justin_guber - @ 20six.co.uk

G's Up Ho's Down

Around the time I finished my finals at Uni, I found myself with a good month in the city of London with no responsibilities whatsoever: no more rent, no more studies, not even a play to produce and write. I'd spend my days skating in the park nearby trying to ollie a twig (pathetic, I know), watching movies and getting ripped beyond compare.

A week before I left I had a good head of hair, and felt like doing something drastic to it before I left.

"Laura," I asked, "do you know how to braid hair?"

We sat in front of the television and Laura brought out the candles. What the fuck? It turned out the wax would be used to close the braids. Fair enough. I had no idea how long this would take, I just sat back and let the woman do her duty.

After watching JFK, Back to the Future, and halfway through the MTV awards, Laura was still braiding my hair. And the wax was killing me.

Droplets of wax would miss the hair and end up on my scalp. Whilst this may be kinky to some, it was absolutely gruelling for me. For the rest of the week it looked like I had a sever dandruff problem, and my 'dandruff' looked like dried semen remnants.

But I did look kinda dope, in a Kris Kross kinda way. Before I left, I shaved the fucker off, and discovered that my hair was in little organized rows of spikes where the braids used to be.

In retrospect, I should've done a mohawk too whilst I was there. I kinda regret not ever having a mohawk. One day...

14.10.04 05:44

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My first 'all-nighter'...

...combined with the following: 'rush job', 'panic', 'stress' and 'first day of ramadhan'.

So I had dinner with Melissa after work, chit-chatting about work and our colleagues (as one often does when having dinner with a colleague), bumped into Albert, and just arrived home when my phone rang. The big boss on the servicing side wanted to see the creatives. At 11.30pm. For the 9.00am meeting tomorrow. Glorious.

I made my way over and to my surprise I discovered that they were expecting more. A lot more. And they want it by 9.00am. And my designer has switched off her phone.

A few calls to the big boss on the creative side, and now I find myself in the office at 3:41am after dragging out another designer, Charlise, in the wee hours of the morning all the way from Sungei Besi (a long ways away).

Now we're all rushing the job and I have the sneaking suspicion that whatever positive thoughts the big boss on the servicing side had of me have been completely shattered and fear the worse. Will this hamper my chances of a promotion? Mayhaps, or it could be the paranoia inside of me.

This was not the way I wanted to experience my first all-nighter. I have popped my cherry in the worse possible way imaginable. The panic button has been hit and we're on defcon 4, and the fact that I've put Charlise (and the visualisers) on the same boat as me when they really shouldn't be makes me feel like putrid anal discharge remnants on a toilet tissue.

Then there's the parental issue: bad enough they can't comprehend the fact that this job requires late hours and complete disregard of any form of dress code, it will soon be affecting those traditional family occasions that Malay's all know and love. The fasting month has officially started. The moon says so. And I doubt I'll be able to join in with the family like a regular kid during sahur (early breakfast before the first call to prayer, signifying the start of fasting time) or buka puasa (breaking fast after the fourth call to prayer in the evening when the sun goes down). I'll be here, working.

I can't help but feel that this is my fault, though. Have I cracked under the pressure? I don't know. What I do know is I'm freezing my ass off in this mighty ducks jersey, and my bronx jumper smells funny (I think the maid didn't dry it properly. It smells like a wet cat).

Will this all work out for the better? I don't know either. I can say for certain though that whilst I'm not the happiest of bunnies, that's a given. What bugs me even more is the fact that I may have jeapordized my standing in this company.

Was this all my fault? Should I have warned the others earlier that we may probably have to do more work than what we thought we had to do? What the creative director directs, I must surely follow, right? And the creative director decreed that we do a, b and c. However, the big boss of servicing wanted a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h and a touch of i, but not as polished.

I do love my job, that goes without question. But the self-doubt is coming in, and I don't like it. I've been on quite the confidence trip for awhile now, and I don't want to lose any self-belief, but the thought that I've fucked up on a grand scale is bugging me like... bugs.

It's not my fault, is it? But I was the only one there from creative when servicing saw our 'work', irgo I was representing creative, irgo I am the face to associate to this blunder. It may not have been my mistake, but when a messenger gives you bad news you don't exactly hug him, do you?

Am I even making sense at the moment? I'm not sure. I'm thinking of the carpet in the boardroom, whether it'd be soft enough for a quick nap.

This is not good. Not good at all. And I thought today went quite well. Hah.

Time to look for more reference pics. Wish me luck, and hope I don't vomit on the iMac.

On second thoughts, maybe it'd make the fucker work better.

14.10.04 22:01

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The Discovery of Cool Blogs...

...is still an event to me everytime I find one.

Yes, ladies and gents, I'm still in the office. It's 7:17am, and I'm feeling like kaka-poopoo. The thought that the road will be jammed by morning traffic when I return home to go to sleep is strangely putting a smile to my face. At least I'm not going to the clients place anymore.

I think.

But enough of my work. The title wasn't just put there for no reason. Although that does happen quite often and I must apologize.

Oh, and I often lose the plot halfway as well.

Like now.

...

Sorry.

There's a plot here, I promise.

It's coming up any second... NOW!

So yeah, I was surfing through the net and flipping through magazines (as one does as a writer when the designers are working on the materials) and thought I'd check out a few sites Q recommended. One of them was Moistworks, and I'm still on the site.

Like I said, discovering cool blogs is still an event for me, and this one is no exception. Moistworks does exactly what a good blog does (in my most humble of opinions): entertain the reader, and more importantly, make the reader feel like they're a friend. And this site does it in spades.

For the most part (I haven't discovered anything on the contrary), Moistworks primarily blogs about music. With a passion.

You remember that older person that introduced you to his (or her) wonderful world of music, and automatically you were taken to a whole new level, introduced to a whole new world of see-through-sounds and audio-landscapes?

Moistworks is the online equivalent.

Every post is begun with two or three mp3's which you can download (which are meant for previewing only and should be deleted from your hard drive within 24 hours) and goes on to talk in depth about the bands and the songs for download. Not like a know-it-all music-geek, mind, but like that dude, that older brother that said, "forget sesame street" as he popped Metallica's '...and Justice For All' into the hi-fi; like that senior in boarding school that made your ears perk enough to ask, "what's that?" whilst he casually played the riff to 'Sunshine of your Love'; like the odd-one-out in class who you befriended because he knew all about that new-fangled genre you discovered called 'hip-hop' and wanted to know more about Snoop Doggy Dogg, Mobb Deep, Wu Tang Clan and Jeru the Damaja.

Everyone had that moment, some more than once during their teen years, and the second I started checking out Moistworks I felt just like that. Every mp3 is not only backed up by a beautifully written piece about the song, but links to where to buy it online, their biographies or websites and any other information related.

How fucking cool is that?

15.10.04 01:37

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It's 10:56pm...

...and guess what, I'm still here!

Yessireebob. I should be at rehearsals right now, practising for my gig on Wednesday, but instead I'm here because a 5 O' Clock meeting got pushed to 10:30pm.

My input to this meeting? 15 minutes of my half-baked brain.

But yes, I'm playing a gig on Wednesday, via Triple 6 Poser, at the Jairus Anthony Music Festival at Backyard Pub. Triple 6's slot is at 8.30pm, so all ye faithful please be there. Details available at www.backyardpub.com.

And I must apologize. It must seem like dreary shite to you lot, must it not? Day in, day out, you may (or may not) log on in hope of something actually interesting, but instead you get my rants and raves of being in the office at godforsaken hours.

I know you. You are the demographic in my statistics that log on for less than two minutes. I've seen your bar chart. It's quite thick and long.

You hope that maybe the Guber has done something rash. Something worth reading. Maybe he's gotten into another car chase. Maybe he's done something silly in his relationship.

Maybe he'll describe his bowel movements.

But no. Even in my most vivid and exploitative posts, my life is rather tame. At least, in comparison to peepshowstories.com.

Warren Ellis' diepunyhumans research blog is chock-packed with the weirdest of the web and the coolest of the cool. Moistworks has a sound knowledge and deep appreciation of music that goes far beyond regular pop pap.

I have nothing but recollections of past loves lost and rectal discharge anecdotes to keep you company.

Even Az's blog has a steady following of friends and appreciators of his fine finger fun (for the record for those who don't know, Az is a fingerstyle acoustic guitarist, not a practitioner of feminine mouse double clicking. Although I may be wrong).

Sometimes I get 'comments' envy. Some of you fuckers out there rake in close to forty or fifty comments a post, even if it's "went to the groceries. Ran out of cheese and ass wort cream".

I get one and I'm dancing a jig.

There are thousands of blogs out there, roaming around the world wide web, and mine is but one. So my question to you is:

'Was it worth 2 minutes of your life?'

And in case you were wondering, I've got a particularly bad case of gas at the moment, but nothing to write home to.

18.10.04 17:17

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The Browns

At some point in 2001/02 (and even 2003), all the upcoming young bands and musicians you know of now all made one of their first impressions on the local music scene at one gig in particular: the Acoustic Jam, a monthly show featuring well-known or at least extremely talented local musicians performing an acoustic set. What set it apart, and the reason why so many bands got their first break there, was thanks to their 'open mic' policy, where anyone could sign up to perform two or three songs between the acts on the bill. That show was organized by the couple you see before you: Peter & Markiza Brown, of the band Soft Touch.

I first noticed Tempered Mental at the Acoustic Jam. I met people such as Pete Teo, Chak and MojoPin (featuring Eddy, my current drummer in Triple 6 Poser). This was the first gig where Khaimano really made an impact in terms of our funny-ass songs.

More importantly, it's where I met Peter & Markiza, who are two of the most wonderful people I've ever met.

The fact that they're still playing music, no matter what the odds are, inspires me. They run their own label and still continue to write new songs and even released Spunky Funggy's debut. When I got a chance to interview them for Dragon Music Magazine, listening to them recount the stories of how they met, how they got into music, how they got into the whole game is akin to sitting down with any rock n' roll great and asking them how it all began.

Most of all, I love the fact that their both so enthusiastic about music. I hear nothing but good things and praise from Peter every time I see him, which is more than I deserve, really.

So here's to them, and to Soft Touch. May the radio stations be garroted for not playing any of their material on air.

Cheers, guv'nor!

18.10.04 17:30

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I am going to try my best...

...not too bitch about work.

I'm not sure how.

What I'm sure of is the fact that I'm knackered beyond compare.

And you know things are screwy when you do a last minute touch up on a design for a multi-million dollar contract with tip-ex.

Must not bitch. Must not bitch. Must not bitch.

Fucking typing this right now is a bitch.

Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch.

Bugger.

Balls.

Boo.

Bah.

Blow me.

Baloney.

Bollocks.

Buggeration.

Bukakke.

Boing.

Bet you're wondering when this'll end.

Any moment.

Now.

19.10.04 10:07

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Comic Book Love Pt. I - the Present

Girls don't seem to get the whole thing about comic books. At least, the girls I know, anyway. Except for this one girl who I don't know too well who reads Preacher and Sandman. Sweet.

But overall, the grown-up infatuation with comics is something my girlfriend at least can't understand. After all, I don't expect many people to understand the logic in paying RM40 - RM90 for a trade paperback.

Read:bunch of comic book issues compiled together in a book so that you can read the entire storyline. Some call them . I, on the other hand, feel no need to justify my love for sequential art by calling it something more adult. Are there panels? Speech bubbles? Spandex? It's a comic book.

But like I said, most girls I know think I'm mad for paying that much. But then again, they don't read comic books.

And whilst we're on the subject of inane spending, don't even get me started on the incomprehensible ilogicalities of 'girls buying shoes'.

Comic books go back to earlier times, when we were kids (but that's another story), and writers nowadays use that consumer insight to write even fresher material, reimagining characters and histories we all know and love, putting them in the 21st century with intelligence and style.

Plus, they got rid of the comics code, so we can expect a lot more bullets, blood, tits and ass, which is good.

Check out Warren Ellis' 'DV8', 'Planetary' and 'Authority'. Check out Grant Morrisson's work on 'New X Men'. And Garth Ennis & Steve Dillon, one of my favorite writer/artist combos, and their work on 'Punisher'. Even Neil Gaiman's having a go on '1806', putting the X Men story in the 19th Century.

'Ultimates' by Mark Millar puts the Avengers into a setting we are all familiar with, where even George Bush Jnr makes an appearance. Mark's also brought a whole new angle to the history of the X Men and Fantastic Four.

Ah. Fantastic Four, which brings me on to this little thing I found off the net:

This is the sneak peak pic of the Fantastic Four movie. Alright, I guess, but it's not stirring my loins as much as the X Men, Spiderman and Hellboy sneaks did. Looks too much like they copied the X Men promo poster styling. Check out the lighting, for goodness sake!

But Jessica Alba's in it. So that's ok (my infatuation with Jessica Alba runs deep from the first time I saw Idle Hands. And if you have to ask why, then you haven't seen her ass).

So far, so-so. Then I saw Dr. Doom.

Question: where the fuck is the metal mask?!

From so-so to so-cool, there's Robert Rodriguez's big screen adaptation of Frank Miller's 'Sin City':

Now that's more like it. In case you didn't know, Sin City is a very noir comic book, drawn completely in solid black and white, with a touch of maybe one color, like red. Written by Frank Miller, this is also the same man that wrote 'Robocop 2' for the big screen and 'Batman: the dark knight returns'.

And with that, I'm off home. I just got an sms saying that all the stuff me and my art director have been busting our asses over since last week has paid off, and the presentation went well. The roads are clear, and I have a jam session to attend. Adieu.

19.10.04 13:13

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Random Cranial Convulsions Regurgitated to the Masses Via 0110101101.

Yet another attempt to come up with an interesting headline to my posts besides 'Hmmm'.

The beast stirs once again in the bowels of the belly, and another trip to the caverns of armitage shanks.

But enough about shit, let's get back to basics.

After a few weeks of, at the most, slight drizzle, the rains thundered upon us at a 70 degree angle, possibly flooding the streets of our dear metropolis. I just hope I can make it to the gig on time.

Woke up at 11.30am this morning, much to the chagrin of some of the bosses. Fuck it. My brain was frazzled. The sleep was much needed.

My only worry is the mass amount of stuff to do throughout this week: there's work, then there's the FYI and Y2k stuff to do too. Am I taking on too much? Quite possibly. But I have made myself the promise to do everything I possibly can till I'm thirty, and by God I ain't gonna quit now.

This is quite a shit post, actually, in retrospect. DON'T BOTHER READING IT! I'LL POST SOMETHING INTERESTING SOON, I PROMISE!

20.10.04 09:36

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My cat no fuckee no more.

It's sad, but true. Mommy cat got fixed today. She can no longer breed, she can no longer fuck. As much as it's a pain in the ass taking care of so many kittens (who, quite frankly, are rude and it would be nice if the father would come visit once in a while) I can't help but feel sorry for the poor thing. I bet that was the only highlight of her days, a good hard screw. Poor thing had to wear one of those stupid cones, too.

Haven't seen her around much since. Hope she's ok. Note to self: check up on mommy cat. Another note to self: see if fixing female cats involve removal of the clitoris, 'cos if it's still there, there's still hope.

Yet another note to self: if mommy cat still has her clitoris, find out where to get kitty vibrators and other sex objects.

20.10.04 17:30

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Warning. Shite comedy review coming up.

Do not buy the following DVD's.

Whilst some of you may find them funny, I thought they were about as hillarious as root canal surgery. The fact that I bought them to put a smile on my face and was instead treated to poor storytelling and worse comedic timing makes these the worst case of wrong buys I have ever experienced when it comes to DVD's.

National Lampoon presents Dorm Daze: Starring Tatyana M Ali (the chick from Fresh Prince of Bel Air), Danielle Fishel (the chick from Boy Meets World) Chris Own (that dude who played the Sherminator in the American Pie movies and seems to always appear in teen flicks) and other wannabe teen starlets, this DVD takes me back to the golden age of video in the late 80's and early 90's - covers that have fuck all to do with the movie but are designed to lure the consumer to check them out.

It teases you, doesn't it? You've got two chicks that you remember from your innocent childhood of TV shows (Tatyana and Danielle shown left), and now they're all growns up, and the only thing that's stopping you from seeing their blossomed bossoms is a huge sausage. If the movie's crap, at least you get to see some tits, right?

Wrong. The movie is shite beyond compare, centering around one day in the lives of a bunch of teens in a dorm with an exchange student, a whore, a large french sausage, a bag full of money, and the hillarious mishaps and confusions that happen along the way. As for the tits? Tatyana remains clothed, wandering around wishing Will Smith would come and save her career, and Danielle has been reduced to the role of a dumb bimbo who's tits also remain within her tee for the duration of the movie and puts on the most annoying, grating, nerve-wrackingly irritating performance ever witnessed in a teen flick. Most bimbo's in teen flicks appear dumb, but never necesarrily meant that the actress was an idiot. Danielle's performance makes you wonder 'what the fuck are you thinking, you brainless biatch?!'

There is a tit scene, it's brief, and it's a close-up as if to say, "yes, we promised tits in the movie. Here they are. Now sit back and enjoy the rest of the torture".

Not convinced? Check out this link right here to read another review on how mind-numbingly fucked-up this pathetic waste of celluloid is. If you're still curious, here's the link to the official site and here's the link to the trailer, you sado-masochist fucks.

Next up:

The Underground Comedy Movie: The sad thing about this movie is that it could have been fucking hillarious. In the advertising world, we call this 'good idea, bad execution'.

It's a skit movie, after all. How can you fuck up a skit movie? Performance and timing. The ideas are actually quite funny, they're just executed so damn poorly that it's very tough to appreciate. It gets to the point where you know that if they cut that scene by just a few seconds it'd be fucking hillarious, but noooo, they drag it. In fact, every single skit suffers because of that: dragging the scene way beyond the laugh factor. Which is why it pissed me off so much watching it, because it could've been really good (as far as low brow comedy goes). How can you go wrong with a skit featuring Michael Clarke Duncan as a huge, black, gay virgin? Or supermodels taking a shit? Or a superhero called 'Dickman'? The only time I almost laughed was during the porno review, featuring a badly dubbed chinese/japanese/oriental porno flick that was just, well, weird.

But it was still dragged out too long. Godammit. Another waste of money. Slash was somewhere in the movie too, but I kept forwarding trying to find something that was actually funny. If you're curious, here's the link to the official website.

After all the shite I had to put on Shaun of the Dead, just to remember how funny comedy can actually be when it's done right. I've warned you guys. Don't buy those movies. Seriously.

21.10.04 08:20

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