And now, on this day...

I had in mind a rather thought-provoking topic to write about. But since I’m an incorrigible pedant, the final draft is still a long way to go. But thankfully, Lia, has decided to drop me with a meme that I must say was really fun to do. I didn’t know that the day I was born was quite popular for sad events. Oh well. On to the meme!

1. Go to Wikipedia and enter your birthday without the year: May 5

2. List three events that occurred that day:

• 1260 - Kublai Khan becomes ruler of the Mongol Empire.

This so rocks. Too bad he had an ugly moustache.

• 1945 - World War II:
• German troops in the Netherlands and Denmark capitulate to Canadian and British forces, liberating these countries from Nazi occupation.
• Prague uprising against the Nazis.
• Mauthausen concentration camp is liberated.
• Admiral Karl Dönitz orders all U-boats to cease offensive operations and return to their bases.

What can I say? It’s funny that without the war most of us wouldn’t be here today. But with the war so many lives were lost because short men with inflated egos thought they could rule the world.

• 1992 - Wolfenstein 3D is released, the first-ever first-person shooter computer game.

While I played Doom first, without this game I wouldn’t have been able to develop my mad skills in Unreal Tournament 2004!

3. List two important birthdays:

• 1818 - Karl Marx, German political philosopher

Oh my.

• 1948 - Bill Ward, British drummer (Black Sabbath)

Without this man, metal wouldn’t have been born and we’d be stuck with disco. Forever.

4. List one death:

• 1821 - Napoleon I of France

All you short, angry men are belong to us! (I have no idea what that means but it’s sounds kind of funny. No?)

5. List one holiday or observance:

• International Midwives Day

Hooray for midwives!

I tag those who want to know more about the day they were born and to those who haven’t been tagged, Marz in particular. Enjoy!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I, too, want to do a meme twice in a row.

There’s far too much fish in this town!

This is crazy, I thought to myself. I was hungry and I would have killed for a nice cup of cold ice-blended coffee and a nice plate of spaghetti bolognaise. But the only thing this bloody town had was keropok lekor or fish paste thing (FPT) stalls. And there was lots of it. (I and my friends tried coming up with a more fitting name for it. We ended up calling it “things that make the roofs of our mouths hurt like a bitch.” Suffice to say, this name is too long.) Each side of the road there were FPT stalls and not one single Starbucks. Not even a CoffeeBean outlet (yikes). You know you’re a city person when you crave over-priced coffee.

The town was Cherating and I was there with my friends, Fillit and Sardine.

I’ve known Fillit for 5 years now and while this may have Elton John written all over it, we hit it off right from the get-go. I like to call him the black version of me. The brudda from anotha mutha. We’ve been through a lot together, good and bad (hello little cretin of madness!), yet till this day we remain a solid duo. Just ask our lecturers. I’m sure they will have some nice things to say about us. I’ve known Sardine for sometime now but it was a Hi! and Bye! relationship in college with the occasional, “Man, this college sucks,” talk. So it was nice to talk to her about things I wouldn’t have even thought about when we were college. At the end of the trip, I think we can call safely upgrade our status to good friends as opposed to college mates. Lizards, anyone?

The blackest coffee I’ve ever drank in my life. And that was the worst spaghetti I’ve ever had in my life.

Given that we’re true blue city slickers, it really showed wherever we went. I looked every bit like a tourist—right down to the three-quarter pants and benign smile—while the other two were more or less touristy-looking. Since we abandoned our humility back in KL, we went about town like we were rock stars. Everywhere we went people would give us funny looks, not sure as to how to treat us. We spoke impeccable English (well, just me, tee hee!) but when I and Fillit opened our mouths to speak in Malay, the locals would speak to us nicer.

I’m not really a beach-lovin’ person on account of me being slightly phobic about water. But put me at the foot of a really tall mountain and give me a tiny flask of water and off I’ll go to the peak. The scenery at Cherating, however, was simply majestic. Blue water could be seen for miles while the sand was fine and soft to walk on. The only thing that tarnished the experience was the amount of litter strewn everywhere. Empty cigarette packets and even a discarded slipper were seen. People can be so fucking stupid.

If only all mornings could look like this.

At night, looking up to the stars whilst getting bitten, scratched, and prodded by various insects was quite an enjoyable experience. Stargazing, seemingly a rather frivolous and neck-hurting affair, can be very compelling, soothing even. In our case, we literally talked about everything under the moon. While we couldn’t see each other's face, you could feel our respective feelings. Whenever we saw a shooting star we would make a wish, praying, hoping, that our wishes may come true. I don’t know about the other two but I really did make wishes. What you want in life and when you can’t get it will always drive you nuts. Sometimes even paranoid. But if you’re patient enough, who knows, you might just have your wish realised.

While the other two used this trip to get away from work and all its shittiness, my reasons were purely to have fun and be away from my computer, books and my other comforts. You could say that I wanted to reboot my mind. I did just that, and boy do I feel so much better now. So, to my best bud Fillit and Sardine, it was one of the most relaxing outings of mine and here’s to the next trip.

Let’s just lay off the fish, shall we?

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: There’s no tmas in Chris!

PPS: My heart goes out to those who lost their lives in the Virginia Tech incident. R.I.P

It’s the smart fish that will eat all the fish!

Celine Dion, I hate your songs.

Or to be more exact, I hate singing your songs. Everyone knows that to sing your songs is like having me cook a 5-course French dinner. Impossible. No way in hell. And I had to do it, four times. Count ‘em: four friggin’ times! My metalness has seriously been damaged. But it was all done in the name of landing a job.

I truly and wholly abhor personality tests so last Saturday’s interview for the position of Risk Management Trainee with almost 100 other candidates was really my idea of a fun-filled morning. And it didn’t help better my mood when they blasted Enya and her usual ethereal whispers were all of a sudden magnified fifty-fold, creating cacophony of sorts in my ears. I didn’t bother double-checking my answers, I just wrote the first things that came to mind. Most of it was drivel, something I don’t under normal circumstances but I couldn’t care less already. By the time everyone finished writing, I sagged into my seat and listened to the emcee go on and on about something that sounded like “Financials Pranner.” I left the building, thinking, what the hell have I gotten myself into?

I got a call on Monday saying that I was shortlisted for the second round of the interview to be held on the next two days.

Day 1

I was early and slightly sweaty. Another dude was there so it was good to talk to someone instead of staring at the ceiling waiting for the other vict…I mean, candidates, to arrive. Eventually when all the candidates were seated I had on my right someone who looked like a pirated DVD seller who’s a fellow Manchester United fan (7 goals beeyotches!) while on my left was a slightly dweeby-looking, fellow unemployed bugger. We got on pretty splendidly. After exchanging pleasantries it was time to get things rolling and what better way to kick-start events was with the mother of all horrors: we had to sing. And sing we did, to Celine Dion’s I’m Alive. I wanted to drive hot pokers into my ears. We were then separated into two groups. My group, thankfully, were made of like-minded buffoons with a few wallflowers. There was a guy with the stature of a giraffe, a typical Chinese guy who doesn’t give a shit and speaks his mind, and a full-time part-timer who I think I would work pretty well with if he gets the job. Collectively we called ourselves Ocean’s 12. It wasn’t the most original name we could come up with but I was too darn tired to think of a snappier one. After lunch, we had to sing again. This time it was I Can See Clearly Now, the Jimmy Cliff cover from the movie Cool Runnings. Please, rip my ears out! Another test followed and I’ll spare you guys the boring details of it, so I left for home, thinking, what the hell have I gotten myself into.

Day 2

Argh! Celine! Dion! Again! No! This time it was the theme she did for the Olympics. if that wasn’t bad enough, we had to another song! Thankfully, it wasn’t a Celine number but I think this takes home the prize for the most excruciating karaoke I’ve ever done, Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger. I wanted to die then and there. The next test—the final one to sell myself and to clinch the deal—was where I fumbled, and I did so with the grace of a falling hippo. By the end of it, most of us guys sort of “bonded”. I use it lightly therefore any snide remarks of holding hands and having slight gay tendencies shall be thrown out the window right this very instant. If we were to be selected and be put into the same team, I reckon that we would make an awesome team. Alas, I don’t think many of them will take up the offer if they do get it. Heck, I’m not even sure if I’ll take it.

One thing is for sure though, I will never ever sing a Celine Dion song.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I almost forgot, to close off the 2-day interview, we all gathered and formed the ugliest oval in the history of mankind, and limply held each other's arms. We all looked like constipated chickens. But anyhow, the closing song? Diana Ross’s One Shining Moment. I wanted to murder people.

Clubbing + Chris = Natural Disaster

As many of you know, I’m not particularly fond of clubbing. I don’t see the point of being in a dimly lit room, surrounded by half drunken chicks gyrating in front of me…hmm, let me rephrase that, I don’t like drunken chicks that are not pretty gyrating in front me. Ah, Much better. Where was I? Oh yes, I’m more of a person who values my hearing and my kidneys so being in a club is akin to putting a quiet golfer in a room filled with screaming football mad fans. I hate golf by the way (though I kind of like Michelle Wie’s legs. They go on for ever…). Where was I again? Oh my, my sincerest apologies. It’s just that I feel there’s so much more to life than being subjected to things that clashes with your morals, ethics, and sanity or whatever. This is a lifestyle. I’m not taking anything away from how one chooses to have fun but I do have the right to say that I’d rather be in a jazz bar and hopefully see a jazz band play some really good music. Sounds rather boring to you but it is oh so delightful to me.

So what made me to be this way? Is it my inherent dorkiness? Why am I blasé to the craze? Maybe I have to thank my dad, who essentially incarcerated me from going to these kinds of places during my teens. Of course when you have a tyrant for a ruler there’s nothing much a plebeian can do, right? But I think I have to really thank my innate parsimonious nature. Or as we say it here in Malaysia, Kedekut sial!

Let us do some math shall we:

Petrol for going to such a place = RM10, I tend to take wrong turns;
Parking fees = RM10;
Cover charge = RM35;
A pint of beer = RM20, I don’t want to spend a night with Timmy and Tommy.

All in all, the total is almost RM75! And that’s only a conservative account. There’s also the matter of supper or rather food to eat after someone pukes their dinner. So, you see, it’s a painful ordeal for me to whip out my wallet and fork that amount of money when I could be enjoying a classic rock album with a cup of coffee which would set me back only half of that amount.

I’m more of a homebody. I prefer to listen to music, read a good book and then get my 8-hour beauty sleep. If there’s a good show on the telly or a nice DVD then I’ll watch it. Why is it so hard for people to understand that this is who I really am? I know for a fact that I’m more of an outside person looking inside. Most importantly, I know me. And I prefer my hedonism with a bit more sophistication, thank you very much. A club with near-inebriated girls just strikes me as the perfect place to NOT have intelligent conversations.

Maybe a few years down the road I may end up eating my very own words. I could be seen clubbing with a couple of babes on each side of me till the wee hours every week. Who knows, right?

Now, where did I put my exclusive and extremely hard to get into, book club membership card?

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Girls who go clubbing yet have the intelligence to blow my socks away are hot. Girls who club and display the intelligence of solid wood are NOT hot.