I’m gay to be gay!

The two men were immaculately dressed: their shirts were pressed and ironed to perfection, their sandals were from the trendy bohemian store in the trendy bohemian enclave of the city, and they had sunglasses that could be classified as tinted windshields due to the size and depth. Each one of them had a scarf wrapped around their neck and snaked all around their person. This was a strange sight considering the sun was murderously hot that day. Their talk was highly animated, what with flailing arms and wide-eyed looks whenever one of them sees a shirt that while it looks pretty good to the normal and straight man, is really and undeniably cute to them. Some of the men just passed on by them, as if the world was already too weird for them to give a crap about two men shopping but there were some of the more male men who gave them cockeyed, deriding smirks—when they weren’t within range, naturally. The contented gay men carried on their shopping spree, not giving a damn about what other people thought of them. Their happiness is all that matters.

Being gay seems to be catching up these days. I’ve noticed that there are more and more gays and I’m not talking about the ones who work in salons and at the perfume counters. Stick your head into any high-end clothing boutique and voila! gay man looking at a pink shirt. Generalising and slightly offensive, but that’s the case these days, isn’t it?

I posed a rather controversial question once to two of my good friends. It was, “What if your child is gay? What would you do?” They both had the same initial reaction: they didn’t know what to do. When prodded further, one of them was left speechless while the other tried to come up with a perfectly reasonable and rational answer. He didn’t. Suffice it to say, it really is the sort of question that will only be answered when the time comes.

If ever, my son or daughter was to come up to me and say that they’re gay and they’ve know about it for a long time, I would at first be shocked, then sit down, have a chat with the missus and then throw my son or daughter out. Just kidding, folks. I guess I would probably ask my child whether they are who they say they are, and hopefully, try to accept the fact. Because, honestly, life is something that has to be experienced, and there are times where things happen for a reason even though you’ve been planning your life since they day you saw that accounting journal. It'll be difficult, yes, but I'll be damned if I let my family crumble just because my son loves football and the footballers.

I personally don’t give a damn whether or not you’re gay, bisexual, straight, occasionally gay, sometimes not that straight or whatever. I don’t give a shit and neither should you. But if you are, please don’t smack my butt. I might take it the wrong way.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Scissor Sisters’ songs are cool. I’d rather listen to them than to any of today’s so-called “music”. Mika is starting to annoy me, though.

Let’s see, what to ban next? I know! Let’s just ban everything!

When the controversial The Da Vinci Code opened across the globe, people were once again questioning what was right and what was wrong. To me, it’s just a movie adapted from a highly popular and somewhat absurd novel. Which I think is what Mr. Brown intended all along; a book that entertains first, pose questions much, much later. If your faith is strong, then why should you let a writer’s imagination—especially one that writes fiction—to tell you otherwise?

I remember clearly the hullabaloo surrounding Sepet (Slit Eyes or Sloe Eyes or -,-). The story as most of us know is about an inter-racial relationship that manages to transcend boundaries between what is normal and what is deemed shouldn’t be taking place. Yes, there were some scenes that left me slightly wide-eyed but not entirely surprised. At its core it was a love story that involves inter-racial elements and it was done not in a judgemental way.

I strongly believe that with overzealous censoring what is deemed inappropriate would only make things much worse. And by they way, to the people who think they know best: I present to you one word that will make every single one of your remarks about “that you know what’s right” null and void—Google.

I do agree that, yes, there are certain forms of entertainment that glorifies violence, sex, drugs, women and gold teeth to the point that it’s all a means for them to make as much money as they can from unsuspecting people. What I don’t agree is the double standards. Why it is that rock is given a bad rep while The Pussycat Dolls are free to strut, pose and sluttify Sway in front of young and adoring adolescent girls?

I could list a million and one things that could be banned from our society. Each will mostly likely take the piss out of every one of you. Like, for some example, if we really want to stop smoking then all we have to do is just ban cigarettes, cigars and pipes. While we’re at it, let’s throw in shisha as well. Especially the mixed fruit flavour.

*we interrupt this article to bring you this important announcement: Google rules supreme! MUAHAHA!

*we now return to our regular programming*

If we’re serious about things then we should be educating our children just as soon as they know their ABCs. Build their knowledge from young, show them that it is wrong to do some of the things that us idiot adults commit. Would you rather your son learn how to smoke and drink from his friends or would you rather tell him that doing those are bad?

Curiosity killed the cat and you don’t even have to be like CSI to find out who the killer is. Maybe we should ban that next? It does give would-be killers and rapist ways in which to pull their crime and getting away with it. But then again, which stupid fellow would copy what they see on TV?

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Only the first CSI matters. Grissom and co rule!

Let’s put back the ear in fear!

Booyaka!

They are everywhere. When you look up, you can see their black, beady eyes staring at you. But wait. You look to your right. To your left. Everywhere. No matter where you look, you can feel their piercing stare even when you try to avert from their baleful gaze. They smack their tongues, as though they were contemplating licking you. Maybe, even eating you. Alive. Then, all of a sudden, one of them unleashes a sickening sound that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand. You run away, desperate. Desperate to get away before they can catch you. You scream. You shout. Like in the movies, you flail your arms, run aimlessly and somehow manage, inexplicably, to trip on your own feet. And then you hear it. Unmistakeably, it’s the sound of laughter. You turn to see your friends clutching their stomachs, tears stream down their cheeks.

After all, it was only a small house lizard.

I wish I could say that this really happened, but sadly, it didn’t. The terror bit is true, though. On my last holiday trip with my friends, Sardine, was terrified by the plenteous amount of the sticky blighters. When we had to head back to our room she would grab the railing, stick her body to it and walk ramrod straight and wouldn’t look anyway but ahead. Of course, me and Fillit being the not-so-gentlemen, decided to tease her incessantly. “Ooo, it’s looking at yooooooooooouu!” “Methinks the cute bugger is in lurrrrrrrrrrve with youuuuu.” “Wakaka! You be liked by lizzzzards!” You know, the sort of moronic jokes we guys love to pull. It was fun for awhile, but when she turned white (actually whiter, she’s quite fair) and was close to tears, so, we being the ever chivalrous gentlemen, immediately stopped.

On my side, I’m not exactly afraid of lizards but I’m also not fond of them either. It’s when the lizards just pop out, literally out of nowhere, i.e. me wanting to brush my teeth that sort of scares me. And I use sort of very loosely.

Heights don’t really scare me, too. I do get vertiginous but at the same time I feel attracted to it. Odd, isn’t it? It’s like swimming with sharks. I’ve never done it but I would love to. Sharks scared the crap out of me when I was young, no thanks to the monumental and “there’s gonna be some dead fishes by the end of this” movie, Jaws.

My sister always asks me, after watching shows like Fear Factor and The Amazing Race, “Would you do those things?” My response would always be an immediate one: “Hell Yeah!” I want to bungee jump. I want to eat live octopus in a South Korean wet market. I want to chase cheese in Gloucestershire. I’ll eat anything in order to win anything. I want to go mountain trekking with the locals and discover weird plants that may or may not be fatal if I were to touch it.

What’s the point of going through life without taking risks? Wouldn’t it be nice to look back when you’re old and slightly paunchy and go,”Damn, was I stupid! But it was darn good fun!” ‘You only live once,’ so goes the saying and I fully intend to do so. But most importantly, I want to live life to the fullest and have fun while doing it.

Now, would you care to join me for some grub soup? I’ll let you keep the teddy bear. I promise.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: There are some things I won’t do, naturally. For instance:

1. Have multiple hooks pierce my back and be suspended in the air. I’m sorry but looking like a roasted duck doesn’t work for me.

2. Race on the highway with some potty-faced dimwit.

3. Go on a date with the Williams sisters. They really do scare me.

PPS: To Lady Elastic: I'm back and so's the fresh produce!

Guess what, you’re obsolete

Quick! My arm hurts!

Back in the 90’s, the big thing that was happening was the advent of the personal computer. As a not-quite-precocious child, the computer was something alien, a box that displayed a myriad of colours and most importantly, I can play games on it! It helped office people become lazier still by punching in keys as opposed to writing them on paper then cursing your bad luck because you spelt Happy as “Hippy”. The first computer my dad bought was a speedy 100MHz PC from then technology giant, IBM. I remember installing games like Duke Nukem 3D (“Shake it baby!”) and the most influential game of all-time, Quake. It wasn’t a learning tool, no sirree, there was nothing educational in it. It was a mean, gaming machine.

Do you remember when mobile phones used to be of the military-like variant, with its antenna as long as your arm and the whole caboodle weighed more than your two-year-old brother? Now go back and try to remember the days of pay-phones. Ah, yes, I can you see trying to quash that memory out of your mind. I used to carry with me pocketfuls of coins whenever I went out which led many to believe I had elephantiasis. Half the time the bloody phones have their receivers missing and when you do find one it says, “Out of Order.”

Gosh, I so don’t miss those days.

As we march forwards into the indefinite future armed only with our wits and a clean pair of socks, the world that we used to know is slowly but surely getting a makeover. Everywhere you go you’ll see a giant screen that flashes radiant colours advocating the benefits of using Colgate’s teeth whitener. Before this all you got was a drab-looking lady with white teeth on a billboard. All you needed when you’re about to embark on a journey was just your keys and a sense of direction. Now you’ve got satellites guiding you all the way through with a voice that resembles a sultry old maid (if I had one, I’d go for the German man, he’s wunderbar). The humble camera, once the domain of serious professionals in jackets with a million compartments, can now be seen wielded by an able person with just a push of a button. Things that used to take ages in some red room with various viscous liquids labelled “Dangerous” can now be done in seconds. And let’s not forget the times when you had to hold your smile while your dad set the timer and by the time he gets in frame, the camera would have gone off. Another roll of film wasted. Ah, the wonders of the “Delete” button.

Now we have refrigerators that tell us if you’re about to run out of low-fat yoghurt, wristwatches that can tell you where you in the world, even now as we breathe and eat our food we have. Not long now there’ll be digital books. Now, this is something I’m not too keen on. I grew up reading books that have been dog-eared, turned a shade of brown much like mushrooms, and had the name of the owner in illegible handwriting. If the future of reading lies in the digital world then it’s not a future I’d very much like to be a part of. There’s nothing like reading a real book. A real book that has pages that you can flip to create wind on a hot day. A real book that you can read in the train on the way to work and have people craning to see the title.

I love technology, make no mistake about that. Progress is good. But there comes a time when a cold box is nothing compared to a warm voice.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: There are some things I love about technology, like, for instance, the ability to write and publish my thoughts and on top of that actually have an audience, albeit a tiny one. Here's to World Domination!

If men had periods…

1. Burping would be made a national sport. The Olympics will never be the same again.
2. We’ll try to ignite our farts.
3. Everything would taste like chicken.
4. If we’re depressed we’ll drink tea. And eat popcorn. Then burgers. Potato chips. Then some more tea.
5. Nothing in the world—not even an apocalyptic raid of demons—can make us stop watching the World Cup.
6. The entire period of the World Cup will be made a holiday.
7. Road rage? Nah, it’ll be Armageddon for that punk who cut in front of us.
8. We’ll ban women drivers. All of them. Even our Mothers.
9. We’ll get into a brawl every time someone pokes fun at us. And don’t ever mess with our Mothers.
10. We’ll go on an electronic spree which means new TV, DVD player, MP3 player, speaker system, etc.
11. We’ll laugh during horror flicks.
12. We’ll play Counterstrike until we can’t get up just to settle a dispute over who can kill the fastest using a butter knife.
13. We think that saying “chicken breast” is funny.
14. We’ll turn up at work wearing our favourite sports attire and proclaim that work sucks and we’re going home at 5 to walk the dog (or cat).
15. We’ll watch reruns of Baywatch all day. Particularly for the bouncy life saver’s…beach balls.
16. We’ll weep to Celine Dion songs…
17. …and when we finally realise it, we’ll weep because we’re actually listening to Celine Dion.
18. We’ll whine about the weather report being too dramatic.
19. We’ll arm wrestle all day.
20. Never, ever, say that we have man-period. It'll probably be the last thing you say...

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: The author chose to write this under the influence of heavy-duty painkillers which resulted in a distinct lack of humour in his system. He currently does not suffer from any form of man-period.

Maybe next week.

Silence of the Clams*

* = I know, bad, bad title.

You know the saying, “Silence is golden?” It’s a farce. More often than not, silence can be the most uncomfortable thing in the world. Take for example, these situations:

Lavatory (I love saying this word, it makes me sound posh and rather lumberjack-ish, all at the same time.)

Guys pee side-by-side. We all know that. But what happens when you have to pee next to your boss who’s urinal is only a mere centimetres away? I remember during my days of sitting in a room the size of a—ironically—toilet cubicle, I made it compulsory to get up once every half-hour or so and wash my face with cold water in an effort to stay awake. (Mostly I did it to get away from the annoying colleague of mine who was terribly dreadful to work with.) One day, after clearing a batch of the day’s workload, I went off to the loo for my customary face-drenching, some pushups to keep the bones all fresh, discharging of the wastes, when in comes my big boss, and I mean, the big boss with his suit and tie and thick blazer, discharging his own wastes. Me and him. Him and me, peeing. At the same time. Side by side. I turn my head slightly, his head does the same, and we exchange the briefest of nods and cracked the smallest smile ever known to humanity. It lasted no more than 30-seconds but, by golly, was it awkward as heck.

Elevators/Escalators

When there are a number of people on the escalator, it can make for some truly awkward moments. If the person in front of you is of considerable height, you may be staring straight at their lovely (most of the time, not lovely) derriere. Malaysian escalators are about as fast as making a tiramisu without the tira and misu. They’re agonisingly slow. So slow, in fact, that sometimes I forsake my vow of never climbing the steps just to get it over with quickly. And I particularly hate it when couples, especially the ones who looked like they only got together the day before hence the big silly grins on their faces start cuddling each other (their hands oddly straying down south from time to time), stroke each other’s hair as though it was some ritual to delouse themselves and not wanting to let each other’s hand go even when they’re about to disembark the escalator. And I’m just one rung down on the escalator, which gives me full coverage of all the sordidness. If you think that’s bad enough, then you haven’t experienced amorous displays in an elevator before.

Taxis

Taxi drivers can sometimes be the most entertaining people in the world. And they can also be the most annoying people in the world, too. I’ve had my fair share of drivers and their asking me one too many personal questions and why can’t I speak my mother tongue. But when you get into a taxi these days you’ll say the destination, swap head nods signalling yes, I’ll take you there. No chitchat. If the radio is on the driver will most likely leave it at a channel which sucks.

What about you? Are you just as whacko as I am or do you have no problems in the above areas?

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I don’t know why, but I feel like eating clams.

I’m having a .23 life crisis

I wanted to post a picture of me when I was just a babe. But this pic rocks, don't you think?

For many, turning 21 is a momentous occasion. It’s a badge of honour of sorts, it means that you can vote, legally step into a bar, pub or casino without having to resort to using fake moustaches and ugly Hawaiian shirts that were made in Hanoi. You are now fully responsible for your actions. Whatever you do now will reflect on you till the day you die.

In short, turning 21 is grossly over-rated. But it sure is loads of fun.

It was only last Friday that it dawned on me how much I’ve grown as a person. Or rather, how old I’ve become. My friend, who was celebrating her 21^st birthday, had her close friends and family invited by her boyfriend to her surprise birthday bash. I along with Fillit made our way to the swanky and expensive-as-heck Japanese restaurant located at the most haughty and poor-feeling inducing mall in the country with high hopes of having a great time. After almost being strip-searched by the rather overzealous Laotian waiter at the entrance, we were escorted to the booked room, where on the way the smell of awfully fresh seafood was making Fillit and me queasy. When we finally reached the room, the first thing that came to my mind was: who are these young boys and this rather large girl with a rubella mark that resembles a splattered egg? Providentially, I saw the birthday girl otherwise I would have stormed right out. With a plateful of oysters, no less—after all, I was hungry. After the party, we then left to have drinks (read: drinks to make birthday girl drunk) at a more fitting location (read: away from the parents).

Located at Sri Hartamas, once a terrific place to hangout and be seen, it is now a haven for wannabes and pretentious show-offs. It never fails to leave me with a smile on my face. On this occasion however, it also made me chuckle derisively. I didn’t mean to. It’s just that if you were there, you would have thought that this was an outing for wide-eyed, pimply kids who have not seen the city at night, led by three (yours truly, Fillit and the boyfriend) nonchalant, booze-crazy child-minders. And we aren’t even booze-crazy. The birthday girl’s friends, to put it mildly, were so nerdy and innocent-looking it made me look like a seasoned pompous git. And I’m no more than 3 years older than them! The way they handled themselves; the grating, raucous laughter; the childish banter; it all brought back fond memories of when I was their age. I looked at Fillit and said, “Damn, we were exactly like them albeit with much better looks.” He nodded sagely and continued looking at the pretty girl wearing the cowgirl getup.

I used to think I was cool when I was 15. Monstrously wrong. At 18, I thought I was king of the hill. Horribly, ghastly wrong. When I turned 21, damnit, I’m the Supreme Emperor of the Universe! But with a few days remaining as a 22-year-old, I feel lucky. Lucky to have a great family, wonderful friends and a future that doesn’t have Celine Dion songs in it.

This year marks the first time in my life where if I could care less about my birthday, I would. By the way, have I already mentioned that this Saturday is my birthday? Anyway, I was never one to celebrate the day I came into this world. If I had known how crappy the world would turn out I think I would have stayed inside my mom’s uterus. He. He.

Rather gross joke aside, the last 5 years have been a real ride. The day I turned 18 was the day the Chris that you now know was beginning to blossom like a pretty flower. Before this, I was just any other ordinary kid who liked nothing better to do than to laze around and be with my friends. Heck, I’m still am that kid albeit with a much better vocabulary, sense of direction, fashion sense (I think), and just as parsimonious as ever.

Plus, I’m also much handsomer now.

This is a 22-year-old, soon-to-be 23-year-old Chris, signing off.

PS: I welcome presents in the shape of metal CDs, jazz CDs, books (none of that feel-good books, thank you!), supermodels and of course, wishes.

And now, on this day...

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

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

2. List three events that occurred that day:

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. List two important birthdays:

• 1818 - Karl Marx, German political philosopher

Oh my.

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

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

4. List one death:

• 1821 - Napoleon I of France

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

5. List one holiday or observance:

• International Midwives Day

Hooray for midwives!

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

This is Chris, signing off.

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

There’s far too much fish in this town!

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only all mornings could look like this.

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

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

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

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: There’s no tmas in Chris!

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

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

Celine Dion, I hate your songs.

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

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

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

Day 1

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

Day 2

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

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

This is Chris, signing off.

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

Clubbing + Chris = Natural Disaster

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

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

Let us do some math shall we:

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

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

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

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

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

This is Chris, signing off.

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

You CAN be Nerdy/Geeky and Cool at the SAME time

Bill Gates. Filthy rich mofo. He lied, tricked and grinned his way to the pinnacle of pinnacles. Back when his competitors were still thinking in 8-bit terms his thoughts were in 128-bit. And guess what, he even dropped out of college. I mean, wow, dude! If I’d dropped out of college I would have ended up selling Portuguese egg tarts, fake Rolexes and savoury biscuits in Petaling Street. Yet, the only thing in common between me and Mr. Gates is this:

We are nerds.

We’re fascinated with things that make our lives simpler and more enjoyable. We are the reason why we have technology. While that may sound arrogant it is the truth. What the consumers want, we giveth. Nerds are so fascinated with the world that they forget the most important aspect that could alter their lives completely: that they’re actually a part of it too. Nerds are the people you want when your computer crashes. You want a nerd to tell you that your bank account has been terminated. You want a nerd to tell you that hey, your dog’s dead, I ran him over with my new radio-controlled Hummer. Why do you want a nerd for all the above you may ask? Simple! It’s because in the first case, you can shout at the nerd to hasten and repair your computer unless you want your boss all over your ass. Second case is that you can pound his sorry face with your bank book. And lastly, you can destroy his toy, trample on it and then trample him.

That was too much of me. I went overboard with the rhetoric and I sincerely apologise. But what I did was to illustrate that nerds help the world spin and are oft looked down. Why? Because it’s terribly easy to tease and mock them.

I am also a geek. I love computers even though I couldn’t be bothered with keeping up with the latest in technology these days, they end up being obsolete by the time I’m done reading the last paragraph anyway. I talk about Gundam from time to time and note how beautiful some of the models are. I gush over the latest McFarlane toys like a school kid seeing cleavage (hmm, I still do gush…).

And I still wear glasses when some of my contemporaries have gone the way of contacts (sounds kind of lame but I do love my Adidas glasses and I couldn’t be bothered with all the hassle wearing contacts entails). I wear dorky cargo pants when I go to the market. I couldn’t be bothered with making my hair stand so high as though I was aiming to skewer a lizard which decided to plummet unto my unintentional death-trap. Most of my working shirts are branded (cheap brands tend leave very tough stains) but always bought during sale. The only thing I’m willing to spend a lot is on footwear. There’s nothing like wearing a pair of good running shoes.

I am proud to be a nerd. But I also am a proud nerd that knows some bit of fashion and more often than when to put down the striped pink bicycle shorts. Nerds around the world, UNITE!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Nerdy girls are strangely attractive.

PPS: All right, I looked up the etymology of both Nerd and Geek and suffice it to say (I even looked this up) I'm going to add on a couple of things to the post, so, please check back again.* It's one of those things where you think you know but actually don't. TTFN.

* Thanks to Lia for pointing it out to me.

Addendum: After going through a research of sorts involving lots of Wikipedia's resources, I've come to the conclusion that a Nerd and a Geek are totally two different things. Personally, a nerd is someone who is really into something whereas a geek has a more practical approach to his hobbies. Of course, there are other factors to the equation but for the sake of simplicity, that's my take.

I sound like a dork now.
Have a great weekened, yo!

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.