What’s so super about the supernatural?

I wish I had these two to help me. If only they were girls, though...

My legs were thanking me for not putting them in agony any longer. I had walked for almost 5 hours straight, with a few breaks in between. It was a humid day, my sweat drying up as fast as they came. The clock struck 12. It was midnight yet I still was not sleepy. The hotel room was black all over except for the little crack of light emanating from the bathroom. Eventually as I laid my head on the pillow or rather the cover since the insides bore a strong similarity to the consistency of air, my eyes could no longer open and sleep soon swept over me.

Cars could be heard outside as my room faced the highway and at 3 a.m. what were these people doing? I paid no more attention to the hullabaloo outside and closed my eyes. I was on my back, dreaming of nothing when something vague came into view. This was a dream that turned real. It was an apparition, female from the features I could barely make out, and it was on top of me, slowly trying to drain my vitality. My whole body was enfeebled, my arms held back by invisible hands and I was desperate to scream. I prayed to God, asking Him to help me. I yelled “Get off of me!” with all the strength I could muster but it came out in a hoarse croak. I fought for life. My life. I didn’t want to die in a cheap hotel! With this new willpower came vigour and I opened my eyes. For a split second I saw the apparition for what it was and shouted, “Go away!” I was in a cold sweat. I thanked God and reluctantly went back to sleep, exhausted and afraid.

The next night—at the same time—the apparition came back again and this time it invited its friends along to torture me. Visions of people with nooses around their necks in pallid drapes forced me to wake up before they could conjure any more sickening and terrifying things. Even then they did not stop. They still came to me in my dreams. Each time I closed my eyes they got nearer and nearer. I had no choice but to wake up and call out to my mom and sisters. After making sure that it wasn’t anything more than a Sixth Sense moment, I went back to sleep where strangely yet extremely thankful that the torment was over.

The above re-telling is true. I don’t really make it a habit of telling people that I was attacked by a ghost one night but this was the first time I actually felt something in a hotel room. Normally you hear stories about a haunted hotel and one of its rooms had a lady who killed herself after finding out her lover is actually a she, doesn’t strike me as something that should be told to patrons. Bad for business. Really, if you were to tell people that you’ve seen ghosts or experienced the paranormal, you either find yourself talking to no one or you’ll get someone saying, “I know how you feel.” Then they run away.

Now, I’m not one to disbelieve such phenomena. I just don’t feel the need to dwell on it. There are things in this world that science may never know of its origins, history and on the whole, what the hell it is. The paranormal does exist. It has to. They exist because we make them exist. Ah, I tried to sound all knowing and mystic at the same time, no?

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Have any of you guys experienced any paranormal happenings? Share them!

PPS: To marz: this happened in Singapore the last time I met you. So, my advice is, don't stay in cheap Singaporean hotels!

Who wants to buy a post title? I sell for cheap one. Don't worry.

Have you ever participated in one of those business talks with various speakers all chanting motivational slogans at the top of their lungs? Have you realised how silly they look, especially those who don’t look like the sort who can actually motivate someone let alone sell something? Or did you hear how loud that lady, who given the right make-up and proper push-up bra, laughs as though her funny bone had been rudely yanked out of her body and then bashed on her head?

I have.

And it was one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever been a witness—and reluctantly—a participant to.

A jamboree such as this will always feature people from all walks of life. More than half of them will be annoying. There was, of course, the obligatory funny man, or as we say in Malaysia, in reference to someone who makes people giggle and titter like silly sorority girls, Joker (said in the most Chinaman of ways and you’ll get the idea of how annoying it really is). Every sentence, every innocuous-looking explanation of the product’s benefits becomes fodder for this irrepressible, and most of the time, unfunny individual. There was of course the quiet one who would devour your soul if you so much as look at him wrongly. The rest were older men who range from the almost senile to the I’m older than I really look and it’s all thanks to this revolutionary and patented yodel. At another one of these brainwashi…enlightening sessions, lamps of all shapes and sizes were on proud display. They emitted pungent smells that made my eyes water. Older people peered into the displays with upturned noses and looked at the lamps with such serious expressions you think they were going to buy a castle.

I never felt so young in my life.

These people are the kind that devours marketing books like their lives depended on it. And rightly so. Back in my days of trying to sell land in a country where people have a fascination for playing games on ice, each and every person in the sordid organisation was a disciple of the School of Robert Kiyosaki. Everyone, from the low-level struggler to the grubby bigwigs, all could spout Kiyosaki epithets better than they can recite the national anthem.

I’m not a business-minded person even though my grandfather was quite a successful businessman in his own right. What does that have to do with anything is still a mystery but I have a theory that the business acumen my granddad possessed didn’t get pass down to his grandchildren. Probably the only thing I inherited was his notorious parsimony: terribly generous to no one, not even his own flesh-and-blood. I consider myself a smart consumer, for example, if I want a pair of shoes I’ll go to one shop after another, looking for the best price.

I don’t need rah-rah or effervescent cheerleaders (though they may help in ahem, other departments, *wink wink*) to get me motivated for money. Just show me how can I rake in the dough and I’m off. Network marketing. MLM. Call it what you will but it’s a tough trade and truly only the strongest survive. I’m a survivor but this is one thing I don’t think I’ll ever get the knack of it. (I’ll keep you guys updated, nonetheless.) As for now, I’m off to sell some whitening cream product thingy to that old lady down the road. She’s been winking at me for no apparent reason.

Maybe it's the pink bicycle shorts of mine?

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: No pink bicycle shorts were harmed during the making of this post.

If the moon and the sun were balls and aligned so that they would…

Last Saturday’s newspaper had a revelation. According to one article bearing the title, “Beware the moon for it will conflate with the sun under its iniquitous bosom,” it said that due to the lunar eclipse one should be wary. It also mentioned that the moon would be very moody (kind of like a woman, eh?) thus will rays of badness. I thought it was a load of rubbish.

That day I had an uneasy feeling. I was knackered. I had no idea why. And besides, I had already gone to the warehouse sale on books (argh! I saw a number of the books I had bought a few weeks earlier at half the freaking price!) where my mind went wild and my wallet suffered anorexia. So what could I possibly want?

Hot dogs.

Not the variant where the wiener is no longer than my pinky finger (which is long but you, um, get the idea) but the ones at the world’s biggest emporium for chairs and butt massagers, IKEA*. I had to fetch my sister from the train station and it was off we go. On the road leading to the station, I trailed this beat-up junk of a car, no faster than a speeding tortoise, with a table strapped to its boot. Now, any person with the intelligence of a six-year-old knows that you have to really strap it in lest if falls off whilst you drive. In fact, that same kid will tell you’re being a total oaf for doing such a thing. What are the chances of it coming loose? Well, if you were me on that soon-to-be horrible day then the chance will occur and it will be right in front of my face. I managed to brake in time and swerve my car a little otherwise I would have been obliged to call a carpenter to extricate pieces of wood sticking out of my car. Or worse.

Next up, as I was heading to the shopping mall, the road that I normally take has potholes and more potholes. I always manage to avoid them. That day, no such thing. Thankfully, none of my wheels came off. After having our butts jarred by the uncomfortable thumps to its soft nature, it was time to act like sharks on the hunt: finding an elusive parking spot at 3 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon. (I’ll tell you guys about Malaysian shopping habits soon.) Round and round we went, like hammerhead sharks going in circles to find their prey. Every time a spot opened itself I would put pedal to the metal only to find that another person had spotted it and duly parked their car faster than you can say Bugger. After what seemed like eternity, we decided that we should just go home. According to my sister, we didn’t need to pay for the ticket since the machine spat it out saying payment wasn’t necessary. However, when I put the ticket into the ticket-eating machine I saw the words, “Please pay the damn ticket you fool,” I knew we had been punked. It ended with me reversing the car and people stared at me as though I had brought a chicken with H5N1.

Oh, and I broke the toilet handle at a restaurant where I ate a spaghetti bolognaise which in turn burned my tongue.

Bad luck struck me like a porcupine skewering a hapless lizard that fell onto its deadly spikes. It was that bad. You see, while I may not believe in the study of numbers that should govern my life or that feng shui can predict whether or not my future wife would be a homicidal maniac with a penknife, that day left me pondering over the article’s—I say this with a straight face—“power”. Did I unleash the terror simply by glossing over the words? Or was this the Big Guy’s way of compounding my wretched week? Whatever it was, it worked.

But you know what? Those incidents were a wake up call to me to stop being all depressed and crappy. By the time I complete this post, I should have already sent more than a dozen or so applications. I shall carpe diem!

Until the next depression that is.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: * I don’t about you guys, but I can’t spell IKEA as Ikea. I feel…odd.

Will the third time be the charm?

Last year, at this exact moment, I was bumming my eye sockets out. It’s been 3 months since college had ended without so much as a farewell party: no wearing of funny hats, no one getting drunk and having their pictures uploaded to various college sites stating “This is how Malaysians do it yo!” and certainly not one morsel of tasty Malaysian food i.e. McDonald’s, KFC. The very last day of college all we had was stale curry puffs and even staler Coke. The Big Plan right after college was terribly simple: bum for a couple of months, do the things that I wanted to do and then after all the fun was had, it was time to grow up and be a man. Not just any man, but a Working Man.

This is what really happened:

• The first month was awesome. Total freedom!
• The second month was getting kind of boring. Oh well, bring on the hula hoops and let’s party!
• The third month—the month that I’m in exactly a year ago—enough’s enough! I need a JOB!

Fast forward a little and bam, I got my first taste of the working world. After nearly five months of mind-numbing bumming, I and my good friend, Fill, landed ourselves a job! And what better way than to start it off by having a pretty lady as our future boss as well. The job seemed simple enough: call up people, get them to buy the damned land and bam! ka-ching! I left after one day.

Not too long ago, I mentioned that I had landed myself a job. It was similar to my first experience: call up people, get them to sign up for the damned thing and bam! ka-ching-a-ching! I left after two weeks.

I didn’t despair, in fact, I had a backup. It promised an experience like no other. I was gung-ho and I knew I had to nail the interview otherwise I’d be bumming once again. I did. I felt fantastic. On the day the second interview came I was anxious as heck. Normally I would be calm and collected but seeing a dozen or so other candidates there made my heart beat fast and hard. Damn! I have to really nail this! And when the interviewer unveiled what I was supposed to do, what I will have to do once I got accepted, left me flabbergasted and disappointed. I was mortified to the point of wanting to just walk away from it. She did mention sales but she didn’t say it would be this!

This is what sales can do to a person who utterly abhors it.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve said it before that sales and salespeople are everywhere, in many forms and is a must for the world to keep on spinning lest Al Gore decides to lose some weight. I respect it greatly and those who commit themselves to it. But for the life of me, the more I delve into the nether regions of it, the more I feel like jumping off a bridge for trying it again and again. You’d think people would learn from this kind of fault but not me. In fact, I’m actually contemplating about accepting the damn position! Any sane person would fuck it, I want no more of this shit. But not me. I’m a sucker for pain and punishment.

Honestly, I have not a clue about what I really want to do. I thought I thought I knew it but the reality is sinking in faster than you can say cuckoo. And you know what’s the most painful thing of all? Thinking I’m actually good, that I’m better some people because I have the look and the voice for certain jobs but the hurtful truth always punches me in the stomach.

Maybe I need to loosen or even break my comfort zone. After all, if you’ve never tried something, how are you to know it‘ll be bad or good? But after being bitten, dragged, ravaged, flogged twice by the sales bug, I should know better, right?

I hope I’ll make the right decision. Wish me luck.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I’m being all emo aren’t I? Fuck. I hate this feeling.

Sales Schwing

Sales.

The mere mention of the word gives you a very clear picture of what to expect. There’s no hidden message behind it. It’s just a sell-and-buy cycle, which in itself is so simple yet so freaking difficult to master. People in sales are incredibly egoistic, have haughty-looks Victorian aristocrats would be proud of, always on the lookout for a sucker and in dominion of the most sickening attribute of all: self-assurance of the highest order second only to perfidious politicians. (Politicians are essentially salespeople, only with an entourage the size any popstar would be the envy of.) They are eager and aggressive in getting an answer. Nothing short of an outright no will put them off. Even then they’ll lay low for awhile and bam! they’re at it again and even then…argh!

In short, salespeople are one of the most important people in any society. In fact, make that every society.

You know that shirt you’ve always wanted? Sure it was marketing that puts out the advertisement or the brochures or whatnots but who sells it to you? Not the GM, he’s too busy getting his toes trimmed by a buxom blonde named Tawnee. It’s the salesperson that explains, no, tells you that you need it. You think for a minute that hey, I do need it. Then when you get back you realise that you’ve not only bought the wrong size shirt, it’s in a colour and pattern even Stevie Wonder would tell you it’s hideous.

I would say I’m a fairly good presenter. I pepper my explanations with inane anecdotes together with a benevolent face and manner. I do not subscribe to the dogma of being serious all the time. But picking up the phone, and calling up people who wouldn’t even give a second to talk to a junior salespunk like me takes some serious balls.

I’m pretty much the world’s lousiest salesman at the moment. I can’t grasp the seemingly uncomplicated concept of manipulating a potential client nor do I possess the guile essential to trick someone into buying my product even though he or she may not have a need for it. When I was in training (thanks for the lunches) I was taught to lie, cheat, deceive and my absolute favourite, manipulate any situation to gain any advantage. A profit doesn’t have to be right or wrong, as long as it brings in the dough.

Honestly, I don’t think I will last long in this industry. I’ll go my own distance just to see how far I can go before my eventual fall. I’m a simple guy with a very simple philosophy: I’ll buy whatever the hell I want, when I want it and you’re not going to persuade me otherwise. Sure, you can make suggestions. Feel free to do so. Go ahead. But if you so much as even have the audacity to speak your mind and tell me that my choice is not good and that yours is better, then better get ready to run as fast and far as your puny legs can take you.

You can call me a quitter. A non-achiever who throws in the towel, handkerchief, and silk shirt when things get a little too hot to handle. At least I can say that I’ve tried, given it a shot, did my best, oh you didn’t live up to our expectations, oh really? walk away with my head held high and get the pay I’m due.

People always say that practise makes perfect. But sometimes even with all the best preparations in the world from the best in the business doesn’t mean shit if you don’t like it one bit.

I really don’t.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: If the above ramblings seem exaggerated or ludicrous then maybe it is. I cannot guarantee that everything that has been said as entirely truthful. But nevertheless, trust me on this. I’m still a salesguy after all.

Other blog updated. Read!

PPS: I'm now officially jobless. Again. I will never ever do sales again.

Happy Chinese New Year everyone!

PPS: Due to the holidays my brain is inexplicably incapable of producing quality posts therefore I shall return next week with another Chris-worthy post. Till then, have a great week y'all!

Hello! May I be your salesguy*?

Due to the fact that I am now employed (finally!), I am now unable to properly construct sentences that will leave you gasping for more, wishing that it will never end. In other words, readable material.

But fear not, I have the weekends. Well, some of it, anyway. What I can say now is that the pay is peanuts but the commission is fantastic (according to my employers but I don't give a toss, more on this soon) and I have a real working man's sling bag to complete the whole professional look. Unfortunately, my potential clients will not get to see my lovely bag but rather, will instead get to hear my manly and mellifluous voice telling them why they should do business with me, a boy who has no sales experience whatsoever but is still trying his luck selling things.

Life's pretty cool, eh?

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Do anyone want to buy something from me? I sell for cheap cheap one. No worries.

* = it was originally salesMAN but since I don't feel like part of the sales shtick yet I'm calling myself salesGUY instead. Only time will tell.

Men are expensive

Damn…Damn….damn, damn!

I so want a Ferrari Enzo. The lines are just so amazing. If there’s one car that can make me abandon self-worth and humility (which I have), it’s that car. I also want to take up photography. There’s something about holding a camera and directing your family or friends in order to take a picture that may or may not turn the way you want it to. I would also like to have an expensive and expansive sound system therefore my dream system is a Marantz but realistically the most I think I’d be able to afford is Bose is which more than enough. I’d love a Kerry King BC Rich Warlock and a pair of Marshall amps. I’d also love a 42’’ LCD screen with the latest DVD player (preferably one that plays all formats, screw format wars!). But I just can’t afford it.

A guy can always dream right?

Developing an interest in something at times can occur in many ways and forms, intentionally or purely coincidental. Like for instance my interest in automobiles. I grew up knowing zilch about the mechanics of cars. I only knew that certain shapes are ugly for a car. Beyond the aesthetics I was like a woman, only I drive much, much better. What sparked my interest was when I went to Sepang for a few local competitions (not F1, I’m not a fan of that at all). I saw cars modified beyond their original look and made to perform well above the initial specifications. After awhile I got the hang of it, the screeching tyres, the billowing smoke, the smouldering heat, the scantily clad girls in reflective clothing, the whole shebang.

Enthusiasm is most contagious especially when the person who exudes it is very passionate and isn’t afraid to ask questions. And you never know when or where you might contract it. Like the time I accompanied my good friend Irwin (no more commenting ah?) to Singapore. We stayed with a friend of his, Imelda, and friends of his dropped by. From the bedroom I could hear loud voices and even louder laughter. I came out and was greeted to Marz and Lawful (dude, if you’re reading this, all the best in the States). After exchanging pleasantries, the party resumed their discussion on cameras and such. So me being the only person there who knew nuts about cameras just sat there and listened to their highly animated talk about apertures, bodies (hmm, bodies) and lenses. Damn, these people are good. The next day, us manly men went out for lunch and headed to Singapore's premier IT mall to find Lawful’s camera. We scoured many shops searching for the best camera within his budget. Looking at all the cameras, the lenses and what you can do with them made me wish I had more money (don't we all?). In the end, Lawful ended up getting a beautiful Sony camera and began snapping away the minute we set foot in Imelda’s place. From then on I’ve been having lofty thoughts about getting myself a DSLR (Nikon!) and start snapping away.

Women have equally expensive hobbies as well but I'll save that thought for another post. Women love to shop and shop till they drop whereas men tend to buy expensive goods to satisfy unfulfilled childhood fantasy. I know I’m living the childhood I always wanted albeit with the occasional beer in hand. I know that as I get older priorities will take over the way I spend my salary. Bills and more bills will obviously take precedence.

Sometimes being a guy can be so hard. But sometimes, sometimes it’s just so fun.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I don’t think I’d ever get into RC (radio-controlled) cars. It seems so…dorky. (You, yes, you, I’m calling it dorky!) Sandman for life!

PPS: How's the new look? Is it too bright or too red or too something? Let me know! Thanks!

PPPS: Here's the previous colour scheme and you'll know what my friend's comment means.

Them black buttons scare me now…

The best children's book ever.

How’s everyone’s year been so far? I hope it’s been good. As for mine, it started off pretty all right. As usual, I did not celebrate it. Why? Simple, it’s just another day in my life. I do not see the need to surround myself with people who are sweaty and have the look of someone who’s just celebrating the New Year just because it’s an excuse to get drunk and party till the break of dawn.

Truth be told, I wasn’t invited to any New Year party celebration thingy and frankly, I didn’t care. I was sober and guess what, I saved money. Yep, parsimony indeed rules.

A few days later I went to the local bookstore to take advantage of the 20% discount card I had. Even though I have a backlog of about a small library to finish off, I decided that such an opportunity shan’t be wasted. I saw the new Terry Pratchett book and decided to give it a pass and focus on other books (I did buy it a few days later). I remember distinctly to look out for Neil Gaiman’s Coraline, which came highly recommended by Marz, who has proclaimed that she will never, ever, read this to her children. Neil Gaiman + frightening as heck (the Lemony Snicket blurb on the cover is so apt) + Dave McKean (who’s illustrative work is abstract and creepy to say the least) = why the hell it took me so long to get it?

As soon as I got home, I tore off the plastic wrapping of the book and read the first chapter. In typical Gaiman style, he sets the setting early on and it being a children’s book (though which parent would want their child to read this at an early age is beyond my understanding) isn’t as “deep” as his more mature works. This makes it even all the more enthralling. I won’t go into detail but in summary the story revolves around a girl who discovers a secret room, finds creepy versions of her parents, with black buttons for eyes, who seemingly to genuinely love her, something her real parents show a lack thereof. (A review will be up soon, I hope, so keep your eyes open for the update.)

The story got me thinking of a parents’ love. My life isn’t what I had hoped for but it’s my life nonetheless. People who know me on more a personal note, know that I have another face behind the one I show them and others. Initially, this surprised them, because they only ever see the other side of me: highly animated when talking about anything, daft about most things, and relatively capricious that when I tell them my real self, they find it hard to believe.

Just the other day, while I was waiting for my turn at the post office, I saw this little boy sitting quietly, looking at people with a happy face, including me. For a moment I felt weird, normally little children would be frightened at the mere sight of me, but this lad was practically beaming. It’s one of those moments where I forget to be this pseudo, wannabe, macho, subscriber of upturned collar guy.

I have vowed that—while I didn’t get the childhood that all children deserve—I will try my best to give my children (I say children because I’ve always dreamed of four children, two boys and two girls though with inflation and escalating costs I’m thinking very hard about even wanting to get married let alone have children) the childhood they deserve. I’m only 22. I have the world ahead of me. Youth is by my side, as many have pointed that out to me. So why am I thinking about the age in which people start to lose their hair and see their waistlines expand perilously?

Maybe it’s because I’m older and slightly wiser. And perhaps, perhaps, knowing what I want in my life.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I definitely will read Coraline to my children.

This ain’t another New Year’s Resolutions folks

Actually this is Things That Chris Will Do to Improve Himself and Banish the Bad Things He Does So That He Can Make Another List Like This to Annoy People Around the World By Not Calling This A New Year Resolutions List When in Fact, Is a New Year Resolutions List Masquerading As Something Else Just to Annoy You.

But in truth, what this really is an attempt to do things that will hopefully improve myself. To better myself. To become an exemplary citizen of this green Earth. It’s…ah, it’s a bloody list!

Before I go further, I would like to say that it’s feels great to be back blogging. When the earthquake hit and caused the big ruckus that it did all I could say was Ugh. I decided to take an even longer break from World Wide Web and I must say it felt pretty weird not checking my mail for more than 7 days (it’s now almost two weeks). Papers reported that some bloggers were so upset that they could barely post a sentence let alone a whole article so much so it made them feel that their life has lost its meaning. What a bunch of nutters I say. Go read a book. Watch TV. Take up gardening. Talk to people face-to-face for a change. There’s more to life than an Internet connection.

So let’s go back to the topic. Why do people create a list just before the clock ticks its last tick of the year on the eve of a new one? Is it because people are doing it so I’m going to do it because it’s ala mode? Is it because you want to tell your friends that hey, I have a list and you don’t, nyeh nyeh nyeh! Or is it a genuine case that you feel in order not to repeat the mistakes that you’ve committed the year before, a checklist of sorts will help to not repeat them?

I do it because I’m bored to death and Oprah is espousing spiritual twaddle. Again.

So here is Chris’s New Year Resolutions That Really, Please, Isn’t a New Year Resolutions List (told you I’d annoy you):

1. Get a better job.

I’d liked that. Really.

2. Improve my guitar skills.

I still can’t seem to tune my bloody guitar! And it’s been 5 months already!

3. Run for more than five minutes and not pass out.

The current time is 4 minutes. Ah, the ignominy!

4. Stop my mouth from spewing out rubbish.

I remember reading an interview with Deftones once and one of the band members said to the singer, “Your mouth is like a shit making machine. You keep talking shit.” I think that pretty much sums it all up. Think first you dolt!

5. Write better.

Damnit, I’d do anything to write like some of you guys.

6. Finally get me some Mandarin lessons.

China girls, beware! And all you Mandarin-speaking, peace-sign lovin’, silly dressing gals out there too!

7. Get me Neil Gaiman’s Sandman graphic novels.

I’m eyeing the obscenely huge, tome-like, 20-episodes-in-1 bonanza that would cost me a quarter of my pay. Actually, what I mean to say is, get me the rest. Behold!

8. Listen to more jazz, preferably guitar-based ones.

I have to let my Marc Antoine CDs rest. They’ve been spinning non-stop. Trumpets, saxophones and other instruments that require one to blow into them need not apply. That sounded somewhat disturbing…

9. Read AND understand better.

I love to read but I tend to do it fast as though the words might run away if I took my time to really understand them. Darn. I feel dumb now.

10. Attract more girls with my wit and charm.

LOL! (I’m not much a LOL! fan but I felt that that was appropriate.)

There you have it. A simple wish-list. Hope your 2007 will bring more luck and joy than previous years. Cheers y’all!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: There’s going to be some changes to the design in the coming weeks so don’t be surprised to see a new colour scheme every now and then. Yee haw!

2006 – A Year of New

I would to say that 2006 is the best year in recent memory for me. It’s probably due to the fact that I can remember most of what I did. The year started off all right I guess. I moved out, had a makeover (I just threw out my old clothes and bought new ones, nothing drastic) and gained a tonne of confidence. It had its bumps and high points but it is probably the first year in recent memory where it’ll end as well as it started. Previous years always start off difficult, gradually becoming all right in the middle and segues back to its original craptastic start. But I’m happy to report that I will be ending the year with a small bang, nothing fancy, just a feeling of triumph that I managed to get through 2006 without much fuss.

This year is extra special because of these things:

Reading

I finally pried myself from all the Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman stuff and decided that I needed to expand my reading. I am slowly venturing to other genres, in particular religion and world issues, and the occasional mystery/thriller. You will never see me reading a book with Fabio on the cover however. I’d rather put my head in a blender. With peas.

Football (Soccer for you people who think that running with a ball in your arms constitutes football)

I’ve always liked football. I used to follow the local league, back in the day when they actually could kick a ball without it having a soporific effect like it is currently. It was reignited with the World Cup in Germany. I supported Germany for the simple and rather bizarre reason that my favourite Teutonic band at that time was Rammstein. I actually stayed up, got up at obscene hours and jumped for joy when the Germans won. Italy may have won but Germany has left me with a new-found fervour and a generous serving of sleep depravation.

Manchester United friggin’ rule by the way.

Music

I saw Slayer in October. My journey as a metalhead is complete as far as I’m concerned. I managed to headbang with a bunch of like-minded bespectacled metalheads, suffering the pain of stomping my feet on the cold, hard floor and swinging my head as though it was a windmill made the RM300 I paid for the ticket the best RM300 I ever spent. And I finally got myself some guitar lessons after mulling it for almost forever. Marc Antoine better watch out, give me a couple of years and I’ll be playing in sold-out arenas. But in the mean time, can someone tune my guitar? And here's my top 10 metal songs of 2006!

Road-trips

Bin Siew and Irwin, if you’re both reading this, thanks for all the late night (and morning) jaunts to the beautiful lake in Putrajaya and all over Kuala Lumpur. Let’s not forget to do that again before we get too old to drink Red Bull, eat instant noodles on the way, the ever useful mosquito repellents (cigarettes) and having the best chats ever in the history of the world. All of that under the brilliant night sky and a view that was magnificent and awe-inspiring that made our contemplations, dissertations and figuring out life’s conundrums some of the best times of my life. And here's a holler to Fill who proved that it is possible to go fast in a Kancil and headbang to Fear Factory while looking like complete dolts. Precious days those were.

And probably the most important thing that happened to me:

My never-ending quest to better myself as a human being and most importantly, a better Chris. I feel more alive, like I’ve broken down the walls that kept me from being me. I may give in to histrionics once in a while and embark on warped ramblings about the perplexing nature of rabbits and their twitchy noses but the Chris that’s now in this world is definitely way better than the Chris last year. And he’ll keep getting better. I really hope so. (What’s with all the talking in the 3^rd person anyway?)

So as the year draws to an end, I can only hope for 2007 to equal 2006, because honestly, it was a blast and if it does top 2006, I’ll be sure to tell you all about it.

Gute Nacht und Gutes Glück.

PS: I dedicate this to all my friends, family and especially to anyone who reads this. Have a blessed new year and I shall see you when I see you. 2007 here I come!

I I yai yai!

How this shindig works:

Each player of this game starts with the “6 weird things about you”. People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says ‘you are tagged’ in their comments and tell them to read your blog. I was tagged by the venerable Lia and effervescent Syar.

Since I’m still working on a blog post on food, I’ll do a “6 weird things I do” instead.

1. Well, maybe just one will do. I love onions, be it raw (think Mel Gibson in that Lethal Weapon movie where he was naked for most of the time) or overcooked.
2. I don’t read lyrics. Firstly, it’s because I don’t want to get the booklet all smudged therefore after a while it will develop fungal growth which really sucks. Secondly, and rather embarrassingly, I can’t seem to understand them.
3. I can speed-read. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to be able to recall what I’ve read so it makes my speed-read feat pretty much useless.
4. I can spend hours looking at books and music CDs. I will pace up and down, flip and flap a book, then not buy anything.
5. I am incredibly parsimonious. I will walk for hours, visit countless stores, heckle and query till the cows come home just to find the best price for anything. I’m like Chris Rock’s father in Everybody Hates Chris. I know the price for a lot of things.
6. Whenever I’m by myself, I tend to walk very fast. I will actually scan the area I’m traversing, and pick out the best route. When I’m driving by myself however, I like to go as slow as possible.

I had to really think of things that I haven’t already told you guys. It was fun, and I think it’s why I’m a sucker for memes, I feel like a little boy with a set of Legos.

Gute Nacht und Gutes Glück.

PS: Since I can't really think of anyone to bequeath this meme to I'll just wish anyone who wants to do this all the best. Till then, have a nice week!

I’m fashion road-kill

When I was younger (think much spikier hair, window-pane-like glasses, chubbier cheeks that resemble a hungry Canadian squirrel and much, much bigger trousers), fashion was something as alien as a pink loving man. It was a lot simpler then. Men and fashion were not synonymous. The only thing that remained the same was how bad men were when it came to differentiating cotton and snake leather. But now it seems that men are coming out of the other closet, pun intended, and at this moment are embracing the joys of faux chic couture.

My philosophy for buying clothes when I was a wee lad was very simple: Expensive = Quality. Of course, growing up then for me meant that I was to board a manically driven minibus to good ole Globe Silk Store (which is now known as That Cheap Cheap Place) for the latest RM5 (!) tee which at that time was pretty expensive for a strapping young lad like me. And they weren’t in my favourite colours too.

I would say my fashion sense is that of an octopus trying to wear a one-armed sweater. If the fashion police did exist, I would be on their Most Wanted list for ever. I do all right in the “getting the right coloured tee along with the trousers” department but either than that I’m absolutely horrible in trying something new. Take for instance, East India clothes. I like their line because it’s simple yet classy. But for the life of me, I don’t think I could ever slip on a shirt made from the finest coconut husk from Panama and trousers made from cotton indigenous to the plains of Mongolia.

I want to look Bohemian, not try and be one.

There’s an emerging trend in the male front and that is to wear light colours, which is more popularly known as pastel in the couture world. I call it girly. Flail your arms wildly. Strike me down with a bastard sword, go ahead. I don’t care. I’m very happy wearing a collared tee, three-quarter trousers and slip on my trusty Camel sandals. And if I feel like being inconspicuous, I’ll put on a cap. Simple, no? You can call me old-fashion when it comes to fashion, but I know I’m only conforming to my own personal style god.

Who you may ask? Why, Me of course you silly kitten!

As I was growing up and being constantly fed with images of cool people with cool clothes only made me wish I was rich enough to buy one of them. But then I realised it’s not worth it. Personally, splurging on clothes is a mini sin for me. Take this for example: Would a guy who doesn’t really give a damn about his clothes buy a Timberland t-shirt that costs RM400 just because he can afford it? Or would he pay a visit to good ole Petaling Street and get the same t-shirt but with the label spelt as Timbarbland instead? I don’t get fashion but I do get the people. They’re nutters.

So, what is the true definition of being stylish? Is it as simple as being you? So which is right, do the clothes make a person or does the person make the clothes? Whatever it is I’m still wearing my sandals and faux Hawaiian shirt. I look quite Bohemian.

Gute Nacht und Gutes Glück.

PS: I don’t get Malaysian fashion shows. A good number of people don’t even know how to pronounce some of the labels let alone wanting to buy them. FCUK anyone?

I don’t know why but I feel compelled to write this

caveat – This is a “What I Did Today” kind of a blog.

I didn’t want to go. I thought it would be mind-numbingly boring with old men in suits far too big for their shrunken shoulders would come up to me and inquire, “Are you in search of a house? Then come right over here. Yee haw!”

Property showcases, to me, are one of the dreariest things one can do on a Saturday afternoon. Besides having to take your Aunt Mildred to the dairy farm of course. The layout was awful. It created sort of a mini congestion of bodies. People would bump into me while looking at pretty pictures that everyone knows for a fact doesn’t translate to real life. They would peer into see-through glass, with their noses dangerously inches away from the display. A person would come up to me and ask, “Hello, are you looking for a house?” The activity itself isn’t much to talk about but considering that I looked like a Chinaman who just got his gold necklace from the nearby jewellery store with his RM5 sandals I thought I would be safe from these wretched salespeople with eager smiles. Wrong I was. One after another, a smiling model with rather nice curves would greet and pass me brochures with far too many words for someone who hasn’t had his coffee.

In another hall of the convention centre, there was an education fair dubiously called FACON (I said this aloud in puzzlement and a lot of frowns stared back at me), which featured a mix of local and international institutes of higher learning all vying for attention of kids who have just finished their exams and wish to further their studies. I thought what the heck, maybe when I’m more stable in life I’ll take up another degree. I’ve been to my fair share of education fairs in my younger days and people would drag me off to a little table with high chairs telling you that their course is the best in the world. Now that I’m older and considerably wiser I don’t give a damn. I managed to stump quite a number of councillors that day with my quick observations and charmed them (them being women, the men—pfft) with witty one-liners.

It turned out to be one of the most pleasant pleasantly surprised days. It all boils down to, naturally, a girl. She was pretty all right: nose small and angular, a hearty laugh that would make any grandmother be proud of, and possessed something that to me, is the defining factor when it comes to women I’m attracted to—that special something. Yes, yes, I can see you guys and lovely gals slightly bemused and irritated even that I’m on one of my illustrious loopy ramblings. I apologise but let’s continue the story. I initially was approached by this tiny human being, a girl who reached my chest and smiled at my navel. I inquired her about the availability of Mass Communication in her college. A smile at my navel again and she led me to the obligatory tiny table with high chairs. I waited for a bit and soaked in the noisy ambience, remembering the days when I was a wee lad fresh from secondary school. Damn I was dorky. Then she arrived.

It’s these little trinkets of niceness that makes me grateful to be alive and the person that I am. It’s moments like these that transcend all the ugly happenings in my life, giving that much needed rush of joyfulness. I won’t go further simply because it’s one of those one-time moments where the more I try to remember it, the faster I forget the experience and I don’t want that. The mind is a terrible thing to play with.

The thing that drives me mad is always the post-meeting analysis whereby I would stare into nothingness for minutes on end, flagellating my poor mind with the whip of remembrance. I would talk to myself, curse myself, soothe myself, and then sigh, sigh the sigh of someone who wished he could have just a little bit more. A smidgen. A tiny speck. The tiniest of morsels. Just so that I can close my mind and remember what it was like.

I’m so there at the next FACON.

Gute Nacht und Gutes Glück.

PS: Good things happen at the most unsuspecting times. I would like to have more of these.

Other Blog updated!

Punctuality and the people who keep screwing it

I took a quick look at my watch. It’s almost 1 p.m. Traffic today is insanely busy and there’s no apparent reason—I see no cars on the side with smashed bodies and teenagers who just got their licence calling their parents nor do I see a motionless body on the ground covered with newspaper with its feet sticking out. I do however notice that there are many women drivers on the road. This can only mean one thing: The end of my sanity!

I’m late!

An event like this is common for all city folk. Time just flies by when you seem to be stuck in traffic most of the time. No wonder people are stressed out! And are likely to go on a rampage involving machetes and lots of dead rabbits!

Every single morning during my college days was always frustrating. I’d get up early to have my breakfast and leave just before traffic started to crawl slower than an overweight caterpillar. By the time I reached my friend’s place I would park my car, walk to 7-Eleven to get a newspaper and maybe a doughnut. Then I’d wait. And wait. And wait. At the very least—a good 20 minutes later—my friend would finally come down, put on his shoes and off we go. Even though college was theoretically only 20 minutes away from his place, we had to leave at least a good hour to be just in time for class. If I was going to college by myself, I would leave much earlier just to avoid the cursed jam. I’d rather be an hour earlier than to spend the same time inching my way, cursing at all and sundry, and wait for the rest to come. Till this day this friend of mine is still late for most engagements.

If there’s one thing my father thought me well was that it’s better to be early than to be late. It’s something that has shaped my personality. I’m a planner; that is I will set my alarm, pick out the clothes I want to wear and plot the route I’m going to take. All this will be done the night before, so that I don’t need to rush and put my underwear on my head instead. I estimate the time it takes for me to get there and punch it into my internal hard drive and whoosh! I’m there. It is one custom I have no qualms with and is the reason why I am always the earliest. Or one of the earliest, depending on the nature of the meeting of course.

When someone is late we call it a Malaysian thing. I call it being inconsiderate and discourteous. We’re too much of a laidback people I guess. We take things for granted because we have this mentality of since it’s there, it’s there. There’s no need to rush things. Take it easy some may say. And yet these are the same people who are chronically late for everything and the one time you’re slightly behind for a very important engagement, they’ll push the blame unto you in an instant.

Life isn’t always fair but it can make you very pissed indeed.

When my friends are late, especially the usual suspects, we just shrug it off and say, “That’s him all right. The late bastard strikes again.” But when I’m late, even by a mere nanosecond, they say, “That fucker is late!” I am that bad. Where does this blatant apathy stem from? When you’re running late, I’d very much appreciate it if you could tell me. A simple SMS with the words, “Am late,” would more than suffice. It’s the thought that counts after all.

Tardiness is a national disease and while a cure for it exists, none are bothered to take it. Something about not having enough time…

Gute Nacht und Gutes Glück.

PS: I try my best to be not late due to circumstance of any sort. If I am late, that means I did it on purpose. Really.

My other blog is updated! Go! Thanks!

Try not to step on my head too much. I may bite. And devour your soul you worthless tadpole!

One day in a shopping mall located in one of the capital’s trendiest suburban neighbourhoods, I had a feeling that that day would be a great day. I saw a couple of girls checking me out (it could have well been curry on my cheek, I was too engrossed in my own vanity) as I was about to get across to the adjoining mall. Before anything else, I went straight towards the loo (I knew I shouldn’t drink too much green tea), and in the interconnecting bridge I had to pass by a group of salespeople or as I like to call them, Ambushers of Wanton Insensitivity (AWI). You see, getting pass these people is like going through a mediaeval gauntlet to retrieve the Sacred Chalice of Paramount Bravery^TM. And just my luck I had to encounter one of AWI’s most promising new knights. This was how the crossing of the gauntlet went:

(Me walking rather quickly, face slightly contorted as I forced my bladder to control its already bursting dam)
(Skinny boy with impish-looking features jumps out of nowhere)
Annoying Skinny Sheet (ASS): Hello! Do you have a minute?
(I smile, put up my right hand to indicate that sorry, I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re selling or peddling)
ASS: Are you in a rush?
Me: Um. Yeah. Sorry.
ASS: (in a very sarcastic tone) Fantastic! That’s so fantastic of you!

Of course the above retelling seems a bit tepid. But picture it in your mind, summon the most aggravating voice you can and hopefully you’ll know what I went through. I don’t know why I didn’t go up to him and pound his skinny ass to the wall for such rudeness. I could understand such a treatment if I was being a complete asshole and didn’t acknowledge his existence but I wasn’t. He did it not only in front of other shoppers but also his seniors. I even smiled at him!

I know it’s a hard way to make ends meet, especially when you have to deal with idiotic and downright rude people, but that doesn’t you can treat me and people like me with disrespect just because you’ve been the receiving end one too many times. I could have been a person with violent anger pent up waiting to explode which would have provided some World’s Most Brutal Shopper moments. But thankfully, to him and myself (I don’t want to go to jail for beating a pugnacious salesperson), I’m not of that nature. My mom was the one who wanted to give him the smackdown.

Customer service in Malaysia is a myth I tell you.

Another incident where manners was of the utmost priority, my friend Fill and I were part of a land banking management firm. We had to call up people and beg (of course it wasn’t the on-my-knees pleading to give me 15-minutes of their time because after all, what’s 15-minutes compared to an opportunity? you name the place and time and I’ll be there!) them for a chance to showcase our service. Fill had the misfortune of using, oh blimey, a phone directory for his leads. Seeing him dial home numbers and getting his ear severed to its very tip for having the audacity and flagrancy to inform them of our product made for some uncomfortable silences. It’s difficult to commiserate with someone when you’re laughing hysterically at them.

Dealing with people is an art. Like art, sometimes blatant flicking here and there, a misconstrued stroke there and here, may not be the best thing to do. You have to be scrupulous and deliberate yet not to the point of being cold and brusque. Unfortunately, it’s an art only a select few know how. The rest just butcher it.

Gute Nacht und Gutes Glück.

PS: Quick question: What would you have done if you were in my sandals (I didn’t feel like wearing shoes that day)? I hope it’s something violent related. Till then, beware of the Ambushers of Wanton Insensitivity!

“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!