justin_guber - @ 20six.co.uk

Ze French!

Attention all those that give a rats-ass... my band, Triple 6 Poser, will be playing on the 21st of June at Berjaya Times Square 6.30pm as part of the 'fete de la musique'... come and check out raw rock stuff n stuff...

Date : 21st June 2004
Venue : Berjaya Times Square Entrance
Occasion : French Music Festival
Bands : Dragon Red, Tempered Mental, Doze, Silent Prayer, Arif Akhir, Moodswings, Side Circle, Pilot Excuvate, Ban Fan, Meng Shat, Triple 6 Poser, Leaf.
Cover Charge : Free
Time: 1 pm till 7 pm

11.6.04 08:02

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Man finds God in the Quran... as opposed to his cornflakes...

My friend Ralf found God the other day. Well, his names not really Ralf, it's Rauf, but we call him Ralf, because we like to. Anyway, he found God. Why do I find this strange?

I noticed him reading the Quran when I was at the reshoot for that short film I was acting in. He had nothing to do, and I'd be doing a short film with him anyway, so fuck it, why not, come along for the ride. Watch me spit blood made up of ribena and act possessed for a couple hours. But he didn't. For the most part, he read his copy of the Quran translated into english.

The other day I went to pick him up and he's found God. When he talks about it, it makes me wonder whether I should call him, 'my muslim brother' or 'Ralf X', because he sounds like a Nation of Islam posterboy. Jordan asked when he'll be getting his flying license. Sick joke.

What I find interesting is not that he's found God, or his interpretation of the Quran (which i don't feel like going into at the moment. In short, to him, alcohol is the devil's tool but pot & sex is fine 'cos he's human. Fair enough). What I find interesting is the fact that Jordan & I find it so strange.

Is the world really so Godless that when one of our own turns to the side of religion we suddenly feel alienated, like we have to pull him back to sin and vice? Or maybe we just lost our faith, not in religion, but the preachers themselves? or we lost our faith in religion because of the preachers. Maybe it's because of how this country has turned into thanks to religion, and what acts of violence have been justified thanks to religion. I don't know.

Either way, it was only then that I realized how much I didn't trust preachers. I've always had faith in religion, but I chose the interpret it as I saw fit, the same way my friend is now. But the fact that his seems so much more... pure... I don't know. I don't know what answer i'm trying to find. Or the question, for that matter. It's kinda weird when your friend is talking about popping back tequila slammers one minute and denouncing satan the next.

Hmmm... food for thought.

11.6.04 08:21

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Guinness Gives You Strength!

I was somewhere in the VVIP area of Zouk, reserved for the G.A.B., whoever he may be, when the black brew began to boil in my belly.

This was the Guinness Black Passion Party, last Saturday, organized by the advertising company I have the pleasure of being a part of. When I got there, the representative of the company bluntly told the people at Zouk 'I don't know who he is' when I tried to get into the VIP. Right. Like YOU know all two hundred or so employees of a multinational ad agency. Fuck off and die. Thankfully, one of the other guys from servicing recognized me. Entree to a world of free booze...

Coming along for the ride were Rahul and Izal of One Buck Short, and Ian of Moodswings and Throne Away, and my bassist Jay. Rahul and Ian weren't guinness drinkers, whilst Izal wasn't a drinker, period.

Jay, on the other hand, would drink lighter fluid if it had a head.

The show was, in a word, shite. Somehow a good idea turned into shite execution and the audience returned to their free booze till the DJ began his set. Somewhere along the way Jay bullshited his way into the VVIP and began conversations with the head lawyer of Guinness. I enjoyed the chilled booze and velvet sofas.

By 1.30 I was on the road driving like a madman.

"We need steamboat!" I cried.

"There's no steamboat here," replied Jay, remnants of vomitus on his pants.

"Direct me to the steamboat!"

"Sunway," he muttered, "Sunway has steamboat."

On the way we decided to wake up Dede, asleep at the television. A couple of sticks of boiled processed fish meat in chilli sauce later, we called it a night.

The next day I woke up feeling like ten shades of shit.

14.6.04 05:41

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New Sections

So I thought to myself - 'if I was going through someone's blog, would I be arsed to go through all the dates?' Hence, my new little system: at the end of each month, each blog will be put in a section in accordance to its content.

Right now I've got the 'Recollections' section, for when I get all maudlin, and 'News For Nudes' section, which is all the weird and wacky shit I find in the news that you all might like.

Enjoy, and if you really have nothing to do with your life, sign my guestbook, post a comment, go to one of my bands' links and download a song, I don't know. More enticing than a pube sandwhich!

14.6.04 08:41

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Islam & the Pricks that give it a bad name...

This statement was taken from an Al-Qaeda website directed at Muslims around the world and was reprinted in the AP news concerning an American hostage:

"We have made a promise to ourselves to defend you. We will not let you down, and you should know that the treacherous tyrants who have helped the Americans against you, and shared your blood with them, do not represent the Muslims of Saudi Arabia. They are our enemies as much as they are your enemies. They are the enemies of God and his prophet."

Well, speaking as a Muslim, i'd like to send a message back:

LICK MY NUTSAC.

It's this kind of bullshit that gives us all a bad name. Did you guys soemhow miss out the parts in the Qu'ran that talked about peace? It IS there, you know, the books not a military guide.

Now, whilst I do agree that the President of America is a retarded chimpanzee with the IQ skills of a cheese sandwhich, but that's a pretty plausible excuse for doing some of the dumbest shit known to man. He just doesn't know any fucking better. He's an idiot. What's your excuse?

You people are less than idiots, and all that follow you are nothing more than the putrid sweat off of a giraffes dangly balls.

You give an entire nation, an entire religion, an entire race such a bad fucking name it makes me sick to my stomach. You're not Muslims. You just wish you were, but waving an AK-47 and shouting out 'Allahuakbar' is not gonna make you any more Muslim than I am. You might as well stick a feather up your butt and call yourself a chicken.

Now, I know for a fact that I am not a good Muslim. You only need to have a quick glance at some of the blogs to realize that, but I know I'm a good person. Now whilst a good person may not necesarrily be a good Muslim, I've always believed that one of the attributes of a good Muslim was being a good person.

Let me tell you what a good Muslim is:

I was sat in the McDonald's next to Marble Arch station in London. I had exactly four pounds in my wallet, a handful of very dry tobacco, and not much else. i bought my meal and sat down. I now had only a pound left. thankfully, I'd be meeting friends, or at least, acquaintances, who'd help me out.

A moment or two later, whilst I'm digging into my McChicken sandwhich, a man about forty plus, beard and robe came down the steps, asking for donations. He runs a mosque on the east end which feeds the poor, regardless of religion. The man was polite, kind and did not, under any circumstances, try to preach me.

I gave him my last pound, and as he was about to walk up to someone else, a young man in a suit who had been watching him and us put down his newspaper.

"You can't do that," he said.

"Excuse me," said the Muslim, politely.

"You can't come in here asking for charity, it's illegal."

The Muslim apologized, and asked if the man had a problem with him.

The man then proudly claimed he was from an organization that is not, and her repeats, NOT a racist organization, but one that believes that all races and creeds should return to their homelands, i.e. the niggers stay in Africa, the chinks go back to China, the nips fuck of to Japan, the paki's bugger off to Pakistan, etc. etc. etc.

Right. And the KKK's the Disney club.

The Muslim listened, then said,

"I apologize if I have offended you, and I sense that you have hate for me. But the Qu'ran teaches us to love our neighbors, be it Muslim, Christian, Jew or any other religion, as you love your own brother. I do not hate you, my brother, I love you, and I will leave now."

And with that he was gone.

THAT's what I call a Muslim, bitch.

16.6.04 05:26

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The Rules of Malaysian Cinema (Concise Version)

As some of you may know, I've been trying to get a film project off the ground. The short film I'm supposed to be shooting is in pre-production limbo and the next music video I'm meant to be directing is taking awhile too. On the writing side, trying to get a feature film out from between my zit ridden butt cheeks has been quite a task.

A part of it may be due to the rules & regulations of Malaysian cinema, the Ten Commandments:

1. Thou Shalt Not Swear - Even if it's rated 18.

2. Thou Shalt Not Show Naughty Bits - Again, even if it's rated 18. Refer to 'Spinning Gasing'.

3. Thou Shalt Not Show Or Even Infer Sex - See above.

4. Thou Shalt Not Have Kissing In The Movie - Ever. Refer to 'Isabella'.

5. Thou Shalt Not Show Supernatural Beings In The Real World - Unless you work it out as a dream sequence. Leaving all those increadibly spooky and frightening ghost stories at bay. A real pity, since Malaysia has some wonderful ghouls and goblins. Refer to 'Pontianak: Harum Sundal Malam'.

6. Thou Shalt Not Portray Government Officials, Policemen or any other Civil Servants As Corrupt - Hence, we can't make our own versions of JFK or Training day. A shame, since there's so much corruption stories here just waiting for the cinematic treatment.

7. Thou Shalt Not Show Anything That May Be Controversial - And believe me, this definition is fucking broad. Refer to 'Kaki Bakar'.

8. Thou Shalt Not Blaspheme In Any Way - Hence, no movies struggling with the question of religion. Also aren't allowed to show Christ on the cross, since you're not supposed to portray the prophets.

9. Thou Shalt Not Show Excessive Violence - Again, even if it's rated 18.

10. Thou Shalt Not Portray Malaysia As Anything Other Than A Nice Place To Live - So fantasy's ok, then?

Or, they'll just ban you're movie out right if they don't like you. Refer to 'Dari Jemapoh Ke Manchestee'.

Now, when it comes to foreign films coming in, the only rules are:

1. No naughty bits.

2. No swearing.

3. No blasphemy.

However, supernatural & horror movies can be shown. Movies of corruption can be shown. Excessive violence can be shown, depending on what its rated (example: Spiderman was rated U, to get the kids in, but the fight scenes were greatly reduced). Sex can be infered to. Kissing's ok if it's rated 18SX.

There's also only two ratings: U & 18.

Now, many people often face barriers which one has to get around creatively with the limited resources at hand. This isn't a barrier. this is the fucking great wall and the only resource at hand is a toothpick.

My main problem with the commandments is the fact that there are so many incredible stories to be told from this country, but none of them could ever be shown. Malaysia's vampires are a shit load scarrier than the Eurpoean versions. The level of corruption is higher than a rastafari on his birthday. The political history of Malaysia is chock-full of suspense, double crossing, intrigue and even anal penetration, depending on who's side of the story you believe.

And we wonder why we only churn out shit love stories and even shitter comedies.

The biggest dissapointment to me was watching a P.Ramlee movie on TV and noticing it's been cut. This is the greatest man in Malaysian cinema that has ever lived, and he did the bulk of his work in the 50's and 60's. And it was cut based on current standards.

What was the cut? It was a movie called 'Ahmad Albab'. In it, P Ramlee is a poor goat herder who marries a rich mans daughter, the youngest of three daughters who all married respectable and wealthy men. On the rich mans birthday, the daughters' husbands line up to give him their birthday present. The first two give gold and diamonds. Then P Ramlee pops up with a beautiful statuette of a mosque. The father throws the mosque to the ground.

And they cut it. I mean, what else better portrayed the fathers love of money and loss of faith than throwing away a religious artifact to the ground till it breaks? I saw this movie on video for the first time in the 80's. In one decade, the rules got tighter than a ducks butt.

BUT I do have a story. It may be considered contreversial here depending on how you look at it, but I got into the writing mood and I'm not going to stop now. The first act is done, and I ain't telling none of you fuckers what it's about. I've jinxed my stories too many times by doing that. So keep on the lookout and I'll keep you posted.

Oh, P.S. Apologies to the Ta-Dhin collective. They are NOT a collective a wombats. I was just being silly.

17.6.04 04:53

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Flying Bull

Imagine if bulls could fly.

No, seriously, think about it.

Actual buffalo wings.

Imagine if they could soar and swoop in great arcs.

Imagine if they flew in flocks.

Large numbers of large bulls in large formations over the sky.

Well, I don't have to imagine it. They're real.

I know this, because about a million of the bastards flew over KL for a spot of synchronized urination. THAT's how bad the rain was this morning.

My pants are soaked. I had to walk through the rain in my baggy pants. Thank God I had a hooded jersey in my car, but no it stinks like a wet cat and I've got nowhere to dry it.

Shit, I smell like a wet cat.

And no, it's not the same as a wet pussy.

18.6.04 04:22

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Twenty Four

My 24th birthday's coming up on the 20th. Most probably, it'll be a family & friends affair, thanks to my lack of funds. Mom's probably gonna start up a barbeque or something. Should be a laugh, and a long cry from last years birthday, which is what my mind keeps turning to these past few days and what is the subject of this little entry.

Now, understand this before I continue: the following story has been taken from eye witness accounts and testimonials, but in no way do we know wether or not they are 100% true. Mainly because I can't remember.

It was on the day of the fete de la musique 2003. Y2k were supposed to play at the stage opposite KL Plaza. About a hundred crew members from Help College were present, and 99% of them hadn't a clue what the fuck was going on.

As much as I was pissed about this, I can't blame them. It was pure chaos. DBKL had caused a stir, all the bands were only given three minutes on stage, causing a lot of people to segueway their songs together, all the times were being flipped left, right and center, and Y2k was right in the middle getting shafted from the rear.

We were meant to play at 6.00pm. At 6.15pm, a member of 'crew' comes up to us.

"Do you guys mind playing at 6.30pm? Sorry, ah."

At 6.45pm:

"Actually, we're moving it to 7.15pm."

At 8.00pm:

"Actually, we're going to move the entire stage and set up somewhere else behind Bukit Bintang where no one will know you exist and move your slot to 9.30pm. Do you mind?"

Yes, I bloody well do actually.

With that, I buggered off straight to Barfly at 12Si (which is where the picture of the silhoutted table top dancer in my pic is from) and got the drinks in.

Things hadn't been going to well. In fact, 2003 was not a very good year at all. Two or more weeks after my birthday, I walked out of the office and never came back, but that's another story. My parents were on my ass. When I was working it was hell. My girlfriend dumped me. She then found someone else whilst I was away in another country. My belly was fat as fuck.

In short, there was a lot that I wanted to drown in the pits of a Tiger jug.

Or, in my case, about 13.

To be fair, I only drank half of the 13 jugs, and the rest were distributed amongst friends. Then a shot of tequila. Then the dancers got on the stage and poured JD down my throat. Then my friends tried to get me up on the table to dance with the girls. Then I fell down trying to get to the table and passed out.

I then woke up the next day in a strange four post bed.

I was not in my room, and I had no clothes on save my boxer shorts.

Did I get lucky?

I got up, and right in front of me was a mirror. In the reflection, I noticed something odd. I looked closer, and realized I had a Hitler moustache drawn on my face with a magic marker, zieg heil on my chest and a swaastika on my belly.

My clothes were in a plastic bag by the side of the bed covered in puke. My phone had no batteries. My wallet was empty.

On the table, a note: 'You scared the shit out of us. Call us when you wake up".

I dialled the numbers. It was Jordan. I was in his sisters house/makeshift office for his animation company. They came over, and that's when they filled in the blanks.

In short, I got drunk as hell and wandered abotu talking shit. Then I passed out. The management asked my friends to take me out. As they struggled to lift my dead weight, I struggled back and puked all over them. Then in the car.

Once they got to the house, they struggled again to carry me in. The neighbours called security, thinking that they were carrying a dead body. A security guard helped carry me.

Then, around 3am, Dique came in to get some work done. He could smell something odd, but couldn't put his finger on it. he got into the room and started working on the Pete Teo music video.

After that, he thought he'd go to bed, and found a half naked man with Nazi insignias all over him, sleeping in a way that would pass for a corpse. Thinking an anarchist had broken into the house and decided to squat there, he ran his ass out.

my friends dropped me off at my car and I drove home with one hell of a hangover.

And that, my friends, is why there'll be no booze this weekend at my birthday party.

Next weekend, however, is a completely different story...

18.6.04 08:51

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Why God should've rested on Monday instead...

So I try writing my script after the 14 pages I had already written and realized I had no idea how to continue the story, which pissed me off to no end. The plot has been swirling about in my brain for the past few days now, trying to figure out how it should go. I've done the beginning, I kind of know how it ends, I don't know what to put in the middle, and Syd Field's 'Screenplay' book is making fuck-all difference.

I also have a presentation to a client today which I may not be fully prepared for since I've been in meetings all fucking morning, and to top it all off, I was supposed to play a gig at Times Square for the French fest at 6.30, but now the wonderful people at HELP college who are staffing the place have no idea what's going on (as if they did last year) and the slots have all been shortened to twenty minutes, meaning our set is now at 4.40pm, which is impossible for either myself or my drummer to make, and that has REALLY pissed me off to no end.

The fact that these cum stains can't learn from their previous mistakes infuriates me to no end, and I have a good mind to go to the French embassy and start a fucking revolution. I'm pretty sure it's not this fucked up in the french fests in the other countries.

In a word, I am pissed beyond repair.

On lighter news, my birthday party went quite well yesterday. Food food food galore, all me mates were there, and then... then out of the fucking blue... my mom brings out the birthday cake.

It's big...

It's yellow...

And it's got Pikachu on it.

...

PIKA-FUCKING-CHU-!?

Apart from that, all went well. My bro tried to open my presents and he got a good telling off from me for doing so.

I could write a much better post on my birthday, but I'll be honest here, this whole french fest has really put a spanner in the works. It's a huge spanner up my tiny rectum.

Fuck it. Me and the band are gonna turn up at 6pm anyway. I wanna see for myself how blur these fuckers can be and I swear, if the guy pisses me off, I will burn his or her fucking pubes off, rip off their nipples and staple it to their eye-lids.

Needless to say, I am not a happy bunny.

21.6.04 07:10

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And I Thought I Was Complaining In The Last Blog...

Hmmm... it turns out that the whole debacle at Times Square was quite bad. Aparently some crazy woman who had somehow been given authority cut down Dragonred's set. I wouldn't know. I didn't fucking make it. I was in the most excruciating meeting of my life.

Whilst I can't say who the client is, I can say this: they do have a tendency to drag on beyond recognition. Especially this one woman. We'll call her M.

The concept we brought was something for children, involving toys, creativity, being on stage, all that bollocks. M has children, and M has concerns, and of course, since M's a mom, everyone istens to her worries about all this.

This is where I interject by saying I have a four year old brother. My four year old brother would have no fear whatsoever getting up on a stage. My mom would have no fear in letting her child play at what we were proposing. My 4 year old brother can do whatever it is we were proposing the kids do, and he'll bloody well enjoy it. And I'm pretty sure his class isn his pre-school are just the same, if not better.

M thinks the opposite of everything I have noted above. She thinks kids will be scared. She thinks they'll find it difficult. She thinks that parents won't want their kids to take part.

All of M's comments have led me to believe that M's kid must be one timid, frightened, frigid, uncreative kid that will probably grow up to be bullied to death.

Now, I don't like saying shit about other people's kids, but that's exactly the impression this woman was giving with her 'testimonial account'. Either my bro is a super-kid (which I seriously doubt), or her child needs help. Scratch that, her child doesn't need help. She just needs to have some fun, something I'm pretty sure her mom is unacustomed to.

You could tell just by looking at this woman that she wasn't the most extrovert of the bunch when she was a child. Well, sorry lady, but there are plenty kids out there that know how to have a laugh. It's what they're built to do. Puberty hasn't hit yet. The only thing they have to worry about at such a young age is whether they'll make the next episode of Kim Possible and whether mom will figure out that they're the ones that put kitty in the washing machine.

After those 3 long hours of listening to this M woman talk in her tiny timid voice about how she has 'concerns', tehy finally buy the concept, albeit rough around the edges, and it's 5.40pm. I make it to KL at 6.00pm, but about 3-5 kilometers from Times Square. By 7pm, I've moved exactly 350 meters.

I hate rush hour traffic.

Add to that the fact they closed of Bukit Bintang road, one of the busiest roads at rush hour, and there's no way in fuck I would have made the gig.

I then went back to Taman Tun, met my girlfriend for a drink, went to the Taman Tun house, watched the extras on my 'Lost In Translation' DVD, got to my parents house at about 10.45pm and passed out.

I woke up this morning and my mother was putting money on my bedside table for reasons I will never fathom. Fuck it. Took the money, went to work, here I am. Incidentaly, in someone else's spot. My G4 has been overrun by freelancers.

Fun morning.

22.6.04 04:51

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