I've recently taken up the guitar again. And I'm sadly forced to admit that a rock star career may not be in the cards for me.

It's not like I can't play the damn thing, if by play you mean "strangle some sounds out of" (and I do). I can. And very loudly too. It's just that the dog runs yelping tail between her legs the moment I even reach for it (guitar, not dog). Something in her manner reminds me of the time my parents thought I might be a musical whiz with the organ.

Young impressionable thing that I was at that age, I quite readily embraced their notion that I would one day spread joy throughout the world with these talented fingers of mine. Monks in Tibet would cease chanting and babies in Ethiopia would stop suckling hungrily at their mothers' breasts when the first strains of my music came wafting through the still air.

But alas, my dreams of glory and theirs of royalties were soon dashed when my first music teacher ran crying to his car in the middle of our lesson. His many successors also ended our lessons in a similarly distraught fashion. Still, I must have been some good at least. After all, the neighbours never complained. We did always find a bag of flaming turds on the porch after every practice, but in Ancient Memzambotec, that was a gesture of deep respect and admiration. So it was a sad day when I woke up to find that the house had been broken into during my peaceful slumber, and nothing damaged but the organ. Perhaps "damaged" is a little mild a word, "obliterated" conveys a better sense of the condition it was in. We moved away soon after.

The point to all this is that my organ-smasher might have had the right idea after all. The clothes do maketh the man, so should not the instrument maketh the musician? My slashed tyres may simply be a hint that perhaps its time to invest in a better guitar. So the question of the day is, do I fork out for a better (i.e. more expensive) model?

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By the gods, where is the Key to Hell?!


Caz Marciniak

How has it evaded my grasp for so long? Surely someone must know where it lies! O, to have the Key to the fiery pits of Hell swinging from my neck! My skin shivers with delight at the very thought.

I have hacked my way through the cruel forests of Novaya Zemlya. Crawled across the forgotten desert of Taklamakan. Journeyed across the river of Hades.

All to no avail. For the Key has not been made mine.

Does anyone (mortal or otherwise) possess knowledge of how one might go about obtaining this great treasure? That is, save actually striking a bargain with the Kings of Hell - I'm quite attached to my soul.

Name your price.

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A toast:

"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the seasons of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due."
(Neil Gaiman, The Sandman: Season of Mists)

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Going through this week's papers (too lazy to read them earlier), I came across this article:

"Datuk Dr S. H Foo received a “warm welcome” at the zoo here from Nicky, the tiger cub he saved from the cooking pot.

The 58-year-old Malaysian Trade Commissioner to Papua New Guinea said he was happy to meet the tiger cub, which “showered” him with gentle bites as he held it.

“This is not a bite, it’s a kiss from Nicky,” said Dr Foo as he wiped off some blood on his right palm."

Let me just repeat that last bit for you.

“This is not a bite, it’s a kiss from Nicky,” said Dr Foo as he wiped off some blood on his right palm.

WTF?!

A tiger bit the guy repeatedly, breaking the skin, and he calmly wiped the blood off with an "oh how sweet"?! HULLO! I'm really not sure how one goes about rearing a tiger cub, but I'm pretty sure it shouldn't involve letting the little man-eater taste human blood. I mean, come on! You really wanna teach something that's gonna grow up to be a 250-pound killing machine that we taste good?

*Facepalm*

Comment! (8) | Recommend! | Categories: Facepalm Moments [t], Malaysia [t]

A guy I know just got mugged. Walking back from Finnegan's at 3 am, he got jumped on just as he got to his car. Broken nose, three broken teeth, smashed lips, fingers needing stitches, and a concussion. Serious shite this. Plus he had to drive himself to the police station after it was over. Lost his money, watch, camera, phone, and PDA.

Now what's scary is this guy's a rugby player. Not to overglorify them or anything, but rugger buggers don't generally look like they'd roll over and play dead at the first sign of trouble. These are the kind of guys who look like they have their faces stomped on for fun. The stud marks can be a huge hint. And this fellow's no different.

So if a guy like that can be targeted for a spot of after-pub mugging, what about a girl like me who probably weighs half what he does? And without even a single boot stud imprint on my face to scare the would-be predators away. I've walked along that same road past midnight more than a few times now. Alone. And pissed (just a little). So I probably wouldn't notice anything until I woke up twenty minutes later with my blood more outside than in.

Scary shite. Will it be my turn next time? Should I invest in a can of pepper spray? Knowing myself, I'm more likely to spray myself in the face than the bastard attacking me. Maybe a little switchblade? What if I drop it and it's used against me?

There's nothing foolproof! *WAIL*

Or maybe I'm just getting myself worked up over nothing. Maybe it wasn't even a mugging! We'd just played our rival team earlier that day, and everyone knows that Finnegan's is where the Dogs go to get smashed.

Hmmm, highly suspicious this.

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After spending last night hugging the toilet bowl, I've come up with a list of things I hate about drinking.

The toilets
They never work. Never. I don't know if they ever have, but every time I use the loo in a club/bar, they won't flush. There'll be all sorts of shit in it (sometimes literally), but what choice do I have when I'm practically sweating beer and lack the necessary equipment to use the potted plant?

Puking
Especially in club loos (as opposed to the street outside). It's barely manageable when I have to pee, at least then it's my bum over the bowl and not my head. So that leaves the sink. Which is almost equally gross cuz there'll always be something left behind (especially after you've just had Italian). Anyways puking is never fun, unless it's onto someone's shoes. And you know it's gonna be a rough night when puke starts coming out your nostrils as well.

Stairs
I don't know who thought of making the loo accessible only up a staircase, but that's just plain cruel. Climbing up's bad enough, but staggering down again...it's best to just hang on to the railing and hope that someone'll break your fall. Mmmmm, make that a sexy someone.

Mixers
When I order a vodka lime, I expect a vodka lime. Not a lime vodka.

Meeting family (kinda) there
I bumped into my cousin's girlfriend last night. Whom we've had dinner with at least four times already. Usually, I'm terrible enough with names and faces. So when I'm off my head, the Prime Minister could be prancing around naked on the dancefloor and it still wouldn't register. Well, maybe the nekkid bit. Bleurgh... *Awful mental image* Anyways it's very embarrassing to have my name yelled out and be hugged and kissed, and then have to have her remind me exactly who the fuck she is and that we might be related someday. I couldn't do anything the rest of the night in fear of the next family gathering.

The morning after
I wake up desperately hoping not to have to go in for a rehydration jab. Puke a couple more times, and spend the rest of the morning trying to avoid all thoughts of alcohol. Even sparkling grape juice. So of course I end up trying to recall the night before. Which makes for more quality time with the toilet.

The things I put myself through. I swear not to touch another drink...today.

Comment! (16) | Recommend! | Categories: Booze [t]

A friend remarked yesterday that I'll probably end up with someone who hits me. And that I'll like it.

It isn't the first time I've been told this either. What, do I have "Beat Me" tattooed on my forehead? Do I project myself as someone who measures my partner's affection for me by the number of scars received?

     Total scar tissue surface area       x      100%
     Total skin surface area

Love me because I bruise so prettily for you?

Just cuz I once had a crush smack me one over the eye with a pool cue. Accidentally. So what if I sighed dreamily with every throb of pain that accompanied a raised right eyebrow? All it meant was that I spent the rest of the day loking either very cynical or very surprised. But that was just because it reminded me of my one-on-one (lovely phrase that) pool lesson with him.

But I'll have you know that I happen to find bruises and scars very sexy on my guys. So give me some credit. If I'm ever involved in an abusive relationship, there'll definitely be some giving of me own as well. Egalitarianism and all that. At least I'll never be bored, and that says a lot.

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Yeah, so I'm back from Hong Kong. HK = hot and sweaty. But not "yummy nekkid guy in my bed" hot and sweaty. Rather, it was "blazing hot sun and limp wet rags for clothes" hot and sweaty. Bad enough HK summers are hotter than hell. What's worse is a frillion people squished into an itty-bitty area. And they all shop at the same place at the same time. Which makes for mass tramplage for lost tourists (i.e. me).

And the waiters...

Waiter: Whaddya want? *Insert HKese accent*
Me: Dude, I just got here. Gimme an English menu cuz I don't read no Chinese.
Waiter: You banana hor! I chop socky you with my Magic Slicing Menu! Haiyah!
Magic Slicing Menu: *Chop sockies*
Me: Desist! I know what I want! I'll have me a bowl of beef noodles with extra beef plzthnx.
Waiter: Eedjut! Everyone knows that there's no beef in beef noodles. It's all intestine and tripe and liver and maybe an eyeball or two if you're lucky.
Me: Rihiiggght. Just gimme a pork chop then.
Waiter: Whatever.
Five Minutes: *Go by*
Waiter: 'Ere. I betcha can't finish this salad bowl-sized beef noodles. *Still in HKese accent*
Salad bowl-sized beef noodles: *Sploshes menacingly*
Me: ...
Waiter: Fine. Don't eat. Whatever. It costs four times as much as it would where you come from anyways. Pay up, bitch.
Me: ...
Waiter: WTF! Exact change! Where's the tip, you cheap skanky hor?! I stab you with my Whirling Chopsticks of Death!
Me: ...

Thank god for the apples the hotel left on the bedside table every evening.

Still, I suppose it was all worth it. Cuz it was in a sprawling HK video store that I finally found Queer as Folk UK seasons 1 and 2. After two years of searching and avoiding delivery charges. Absolutely worth it. Nekkid Aidan Gillen and smushy gay sex (you lads have your lesbians, alright?). Mmmmm...that's hot and sweaty.

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