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just spent the weekend at the army barracks
Is Chewing On

Gore Vidal

Listening to:

Everything in Transit
Jack's Mannequin
Lick Those Stripes!
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The Herd
Carresser of Annabelle
Crazy Lone Ranger
Island Sinker
Labert Leopard
Lego Man
Shakin' That Ass
Sloth Min
Uber Bitch Jase
Van Ren


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Songs of the Plains
Family Court

One would be in less danger
From the wiles of a stranger
If one's own kin and kith
Were more fun to be with.

Ogden Nash
Yarr Religion
Friday. 6.10.05 10:18 pm
I am a polytheist. My gods are Writers. I worship them.

They are artists. I use italics because they are so much more than that but I don't know how else to describe them. Their art - just words strung together. But in such a way that if feels like they've looked into the depths of your thoughts where all your beliefs lie, so strong that they remain in the murk, incoherent and inexpressible. Then they bleed them out and drink them in so that when they exhale, they breathe out words so profound and true that it makes your breath hitch.

And you ache to know this person, this god who has exposed you, vulnerable in unforgiving black ink. Only you were never in the picture. The soul laid bare was his, not yours or anyone else stripped naked by his words.

And this makes it hurt all the more. Because in him lies your soul-mate, in him lies your lover - his intimacy in his words, and you will never know him. Oh you may have met, be on first-name terms, be best friends, share the same bed. But you will never know him. Because his thoughts lie deep inside, all jumbled up in such a mess that it would take another Writer to unravel and reveal them.

I wish I were that Writer. I write, but I am not a Writer. And I'll never be one, however much I ache to be. And so, I have to remain content with worshipping Writers from afar.

I realise that I refer to Writers above as masculine. My apologies to anyone offended by this. It just so happens that most of the Writers I worship are male.

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Arrr Me Hearties!
Monday. 6.6.05 11:03 pm

What kind of pirate am I? You decide!
You can also put one of these on your own page!
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

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Richard Scissorhands
Sunday. 6.5.05 7:10 pm
My hair's been butchered. It's murder, I tell you. Disaster. DI-SAS-TUUUUUUUR...

Oh I should have known something was up when I walked into the hairdresser's. The signs were all there. The shop was empty. The floor was devoid of discarded hair. He didn't even look GAY!!! How could I have been so blind? Curse me for an unsuspecting fool!

I saw the way he lit up when I agreed to layers. But I mistook the scissors-happy relief for a burst of creative genius. And the magazines he piled onto my lap! A blatant attempt at misdirection if I ever saw one. And I fell for it! Where was my opera bellower crying "MISTAKE!" when I needed him? When I finally glanced past the pages, I nearly passed out at the sight of the amount of hair blanketing my lap. That couldn't possibly be all mine!

And then I looked up into the mirror. And a knife twisted into my heart. I felt like a wronged muse. Trusting this "artist" with my very soul, only to have it mutilated into a grotesque parody of perfection.

But it's not so much the hacking of my hair that has me in agony. My hair will grow back. It's the betrayal that rips at me. Will I ever heal?

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Crusaders Will Conquer!
Saturday. 5.28.05 11:53 pm
YAR HAR HAR HAR HAR! Ha ha ha ha HA!!!

Last Super 12 ever! Fifth title!!! Crusaders are GODS!!! I kneel before you and kiss your mud-splattered, Tah-ass-kicking boots!!!

It was brilliant! Spectacular! It was bloody kick-ass rugby!!! 13 All Blacks, 8 Wallabies! NZ vs. OZ! TAKE THAT TAKE THAT TAKE THAT YOU WALLABY-LOVING TWITS! And especially you, Sydney, for daring to doubt Rico Gear!

Leon MacDonald scored a try! Even his nosebleed was sexy! Justin Marshall carted off on his teammates' shoulders! Dan Carter's half-line (almost) penalty kick! Andrew Mehrtens in the last 10 minutes! Reuben Thorne's intercept! And Mat Rogers' two tries! (I close my eyes to his wallaby-ness...it's a fullback thing.)

Victory! Glory! CHAMPIONS!

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Saturday. 5.28.05 1:47 am
Where did they go?
      Sunday morning cuddles
      midnight car rides
      stand-on-your-feet dances
      you-and-me camping trips on the beach
      tennis games that you let me win
      Scrabble games that you didn’t
      smiles that were just for me
      secrets that were just for the both of us.

You say that you’re getting old, and it’s true
But why are you growing old on the inside too?

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A Bit of Sobriety
Wednesday. 5.18.05 10:36 pm
“We are all racist. It is how we deal with that ugly fact that is important.”

I came across this in a book this afternoon, and it kinda hit home. I’ve touched on the subject of racism before, but I’ll go into it again. Because the line above got me thinking…yes, for you cynics with puzzled expressions, I am occasionally capable of this. But don’t hold your breath.

I’m one of those who pride themselves in having an open mind (or so we claim). Having said that, less-than-pleasant thoughts still flit through my mind—thoughts that are racist, sexist, heterosexist, the list goes on. And that worries me. In spite of my efforts, am I turning into a bigot?

And then I read that statement. And it rings true. Because no matter how much we try, it’s just human nature to treat those different from us…well, differently. It’s an evolutionary thing. Back when we were knuckle-walking hunter-gatherers, it was essential to pool all resources together as a community to survive. So any stranger walking into camp looking to borrow a cup of sugar would most likely instead be handed a mammoth tusk and told exactly where to put it. Sounds like a load of psychobabble? Aye, that it might be, but ‘tis true.

So yeah, it honestly shouldn’t come as a surprise that we experience –ist thoughts. It’s really what we do with those thoughts. We could spill blood with those thoughts. Or we could stop and realize the potential harm they could lead to. Maybe if we just admitted to our –isms, we could actually do something to prevent more ugliness instead of dancing around the subject in the name of political correctness.

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Trust No One
Tuesday. 5.17.05 10:12 pm
So there we were, wandering around a bus terminal at 6.45 am. We’d just spend three and a half hours in the dodgiest bus imaginable. Only to step down and immediately be assailed by a horde of cabbies. Armed with Mr. Stinky, I flailed away at them and drove them back while my buddies searched for a way to Langkawi that wouldn’t involve us hocking our shoes and iPods to pay for the ride.

Suddenly, a guy dodged a swipe from Mr. Stinky and approached us. Apparently, he was one of the ferry operators to Langkawi, and our bus driver had pointed us out to him. Ferry Operator Guy was heaps helpful, pointing out a bus we could take to the jetty and telling us to tag along with him. And like the lost KLites we were, we were only too glad to do so.

Until FOG whipped out a phone and rang someone. Ordinarily, I never eavesdrop. And neither do my friends. Ever. But someone managed to overcome her reservations and sidled up closer to FOG. Y’know, just in case. And it was just as well cuz as it turned out, we were the topic of conversation. Hmmmm…slightly dodgy. And then he hung up, turned to us with a grin and oh so casually mentioned that a group of friends were picking him up at Langkawi and maybe we’d like a lift to our resort? Hmmmm…even dodgier. Plus, we wouldn’t have to pay. AHA! That clinched it! A free ride?! Hah, get into a car with you? We might just as well be begging to wake up in an ice-filled bathtub with our organs missing. Not bloody likely, thanks all the same.

Then again, it wouldn’t do to turn him down too vehemently. He might get offended and have a group of would-be organ harvesters waiting to beat us up when we arrived. So we hemmed and we hawed, putting off actually saying ‘no’ for as long as we could. By that time, the connecting bus had arrived. Along with another decision. Since we already knew what bus to take, should we hop onto the next one instead, putting as much distance between us as possible? Or should we stick close, to monitor his every movement and phone conversation? Better the enemy you know and all that.

We decided to watch FOG. So onto the bus we piled, making sure to box him in so as to prevent any secret phone conversations. I ended up sitting on the seat next to his, and after awhile, I noticed something. This FOG was wearing a flash watch and new Nike sneakers. Hmmm…not to be snobbish, but how does one afford that stuff on a ferry operator’s salary? Never mind, I reasoned, it might be fake goods. Then I caught sight of something else. He wore a gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand. The interesting thing was that this ring was too large for him, to the extent that a twist of paper had been wedged between the band and his finger to prevent it from slipping off. Now that was suspicious. If one were to buy a gold ring, wouldn’t it make sense to purchase a ring that actually fit? That got me thinking. What if he had taken it off a dead guy? And what if the dead guy had been alive before he encountered FOG? By the time we got to the jetty, I’d worked myself up into a right state. Secret plans or not, I wanted DISTANCE.

So we jumped out, dragging our bags after us, and took the earliest ferry out of there (not his, obviously). Paranoia? Maybe. But I don’t trust people wearing rings that don’t fit.

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KL Bloody KL
Wednesday. 5.4.05 10:10 pm
One thing never fails to get me. How tourists gush over the friendliness of the people here. I’m sorry…friendly? Us? Well, I don’t know about the other states, but “friendly” is definitely one of the last terms I’d use to describe the denizens of KL. I can’t even pronounce the term without a faint sneer. But I don’t think I’m the only KLite who thinks that.

The KL Driver

Maybe it’s the traffic jams. Maybe it’s the psycho motorcycles. Maybe it’s—whatever it is, even the most affable KLite will turn into a complete beast the moment he climbs into the driver’s seat. (For the sake of brevity, only masculine terms will be used. ‘Sides, it’s nice to pin everything on the males, haha.) To get from Point A to Point B in the least amount of time possible, the KL Driver will think nothing of mowing down an unfortunate cat fleeing from a dog, as well as the hapless mutt chasing after it. Any car signalling (a rare sight that, signalling) to turn into his lane would be immediately cut off. In fact once in a traffic jam, I was attempting to switch lanes to exit the highway, but the car there refused to give way, matching mine whether I sped up or slowed down. It got to the point where I was so exasperated, I put my window down and yelled across to ask the driver (his window was down too) what his bloody problem was. That got me to my exit alright, but I suppose I ought to count myself lucky that he didn’t ram me into the barrier and start whaling away at me with a golf club.

Even when there’s no rush at all, you can always count on the KL Driver to ignore a fellow motorist in trouble. A crashed motorcyclist could be bleeding by the side of the road for donkeys, yet no one would stop to pick him up. Yes, blood is hard to get off the seats, but what’s to stop the KL Driver from picking up his cell and dialling an emergency number? Just the convenient excuse that the half-dead motorcyclist is probably bait for some unsuspecting fool to stop and be relieved of his credit cards and car keys.

The KL Commuter

Ahh buses and trains. Crowley would be proud. It is quite impossible to travel in one and not step off hating everyone in sight. It is an unspoken rule that one’s eyes must never meet another’s for fear the delicate balance between barely unchecked hostility and physical aggression is upset. Woe betide anyone with a curious eye. Anyone holding a conversation in louder than whispers is immediately the target of drop-dead glares. Anyone daring to laugh or show the slightest mirth is in danger of being thrown off at the next stop. And children...god, they shouldn’t even be allowed on.

The KL Queue-Up-er

I’m sorry, this doesn’t exist.

The KL Racist

All KLites are racists, even if they claim otherwise. If they’re not against other nationals (kiasu Singaporeans especially), they’re against themselves. Between and even within races – Chinese against the Chinese (ah bengs and ah lians), Malays against the Malays (kampungfied), and Indians against Indians (estatefied). No one escapes criticism.

The list goes on and on. I haven’t even described the KL Snob, the KL Salesperson, the KL Parent and suchlike yet.

Friendly? Whatever, dude.

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