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!

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.