping, powerful and it makes me wish I hadn’t spent my money last year when they came to Singapore to perform. I feel a need for a tissue. Lots of it. NOW!

Nevermore – The River Dragon Has Come

This is seven-string wizardry at its finest. Jeff Loomis’s guitar tone remains one of the heaviest in metal today. He has an uncanny ability to know when and where which technique is going to sound great and this song has it all. From tapping to all out goreng-ing (Malaysian for tearing it out) I wet myself every time I hear it. Gross but true.

Whitesnake – Sailing Ships

A lot of fans give this album the track is from tonnes of flak because of one guitar virtuoso’s approach to the solos and melodies. It was odd to say the least. But nothing in this world can take away Steve Vai’s solo for this song. On one side it’s Vai at his Vai-est and the other is brilliantly taken like the best Manchester United goal (you heard me!).

Megadeth – Holy Wars... The Punishment Due

For years I’ve hated Dave Mustaine because of my then blind and undying allegiance to Metallica. And his vocal delivery remains one of the most atrocious in the history of thrash metal. But nothing, and I mean, nothing, can take away from the fact that his solo right after Marty Friedman’s own blistering piece still captures me off-guard with its technicality and awesomeness.

I have to make this clear yet again, I despise the current crop of bands that play under the banner of rock. But to each his own and whatever floats your boat. As for me, my boat is about to play some of old school rock.

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: The only band with ‘The’ in their name I like is The Darkness. Their second album tanked big time though.

Better to look smarter than you really are

I get this call at about 3 p.m. and my train of thought suddenly comes to an abrupt halt as I wonder who would call me. The number is unknown to me. It could be the human-resource manager calling me for a job interview. Whoopee! I answer the call, on the other side this girl says Hello and introduces herself. I caught neither her name nor where she was calling from. Disappointed but not wanting to sound like an ungrateful sod, I greet her back. She says this call is in regards of a survey she’s conducting. It’s about a certain drink. She then proceeds to rattle question after question regarding when was the last time I bought Red Bull, would I buy it in the future, do I like to travel, do I play sports and finally what’s my age. I answer her questions, some in my trademark sarcastic tone, and by the end of it she says that if my “answers” are satisfactory then her colleagues will call me back. All right, I said, Goodbye was her response and the call ends.

So what could be possibly wrong? For starters, what the hell did I just go through? Was it a genuine survey to see if I liked isotonic drinks or was it a scam to acquire my personal details for an insidious plot? The questions didn’t make much sense. To what end is all of this? I knew I smelled something fishy when she asked whether or not I liked clubbing. I just couldn’t determine what type of fish.

But I’m more angry…make that furious at myself. I may sound confident and sometimes brusque in my replies but in actuality I’m pretty much hopeless when it comes to talking to people on the phone. All the things that I know are wrong, I commit them. All the no-nos become do-dos. I can’t help it, I know what I am about to say is wrong and might incriminate me but my mouth is faster than my brain. I should have questioned her back, like where did she acquire my name and my number, the legitimacy of her company, is she still available and so on. We all know how people are getting conned into revealing their personal details and I think I’m smarter than these poor souls. But that call apparently proved that I am not as smart as I thought I was.

Sometimes all it takes is for someone to speak in a nice tone and you might be hooked before you can say “Punk’d!” The male mind is probably the easiest to manipulate. Humans are highly visual creatures and men are attracted to all things shiny and pretty like male insects to pheromones. You see roadshows of any kind and you’ll see girls in very short skirts and tight tops revealing a hint of cleavage is enough to make men drop their brains and act like cavemen. Let’s face it, sex appeal sells and together with male stupidity and gullibility makes for a very potent combination and one with remarkable results.

Maybe it’s because I’m an honest guy. I’m also the kind that wants to get this kind of thing over ASAP and I hardly stop to formulate my answers thoughtfully. Every single time this happens, I bang my head on the table very hard, call myself stupid and solemnly vow to never repeat the mistakes. Till the next time, I’ll be ready. I hope.

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: Never read H.P. Lovecraft at night.

Perhaps Love? Perhaps NOT!

What do 15 dismal and senseless men and 3 gorgeous women have in common? A new show on TV that is. The premise is simple enough: out of a thousand or so desperate males, 15 of the best that represent desperation in all its shameful glory “compete” with each other to win the hearts of 3 belles who could operate an airplane faster than the 15 can dish out an omelette.

Are the guys worthy? Are the girls worth it? Is this a game or is it something more? And who the hell wants to eat Cornetto ice-cream for a whole year? People are oh so gullible. They’ll do everything it takes to win. This is exploitation at its finest and the players have not a clue as to what they’ve gotten themselves into.

You may wonder, why am I so angry over a show? After all, I’m not related to any of the contestants. I didn’t audition for the part so I have no reason to be jealous. Two reasons, first is because I find the guys so boring, predictable, and abysmal in their wanting to look and sound so cool that they’re overlooking the fact that these 3 girls are smart, confident, level-headed, sassy and sexy that it pains me deeply to see them and their actions. Secondly, I’m angry because I knew I should’ve entered the show. Damn. All right, seriously, reason number two is because I feel that love isn’t game. I don’t what’s gotten into me lately but I’ve become rather craggy when it comes to the game of love.

It was only last week when I saw my old college friends during convocation. It was great to see them after so long. We chatted, we hugged and asked are you working and how is your pay? Standard talk. When it came to a particular guy friend of mine, Copacabana, when Fill told me his girlfriend was quite pretty I said, “Okay, let’s go see.” After 10 seconds I realized, what the…? Girlfriend? Copacabana? Huh? Fill gave me a wry and pulled me into the hall. True enough, there he was with his pretty girl and after exchanging pleasantries we were off to stalk more girls. It was only last year that Copacabana and I were somehow “competing” for this girl, Lewinsky. We never did say it out loud but it was a tacit agreement, look at me and I’ll whack you if you get her. Sad to say, neither of us got her. Then not long after, Copacabana went after another girl, Yawnster, who was also pursued by none other than Fill.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that 99% of the time I’m very glad that my money is all mine to spend, but when the 1% does happen, I do wish I had a special someone to share it with. Gosh, I sound like an emotional turd. It must be all the girly shows I’ve been watching. Someone please STOP ME!

Which brings me to my final questions, would have I entered? Would I even dare to show my face on TV, battle with 14 other shameless guys, put on a fake smile every time the camera is in front of me and eventually win the hearts of one the girls? Call me old-fashion, but I’ll find love the good ole way.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I feel like eating a Cornetto ice-cream.

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: To the boy who said “There’s not enough time la,” in regards to speed dating, you are one stupid fella.

The Chris Reviews

This year’s rock scene is pretty much boring. In terms of new bands that is. In its place however the world bore witness to the emergence of the Men Who Sound Like Women Only Much, Much Worse. Ever since Coldplay emerged with their “it is okay to sing like a lugubrious tit with highly depressing lyrics” together with their piano driven drivel, it seems that being a loser can make you an instant champion in the hearts of the similarly maudlin. Then came the likes of Jason Mraz, Daniel Powter, and Bo Bice who play sappy one-hit wonders and are now nowhere to be seen. But no-one comes close to the champion of the sad people, James Blunt. I swear if I hear You’re Beautiful again I’m going to bash my head with a guitar and use the strings to strangle myself. Which is why I decided to check out 3 of the best bands ever to walk this green Earth and their latest offerings.

Here is Chris’s Rockin’ Reviews:

Audioslave – Revelations

When I first heard that they’re going to release a new album I was like, didn’t the new come out already? Blimey, I was stuck in the past for this year is 2006! Forgetfulness aside, Audioslave delivers a much worthy follow up to their eponymous sophomore effort. The best way to describe this album is mature. The first two albums didn’t have the longevity or the staying power. I’ll listen to their albums day after day and in an instant I’ll put it down and never listen to it again. However this album doesn’t fall into that category. It’s certainly their strongest and most political to date. They’ve also turned up the funk on this, all the way to 11. At times it’s like 70’s funk but with much heavier rock riffs something the anathema entity that is Red Hot Chilli Peppers can’t seem to achieve (I blame the singer of theirs). The lyrics are scathing and the delivery just as harsh as they slam Bush for the war and the lack of help when Katrina struck New Orleans. Two word review: Highly recommended.

Iron Maiden – A Matter of Life and Death

I am not a Maiden fan. While these English blokes have influenced every single frickin’ metal and rock band there is, I never became a fan. I like most of their “hits” but I didn’t really consider getting their back catalogue. Their comeback album so to speak, Brave New World, churned out the crowd favourite, The Wicker Man. While the album was good at first, its initial delivery was quite boring. I got so bored with it I gave it away to my friend (you know who you are!). The follow up was Dance of Death. I didn’t even bother downloading it. So what made me even buy this? Aside from the fact that I had heard neither the single nor the other songs, it was the fact that it was priced low that I bought it. You can call it on a whim basically. So how does this album fare? In one word: Brilliant. I have to admit that it took repeated listens before I fully appreciated it. The guitars are as melodic as ever while the solos still blistering and Steve Harris’s basslines are still annoying. Bruce Dickinson still doesn’t know the meaning of mediocre and delivers yet another vocal masterpiece though they are parts where he sounds like he’s struggling. Three word review: Up the Irons!

Tool – 10,000 Days

This album is moody. One minute it is pensive the next it goes for the jugular. It has all the ingredients to drive anyone insane upon first listening to it. Tool is a band that doesn’t understand the word, easy. Instead you get an aural assault of the senses. Your brain can’t process anything else besides the music. The words drive into your skull like a lobotomy performed by a mad doctor. The only bad thing about this record is ironically the fact that it’s a Tool album. It’s that good. Some bands go through transitions. Some transcend. Tool is one of those rare bands. Critics may throw brickbats and try to say that Tool is merely “noise”, but I’ll show them the middle finger and walk off. Tool is by no means an easy band to get into but the rewards at the end makes it all worth while. One word review: Ohmylord.

And as a bonus:

Marc Antoine – Urban Gypsy

My Marc Antoine collection is now complete. I have all of his albums at last. 7 great works from a great guitarist. To me, the best description Antoine’s music was perfectly conveyed by famed saxophonist Chris Botti who said that Antoine’s music goes straight to the heart. He gets really technical only when the music requires it. I rarely listen to an album in its entire run. I tend to skip with most albums because I don’t want to get tired of it. But with Antoine albums I don’t have to do so. That’s the hallmark of an excellent musician. Few words review: Absolutely wonderful that even my sister likes him.

And there you have it. My 2 cents on this year’s rock and metal offerings. I know that it’s been a while since I’ve written something heavy and topical. I’ve a few partially written pieces but I just can’t seem to finish them. Is this some kind of blogger’s block? I for one hope it’s not extended any further. I do have fans to please! Till then, keep rockin’ people!

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: The Audioslave review is for my good friend Fill, Maiden is for my running sifu Eirza, Tool is for all you beautiful people and Antoine is for Irwin, who has helped me burn holes in my wallet.

The Day Chris Wore A Silly Hat

Boy did I have fun. Serious! 17^th September 2006 marked the day that finally I got to go up stage at a not-very-swanky hotel and receive my honours degree. And I had to wear robes that draped over me like an ominous shawl from the mediaeval days. What joyous fun.

It’s funny that I had left college for 9 months when memories of it are still swimming in my head as though it was only yesterday I kicked the CPU in class (it was an accident, I swear). Time passed by as I and my friends went about reminiscing the good and bad times, how intensely hot we were due to the silly heat trapping robes, and how working life sucks. Even when most of us hadn’t seen each other since college ended the camaraderie was as strong as ever.

So there you have it, after 9 months of waiting, cursing, registering and more cursing, my association with my former institution of higher learning (HAHAHA!) is now over. I am a proud holder of an honours degree of which I’m not that proud of. At the very least of it I feel that it enables me to knock on some employers’ door.

I honestly didn’t think I would have had a good time but I was proven wrong many times over. To all my friends, hopefully that wasn’t the last time we meet. Keep in touch everyone!

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: I look like a dork I know. But that was on purpose. I swear.

Supernova are Superstupid

Firstly I have to congratulate Magni for delivering outstanding performances every week. He was by far the most old-school of them all and it showed in his overall outlook. Toby, I love his original song and some of the renditions that he did. I just dislike his nasally voice and honestly, he wouldn’t have suited them anyway. Dilana was a disappointment and that’s all I can say.

Lukas is one of the most conceited human beings to ever wield a microphone. There’s no denying that the diminutive Canadian has talent to a certain degree (he has after all, hoodwinked Supernova and the people who voted for him. That’s talent) but his arrogance coupled with the fact that he has the eloquence of a child in need of a massive smack to the face just makes me pissed. I’m also sad because people are equating that attitude and having a certain look is what makes rock stars. Sad people you all are. Just look at all the women who clamour about stage, they have the look that they just want to get laid by Tommy Lee who by the way acted like he had difficulty in coming up with meaningful comments thus resorted to the old and tired phrase of “You’re so awesome”. Thank God it’s all over now. Gilby surprised me. I have never heard his name prior to this. Of course the mere mention of Guns & Roses only conjures two names, Slash and Axl Rose, so it’s not surprising that he isn’t as famous. I would have thought that him being more on the old-school wagon he would have dismissed the fag that is Lukas who is about as rock as Click Five. Clearly I was mistaken. Of all the contestants, Lukas is the only one who did not improve. He obstinately continued with his singing style even though you can hardly call it singing in the first place.

Lukas is in essence, an emo singer rather than a rocker. He has the look, the sound and the lyrics for it. Besides Kiss, makeup in rock is just plain silly. Eye-liner is not rock. Wearing sparkly clothes is not rock. Singing like a constipated person who badly needs a dump is not rock. Lukas IS NOT rock.

I believe it was Tommy Lee’s decision to have Lukas. If you recall back the earlier shows, he was on Lukas’s side right from the start. Only Newsted had proper ears. But I have to say that it was the “fans” that are to be blamed. It was their votes that kept him in the top most of the time when it was evident that he was nothing but a poser. Again, it was looks and the illusion that Lukas brought the rock that won him the gig. Goes to show what the state of rock is right now which is downright pathetic and saddening. To the people who voted for that scum, thank you all for being such witless “rockers”!

Clearly Supernova chose that shit for a simple reason: they think he might be able to push sales of their soon-to-be shitty album. I for one have lost respect for them. I’m even disappointed in Jason. He should have continued to jibe Lukas for singing like a frog with a throat infection. Maybe, just maybe, the outcome would have been different.

So cheers to them, they’re one less band to like now. Supernova’s gain is certainly their lost.

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: This diatribe was brought to you with liberal doses of reality and old-school rock.

Let’s watch some TV!

So there I was on my plastic yet comfy Ikea chair, wielding the remote control like a light sabre, changing channels like I was about to slash an imbecile into two when I stopped at the Discovery Channel. The topic: HOT ANIMAL SEX. Hoo yeah!

Seriously speaking, the idiot box is currently undergoing its biggest revolution and it’s called “Good Shows That Do Not Suck Like Seinfeld”. C’mon, I don’t get people and their fascination with the bland, whiny, and smarmy Jerry Seinfeld. The guy with the frizzy hair and incontinent-ish body movements is a hell lot funnier than him. The fat guy with the lowest self-esteem in the world is funnier than him while the woman with the frizzy hair is just forgettable. And guess what? Astro* is showing it till the end of the friggin’ year! Argh! Anyhow, this post isn’t a diatribe about some 90’s comedy, it’s about the shows that are currently shown on terrestrial television.

I present to you, Chris’s Favourite Non-Astro Shows.

First up, My Name is Earl. This show is so funny. It’s about this contemptible yet lovable buffoon Earl played to perfection by Jason Lee, who won the lottery but after a few minutes was hit by a car and loses the ticket. It was at this point in time that he saw an episode of Carson Daly’s talk show talking about karma. He then writes a whole list of bad things he’s done in the past and is going to correct all of them. Being a big believer in karma I fell in love with the show instantly. Its satire is so ludicrous that it makes sense. It’s so over the top that it stays grounded in reality. It’s like a morals class, what goes around comes around. And by the way, that Latina lady is so hot she made my nachos sizzle (That was very bad with a capital D).

Next up is Bones. My Friday nights used to be terrible. Shows were terrible and I didn’t really want to watch yet another repeat of World’s Most Amazing Videos. So when this show finally arrived on our shores, I was glad that my Fridays won’t be crappy anymore. I like Emily Deschanel. I like the way she delivers her lines, it is devoid of any emotion and is spoken entirely as matter of fact. Though I have to say that I prefer her sister’s (the girl from Elf, the only Will Ferrell movie I like) rather deliberate and eccentric way of acting (and unconventional looks too). I’m being picky so bah. The repartee between her and former evil turned sappy Barry Manilow lovin’ vampire is quite fun. I for one do not want to see them getting together. Remember when Niles got together with Daphne? Disastrous. Or when Mulder and Scully decided to do it after chasing their 53684184th alien? File that under BAD!

And last but certainly not least, Ghost Whisperer. Inane title aside, there are only 2 reasons why any sane, very straight guy would ever watch this show. Firstly, Jennifer Love Hewitt. Ridiculous and bloody hideous hairstyle aside it’s still Jennifer Love Hewitt. Secondly, Jennifer Love Hewitt’s décolletage and they way in which she helps ghosts while wearing gravity defying, boob jiggling tops. If I was the husband, I’d have to administer CPR to myself whenever those jugs pass me by. The show however is hopeless and repetitious. Thank you to those for creating Medium, while not as sexy as the aforementioned Ghost Whisperer, it’s a lot darker and actually quite creepy. That Arquette lady has the same horrendous hairstyle as Hewitt though. Sigh, bad taste is contagious. (Ghost Whisperer has finished its run here in Malaysia. I can’t wait for the second season! Honest! Pigs do fly!)

So there you have it. Some of my favourite shows that most people won’t watch because they’re stuck watching yet another lame reality programme. Anyhow, I’m off to watch this little show called Arrested Development. Hopefully I’ll be able to do the chicken dance soon. Till then, happy couch potato-ing!

Chris is signing off. For now…

* = Astro is the country’s leading cable operator. They suck massive donkey balls.

PS: I prefer to watch a good TV show than go to a noisy club and party with people I don’t know.

Of revelations and apparent dorkiness

It was an evening of miscommunication and forgetfulness. It started off all right, my friend—let’s call him Tall Dude—said he could be there early. He wasn’t. When asked where the other friend is, Tall Dude lets loose a choked laugh so loud it was actually heard by a school of one-eyed fish off the Straits of Malacca. Other friend turned out to be in another shopping mall. Whee. Yet another friend, Noraa, is on his way so there was no reason whatsoever we could miss him. So Tall Dude SMSes other shopping mall friend, Rowan, that we’ll be in Coffee Bean. Unfortunately Tall Dude forgot to say which shopping mall. Another round of apologies and I’ll-pay-for-your-frap later, 5 guys (I came with a friend, Irwin) finally got together and had a chat. From our proposed meeting of 7.30 p.m. I checked my watch and saw that it was 8.30 p.m.

And if you women are still wondering whether or not us males gossip, I solemnly swear that yes, we do gossip. It’s just that we tend to call it “topics for conversations that might leave us shocked, surprised, disgusted, happy, angry or whatever”. So imagine the shock and disbelief on the faces of the 4 other guys when Noraa said that one of our old college buddies—let’s call him Fish Head—is actually a womaniser. Or to pimp it further, Playah. This is the same guy that collects life-size Transformers toys that have to be shipped back to Malaysia from Hong Kong because his suitcase couldn’t fit. But then again his suitcase was already filled with smaller Transformers toys to begin with. Oh, and he already has a girlfriend back in his hometown. They’ve been together for 2 years now if I remember correctly. Funny how time makes the balls hornier.

We then started to dissect the information. How could this still immature, imbecilic and not very handsome (like the 5 of us resembled Adonis) punk could end up getting more action than most guys. After a lengthy discussion where I snorted my drink twice in a row, and many curses later, we came to the conclusion that he is one Big-time Fucker. Not so much of the fact that he is able to pick up girls, but rather the fact that girls actually think he’s worth the effort. To further boil our innards he goes after the young ones, 18 to 19. These young and naïve girls are idolising him! This punk who got so drunk at my birthday party I had to drag his ass to the toilet otherwise he would have peed on the pavement with his pants on. I may not look like much but at least my dorkiness isn’t as apparent as Fish Head’s. Is this a case of “some guys have all the luck” or have girls around the world find immaturity and childishness a turn-on?

At one birthday party held on the same week, there were some interesting revelations. Again the subject of banging the hot chick came about. Of course I couldn’t relate to them so I just smiled and dropped a comment or two. Most of the guys there were talking about how horny some chicks were or that one chick actually thought that they were the Messiahs of Pleasurable Intercourse. And there I was thinking about which book I was going to read later when I get back. Life can be pretty funny at times.

I am a one woman kind of guy. I expect the same from my future partner. My loyalty towards her is the one thing I can safely guarantee (but then again, if Jessica Alba were to ask me to dump her I’d do it. Tee hee. ). Personally I think that it’s okay to flirt albeit mildly when you’re in a relationship. Heck I wouldn’t even mind if she hangs out with some of my guy friends. I just need to know who the bugger is and all other necessary details (but then again I might just go ballistic and murder my friend, I’ll let you guys know when that time comes). I’ve said once and I’ve said it a million times, a relationship is about trust, respect, communication and love. Without them it is merely to get into each other’s pants.

I may be too straight. I may even be considered a monk (minus the colourful prayer beads). You can call me old-fashioned and prudent but I’ll take that any time. I don’t mind. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to finish reading a very informative book. It’s entitled “How to Pick Up Girls Using Transformers”.

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: Fish Head, if you’re reading this, no offence dude. I still love you. But damnit, you’re one fucking asshole.

Donate lor

An old woman sleeps on the cold steel. People pass by her with pity on their faces but continue walking on. A man who has lost both his legs pleads to the passers-by for a small token. Children with smudged cheeks and frizzed hair ask you if you want to buy tissue paper. A barefoot monk comes up to you, silently, he holds up colourful beads and is hoping that you buy a few. You say no in the coldest voice you never knew you had and he walks away, sighing, hoping that the next person he asks won’t be as cruel as you were.

Those are some of the scenes you can see whenever you go out to the city. It is terribly saddening to see such things, especially for a tourist, because even though we are on our way to being a developed country, penury still exists despite efforts to put an end to it. It makes you wonder what happened to these people. Where was the love?

People with their expensive mobile phones and chic jeans just don’t give a damn. Women with their fake tans and eyebrows pull at their boyfriend’s sleeve because she saw a pretty dress that costs as much as feeding an entire village in some remote mountainous area in Pahang. Businessmen with their tailor-made suits from Italy and heavy metal briefcases are not worried that some poor old man with crutches isn’t going to eat his dinner tonight. They’re more worried that the stock market might plunge into more uncertainty or worse, chaos, thus costing them a chance to buy another Porsche they’ve been eyeing.

If we say we are a caring society then where’s the proof? A politician who helps the people by planting trees at a new housing area does not count as “helping out”, mind. It’s just a publicity stunt so that he can use the fame to buy another condo at some upmarket establishment. Funny, no?

This may come across as a bit heartless but I become cold and stern whenever I encounter mendicants. It’s not that I want to be callous but ever since there have been reports debating the authenticity of such people my donating hand rarely comes out now. I give them a look of sympathy, smile faintly, say sorry and walk away.

Every single day in the newspapers you read about people being abandoned; fathers abusing their children and wives, grandmothers and grandfathers fending for themselves because of their ungrateful children who have left them in the lurch. But do WE do anything? Once in a while you’ll read about someone donating a large of money or helping some of these poor souls find a new home. What have we become? Why are we not doing more? And why is it that politicians are still making empty promises and the consequences of their lies are being made to suffer by the people they “wanted to help”?

They say that donating even the smallest amount could mean a world of a difference. I can safely say that I’ve done my fair share of donating though I try to avoid doing so. I’m not proud saying it but at least I’m honest about it. But rest assured as I gain a foothold in this world, I’ll be there lending my hands, legs and brain to make things better. I promise (If I do renege on my words, you people have licence to shoot me in the butt).

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: To the girl who came up to me for donation and said “Don’t look at me like that la. You’re scaring me.” I sincerely apologize but I was eating an awfully made egg sandwich.

Aiyah, I know the ending already lor!

Damnit.

You queue for ages. You buy yourself some popcorn and a soft drink. You’re a bit early. You need to pee. You wash then dry yourself. People are jostling to get in to the somewhat lit hall. It’s rather packed. The chairs smell a little. The odour is familiar, in a bad way. You’re reminded of sweat that’s been left to dry in the blazing sun. When you sit, the chair creaks under your weight even though you know for a fact that you had shed some weight. The cup holder is broken. You sigh, hold your cup, and then check to see if you’ve silenced your mobile phone. It’s almost the maximum volume. You decide that for 2 hours, you don’t want to be disturbed and turn it off. After obligatory advertisements of tampons and various beer companies all extolling the virtues of drinking fermented wheat you now are staring at a giant chicken breast that’s piping hot from the oven. A sudden craving develops. Maybe you’ll get a quick bite later after the show. Then, the lights go down. Slowly, and gently, the hall darkens until the only thing you can see is the green sign with the word ‘KELUAR’. Finally, the show is about to begin. Darn, you knew that you should’ve ordered a large pack of popcorn. Oh well, on to the show.

Suddenly, as the reel starts to unravel the scene, you hear faintly but surely a sound. In the darkness, your ears pick up every single note then it stops. A voice suddenly utters, “HALLO! I in the cinema la! I watching movie ler. Aiya call you later la. Ah, BYE!”

Watching a movie in Malaysian theatres is like predicting the traffic on the Federal Highway. You never know what you’re going to get. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to watch the movie without hiccups or any disturbances. But we all know that’s some fairy tale just like how ‘efficient’ RapidKL is at off-peak hours. So let’s start by analyzing the kind of moviegoer one can expect to encounter (only) here in Malaysia:

• The ‘idiot who conveniently forgets to turn on silent mode and instead treats us to an annoying ring tone when the show starts to get really good’. What happen to common sense? Heck, what happened to having any sense in that stupid head? These people should be shot.
• The ‘idiot who keeps eating and eating and eating’. If you want to know why popcorn is named such, sit next to a dude who ordered a large pack of it.
• The ‘idiot who talks real loud during real quiet moments to explain the storyline in one of the local dialects’. I remember watching The Chronicles of Narnia when suddenly from the back I could hear an old woman explaining what had happened to her family. It was in Cantonese. It was loud. It was so loud that she drowned some parts of the dialogue to explain to her obviously not bright child what was going on. I wanted to rip her throat. But since I didn’t want to go prison and be called Ah Moi, I opted for the equally brutal option of “Shut up la!” It didn’t work.
• The ‘idiot who has some form of Alzheimer’s in his legs’. Stop the leg masturbation! I know that seeing a giant décolletage shot of Angelina Jolie is driving you insane but that doesn’t mean you can shake your legs to stifle the primal urges.
• The ‘couple who seem to be more interested in exploring each other rather than watching a good movie’. I know the two of you are in love and bla bla but could you keep the lovey lovey to a minimum? It’s okay to lean on your partner or cuddle each other, but for the sake of decency, stop doing more than that when I’m beside you two!

Watching a movie to me is something that doesn’t mean you’re watching it by yourself. What’s the point of watching a movie if you’re going to be asking questions every so often or worse, not give a damn about the other patrons who clearly understand the scenes that are unfolding right in front of your eyes? Why do you even bother watching when all you want to do is chat?

Some people are just plain idiots.

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: Stop munching popcorn with your mouth bloody wide open la!

Censorship: A necessary evil or the righteous path to uprightness?

Just the other day as I was walking in a crowded shopping mall, I saw a bunch of school children in a corner. They were no more than 13 years old and wearing ridiculously made-for-adults clothes. There was laughter and jokes and they looked as though they couldn’t even tell the difference between a goat and a lamb. They reminded me of my days when I was their age. I didn’t care about petrol prices, escalating prices of lattes at Starbucks nor did I know that The Da Vinci Code was actually fiction.

But then again, I don’t remember using the F-word, C-word, or P-word when describing my day at school. I was initially shocked but not really surprised to hear this pretty girl uttering so many foul words when talking to her friends. And she wasn’t even trying to hush it up a little, it was loud enough that its echoes actually travelled to another shopping mall.

It seems that it is fashionable or the ‘in thing’ to call one another “bitch” when you’re 11 and UPSR is only a year away. I was still using “Babi (Pig in Bahasa Melayu) and I thought I was as vulgar as can be.

So the big question is of course, how did they come to learn such words? The ‘who’ doesn’t really matter since you can still be taught to cuss and swear in a remote island of the coast of Johor (Singapore, naturally, denies this). I highly doubt that their English teacher has been teaching them inappropriate content during Grammar lessons, I can tell you that because I would have known.

I remember buying a Pantera CD which I was thoroughly enjoying it and I was just about to headbang when a bleep—which lasted less than a nanosecond—stopped me in my tracks. For crying out loud, there’s no way a Hilary Duff fan is going to listen to this and start learning words he or she doesn’t already know. Just listen to any rap album these days and you’d have to bleep the entire thing. Heck, rap CDs should be covered with a giant sticker that reads, “PARENTS, YOUR CHILD IS ABOUT TO LISTEN TO SOME REALLY INTERESTING STUFF HERE. (HEHE) HAVE A NICE DAY.”

Hypocrisy and double standards are lovely things.

It used to be the obvious that gets censored but even “Hell” and “Damnit” are considered to be insidious to the ears of our young and highly impressionable children. It’s so silly to think that by bleeping out the aforesaid words that our children will be spared by the “evil” of it. The minute they step out of the house and into the shopping mall chances are they’ll be rattling off cuss word after cuss word without so much as batting an eyelid.

And what about a peck on the cheek? That’s acceptable as long as there’s no tongue licking the side of the face. Hugging is all right only if they do it briefly. Any longer than 3 seconds is deemed inappropriate and is punishable by watching Sesame Street for the rest of your life. Showing affection to your loved ones is a bad, bad thing here apparently.

I really believe education is the key to the ultimate door of maturity. By keeping it under lock and key (pun intended), you’re merely halting the inevitable. For crying out loud, children as young as 8 know what MSN Messenger is all about and they chat about things I only knew when I was 14 (and I thought I was so cool back then). So maybe it’s time that WE grow up first before we tell our children to act like us.

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: “Don’t forget, naughty children will go to Hell. Hahahaha!”

You guys should use that line, it’ll make ANY kid polite and all. And of course, mortally afraid of you.

Oh well… NEXT!

All right people, settle down. Never believe the rumours. Yes, no matter how plausible it all may sound, they’re just rumours. I wasn’t abducted by aliens from the planet Oldskoolrock. Neither was I kidnapped by the reformed Malaysian Mafia led by Rempit Lord, Mat Motorakukenahentamolehseekorkucing. You could say I was detained for awhile. Not by the police. Not by any clandestine cult that wants to rid the world of rappers (damn I wish they existed). And certainly NOT by a rabid girl who’s been stalking me ever since this blog came out (L).

I was detained by me.

Hehehe. Okay okay, I apologize for the rather silly suspense driven drivel.

Honestly speaking, I’ve just resigned my position as Imaginative Provision Administrator*. (I’m paranoid. Sorry.)

Yes, after almost 2 months of going to work at 9-ish and coming back at about 9-ish, I’ve decided that the life of an imaginative person isn’t what I thought I could cut my teeth into. I did a few events; some big, some small but all not really hitting the mark of excellence I had set upon myself. Truth be told, I didn’t really expect big things. I went in, tried my luck, didn’t make much of an impact, realized it, they realized it, and out I went.

I had a blast and the knowledge gained certainly has made me wiser and more experienced. The only thing I want to do now is to actually attend events rather than trying to manage them. Some things should be left to the experts.

So as the last day of my work was slowly about to come, I became severely uncomfortable. Damn, now I wish I had done a better job, I thought. But a more realistic side of me said, LET’S GET OUT OF HERE!

I’m quite the emotional especially when it comes to ‘endings’. I don’t cry for macho’s sake but I do feel sad whenever I have to say “Goodbye” especially to the people who’ve been kind and extremely patient with me. I made mistakes and learned from them though I still committed the same ones due to the pressure.

Before I could officially leave, I had to sign a few papers saying I won’t do this yadda yadda, I won’t do that yadda yadda. Once that was done, I looked around the office one last time and walked out. As soon as I stepped out the door, I felt my whole body became lighter and that the air was somewhat fresher, more invigorating. It was literally catharsis. And I must say that I’ve had a blast. I feel like I’m ready for almost anything.

I’m currently jobless and loving every single second of it. But I know that all good things must come to an end. I’m in the midst of plotting my next move. It’ll be dastardly sinister. It’ll be something that will people talking about it for years to come. I just wish I knew what it was I’m going to do.

So until the next time, take care all you beautiful people (yes, YOU) and keep tuning in to this page, I’ll be back…

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: * = obviously this isn’t the real title but if you copy this blog post and paste it to Word, use the thesaurus function and from the list I’m sure can figure out the exact title. I have faith in you.

Drivin' Mr. Chris

Okay… here goes. (Takes a deep breath) I hate driving. I hate Malaysian drivers. I hate the road transport system. I hate traffic jams. I hate people who brake for no reason. I hate people who do not use their indicators. I hate people who think their steering wheel is a toy thus swerving it from right to left, to one lane to another because it’s fun to see me scream and swerving my own car from right to left, to one lane to another. But most of all, I HATE DRIVING!!! (Didn’t I mention that earlier?)

Phew…

All righty then. Looks like I’ve finally got that out of my system. I’ve refrained from making a blog post regarding the ever popular Malaysian folk story that is the Chronicles of Malaysian Driving: The Idiots, Idiots and Idiots. Every Mamat, Muthu, Mee, has given their 1 cent on the subject matter. Mostly it’s all a rehash of someone’s story. I’ve read articles from women who think men are idiots while the men think the women folk should not drive at all. Look, I could not care less if the driver is a Datuk or a woman in labour, bad driving IS bad driving.

Naturally my views at first on women drivers skewed towards as inferior to us males. But now it is not so. Both genders are now equal in overall terribleness.

But now it seems a new trend one has emerged, one that is so insidious in its implications that I fear it will become true in a few years’ time… men driving worse than women. It’s an alarming trend no doubt, one that blows louder than any air horn ever invented. I’ve seen men do things with their steering wheel that has left confounded and disappointed in the male species, even my mother drives than better them (and that is saying a FRIGGIN’ LOT).

I would rate myself as an “OK La” driver. I go fast occasionally (pffft). I cut lanes yes but I know when and where to do it. Some men nowadays just don’t know how to use the steering wheels now. Women drivers on the other hand, are the worst on the road yet the best when caught in a deadlock. I’ve never seen a woman use her steering wheel as a weapon of mass frustration. Old men in particular have an affinity to drift to other lanes of which most of the times happen to be the one I’m in. And what’s with the parking these days? I’m absolutely crap at parking but the angles some drivers leave their car just leave me perplexed.

I’m terrified of driving in the parking bay of shopping malls. Many a time I become disoriented and mightily pissed because some people think it is okie dokey to go 100 km/h. For goodness sake people, Hello! You’re in a bloody parking lot! What’s the rush of driving at breakneck speeds? And is it possible for the parking authorities to put up the NO ENTRY signs before I enter them by mistake?

We are blessed to have a road system that is one of the best in the world. The facilities are top notch and of world standard, we have the technology to keep it running optimally, the means to maintain the integrity and all but we tend to miss the turning because the sign post was blocked by a tree.

Chris is signing off. For now…

PS: I’d KILL to even touch a Bugatti Veyron let alone drive one. Preferably on the Autobahn in Germany. OMFG.