justin_guber - @ 20six.co.uk

In the Interest of Sleep...

...I have procurred sleeping pills.

The last time I had these little red pills was in 2003, when I was not a happy bunny. Now I am a happy bunny, but a happy bunny that cannot sleep, and a happy bunny that cannot sleep will soon cease to be a happy bunny.

However, even with the sleeping pills, it was still tough. I was expecting to be conked out about a half hour after I'd taken them, but noooo. The mind still fights, imagining weird scenarios involving dancing muffins and Mandy Moore. Unfortunately, these did not materialize into dreams.

However, the little red pills, known in the professional world as Xanax, have reminded me of those unhappy bunny times (but not in an unhappy way, otherwise I would cease to be a happy bunny). There was a point in time where pills were part of my daily routine. Doses of chemicals that did their best to numb any form of emotion and in the end, I had to ween myself of them.

Why? Because I couldn't write.

Interesting how a lack of a wide range of emotions in varying degrees of mania hinders the creative process. From it, only three songs emerged, and interestingly enough, they were about the events that lead to the pills as well as the pills themselves. Apart from that, I was pretty much creatively useless.

So once the events of my life were less in turmoil, I put those little pills away and resorted instead to DVD's and fast food, a wonderful cure to help rid the body of depression, albeit one that will leave you a tubby little bitch. Of course, DVD's and fastfood were not enough. Loneliness is an unhappy bunny's worst friend.

Enter Yaya.

Now, for me to say that Yaya and I were the perfect couple would be a lie. We were intensely different in almost every aspect. But underneath that veneer of silence and occasional punk-rock-emoness was the heart of a very caring person, someone who I honestly didn't expect to love me and care for me as much as she did when we were together. She was my companion, my friend, my lover and my carer at a time when I needed one most.

Interesting fact: I started this blog at her house.

Sure, we had our bad times. What couple doesn't? Our differences often lead to fights of the silent but deadly variety. There were raised voices and tears. The silent treatment used to bug the shit out of me, and there'd be times where I'd be completely fucked as to what the hell she'd want from me and what in the world I was supposed to to make her happy.

But there were also times where she stood by my side and made sure I was ok. The times when she took care of me when I was depressed, or sick or just in need of some comfort. And those rare moments when I'd see exactly what was going on inside her and realize the times when she's upset when she things I'm not appreciating all the things she's trying to do for me would remind me of how much she was trying to make me feel better. She always did her best and I will always remember her for that.

Strangely, it was when we broke up where there were no tears, no raised voices and no silent treatment. We'd just grown apart, and I am eternally grateful for all the times we spent together.

No matter how supremely Emo her look gets.

And for the interest of not having my ass whupped by her, I shall not post her picture. Unless it's ok by her. Although I doubt she reads this.

3.2.05 04:53

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Kids Are Cruel.

A friend of mine who read this blog once remarked that whilst there's a section called 'Friends & Foes', I never seem to write about the latter. One of the reasons could be because I don't sincerely hate that many people. I do, in fact, have a list of dogg-licking-anal-remnants who I wish were beaten by a gang of stone cold motherfuckers before running a train on them.

Surprisingly, two new people managed to make that very short list this and last year. My only question is, now that I have the place to, should I?

After all, some of my friends have requested that I don't write about them, and I have nothing but good things to say about them, so what about those that I have intense feelings of hate for?

Perhaps we should start with the beginning, the bringer of hate, a rudebwoy wannabe centre-parted-with-an-undercut-easy-geezer-public-schoolboy-Patel named Niraj.

Niraj acted like he was a friend throughout my first year of GCSE's. Niraj and his crew asked me to hang out with them whilst we had French exchanges, so all our French friends could all hang out together. I had a crush on my French Exchange. Niraj went out with her.

I later found out that the only reason they all hung out with me was so that my French exchange, Alice, could hang out with them. They had no use for me, other than to bring Alice from point A to point B. I was expendable, as they all proved after the whole French exchange thing was done and they never spoke to me again.

If you remember the posts I've put up, he was the one I got into a fight with whilst all those people I thought were friends stood around us in a circle shouting his name in support. He'd be what some would say one of the more cooler kids in school, whilst I was the geek in NHS specs and a black overcoat, playing Sega or Warhammer and reading comic books. I was the funny Chinese looking kid with the American accent. He was in like fuckin' Flynn.

Throughout my whole time in that school, I hated his fucking guts and wished to God that the tables turned when I got into that fight with him. Whenever I look back I wish I kicked the shit out of him, beaten his face to a bloody pulp and thwack him with a cricket bat.

Make a move on the girl I fancy? No prob. Shun me out after you got what you want? That ain't cool. Beat me up? Fuckin' last straw.

Niraj was the first one to make the list. Funny how you remember the things you hate from your past more than the things you love. I was thirteen. Heh.

3.2.05 10:59

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On the subject of Smut.

Some, if not all of you, must be aware by now that I do have an odd fascination with smut. It's not like I'm a stalker or enjoy the feel of a nice furry hamster every once in awhile, I'm just fascinated by it. I'm fascinated by the fact that it exists. I'm fascinated that some people have such strange sexual habits. I'm fascinated by how far people will go to get off. And as I watch from afar, admiring the flesh and juices, bodily fluids and sheep's skin, I simply peruse and admire, but rarely get aroused.

Strange, isn't it? but it's true. It just boggles my mind, what things will do and say, and I enjoy a good mind boggle. When there's no-one to chit-chat movies and comics with, when none of my friends are around to discuss whether or not Kant was or cunt, when there is nothing but an empty screen on my computer and my own twisted imagination, I turn to smut to for an interesting one-way conversation.

Like the blogs you'll find in the 'Entertaining Bollogs' section on your left of women writing candidly of their sexual exploits, likes and dislikes. I don't read them to jack off. I read them because they're just as interesting as a Chuck Pahlaniuk novel, except with less of the 'capitalism-is-evil' motif running throughout.

Now, the question you may be asking yourself at this point is, "why is he telling me all this?"

Well, I'm not sure. I guess I want to dissasociate myself from the anal-lubricating-marmot-shearers that roam the internet. The perverts who use their anonymity as a cloak so that they may entice young children (which, as we all know, is highly illegal and morally dubious no matter what your beliefs and predelictions) or meet other fetish freaks.

Then again, perhaps I'm the most perverted one of them all. They get off on it physically. It's primal, it's sexual. With me, it's psychological. I get off on it in my mind, a huge throbbing hard-on in my medula oblongata.

Does that make me a dick head?

4.2.05 10:07

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The Name Game Ends...

...fuckin' finally.

Personally, I hadn't a damn problem with Triple6Poser. Sure, I never came up with it. Jordan wrote a song called 'Triple6Poser' (which, knowing him, he's probably lost in the mess of 1's and 0's that is his hard-drive) and I liked the concept.

I found it 'funny'.

When Eddy was looking for a band and I was looking for a band and Jay was listening to both of us on seperate occasions talking about how we were looking for a band, I had no idea what I was going to play, I had no idea what it'd be about, and I really couldn't have cared less how it may or may not turn out. All I had was a name.

Triple-6-Poser.

Soon the band grew, the style formed, the music evolved, the band-mates got to know each other and the line-up got shifted about. Now Jay is in the land of Oz (and the fucker hasn't written yet, much to my annoyance and his mother's worry), Eddy's on vocals and his drum-mentor Alex is now on drums. All we need now is a bassist to make our lives complete.

As much as many people thought it was a shit name, I sure as shit didn't (wouldn't have named the band that if I thought it was shit to begin with). If anything, I liked the name more than ever when people started to hear about us because the name alone did it's job:

It causes reaction.

Take two parts 'what a shit name' with one part 'why are they called that to begin with' and mix the whole shebang in a big bowl of 'did they just use the word poser in their name?'

Before you ask, yes, I know the word 'poser' is mis-spelt. It's intentional. It beefs up the 'poser factor'.

I liked that reaction. The varied responses of 'what the fuck!?' and 'ok...' and so on. Come on, let's be honest here: I liked the fact that you punters thought it was shit! Made you curious, didn't it?! Whilst Eddy may have hated the reactions from the public when told what the band's name is, I loved it. I bathed in it. And let's face facts, ladies and gentlemen: who gives a flying-finger-fuck what the name is?! If you heard the material from the awesome foursome of Billy Corgan, James Iha, D'arcy and Jimmy Chamberlain, when you found out they were named 'The Smashing Pumpkins' wouldn't you have wanted to smash one of the said pumpkins over Billy's bald head?!

So why the name change? Well, apart from the points I mentioned in earlier posts and Eddy despising it thoroughly, there is also another reason. To be honest, it's the only reason I'm going along with it (yes, the truth is out), and I'm about to tell you, so prepare youself for...

The Final Chapter in the Book of Name

I've never been in a band that took itself too seriously. I remember when I was in a band with Jordan called Crap Budget Tattoo, and me and the guitarist Cibai knew it was going to break up when he said he wanted to rename the band 'Deviant'. How did I know the band would break up by the name? Simple.

It wasn't fun.

Fun was all I wanted. I wanted to play punk and ska, maybe a bit of blues and rock n' roll. Jordan wanted to tap into alternative and industrial (note to all bands out there: not having a drummer does not mean you have to become an industrial-electronica band. Unless that's what you want to do). So we broke up. Two different directions.

During uni, myself and Man Method wrote a little ditty we recorded, and needed a name for the whole 'act'. We turned to the poster behind us of the movie 'Swingers' and promptly named ourselves 'Gettanightlife'. Why?

It was fun.

Khaimano was a nickname someone gave me and has no inklings of seriousness whatsoever. Y2k can either stand for 'Yes 2 Kapitalism' or 'Yenaddey 2 Kapla Ikan', depending on our moods.

Fun names.

With Triple6Poser, everything was fun too, but it wasn't fun fun. The band evolved and started going into a certain direction. One which would call for the band to take itself seriously for once. And strangely, I wanted to go this way too.

(For some reason I'm suddenly reminded of John Cleese stepping into the world of non-comedy with Kenneth Brannagh's 'Frankenstein'. Sorry about that. Back to the plot.)

You see, if Eddy wasn't the frontman now, I would've fought to keep the name, because that name suits me. If I was the frontman, I'd want a name that suited me because I'd be representing the band. And I don't take myself seriously much. Eddy's a fucking funny guy, he'll make you laugh your left nut off, but he's also very passionate about what he believes in. Triple 6 Poser doesn't suit a band with Eddy as the frontman. We are very different.

Saiful put it best when we met up with him. We were chilling at Betty's Cafe when Saiful mentioned he saw the video of our performance and wanted to congratulate Eddy on his performance. In particular, his voice. We both asked what he meant, and he replied what I think was something along the lines of:

"Khai's voice is good, but it's a very punk-rock voice. [Eddy's] voice is the complete opposite, it's very rock. It's like two sides of a coin."

I'm comfortable with the name change because I'm no longer the first person you focus onto on stage. I'm comfortable with it because it suits the music. I'm comfortable with it because it's actually a decent fucking name, and I have Julia to thank for that (apparently she'd had the name for ages. Speak up, woman!) And most of all, I'm comfortable with it not being a cheeky name. A silly name. A fun name. It's about time I bloody grew up, and there's always Y2k to serve my urge to use the word pee-pee in a sentence. The new name is badass. The new name is rockin'. The new name is tough-as-fuckin'-nails.

Triple6Poser, R.I.P. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to
40 PROOF

7.2.05 04:08

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Sweet writing and Swede angst.

Another 'fucking finally' moment in the history of the Guber.

I've started writing a screenplay. I finally have a character I can write a screenplay around. And it feels fucking marvellous writing again. The surprise of just letting your fingers type away dialogue and be shocked by what twists and turns in their characters you're simply writing without thinking. After eight pages (which, after formatting,will probably be twenty in the 'industry' format, which is a waste of paper if you ask me) all preconceived notions of the characters have changed dramatically. New characters from God knows where have suddenly popped up. New angles, new ideas.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

I won't tell you about my little character just yet, for fear of jinxing it. The other day was the first time I told someone an idea I hadn't written yet and was still able to write after the conversation (thanks, Naren, owe you one). For that, I'm a happy bunny, and I hope I'll be able to finish it off, or at least get half way, by the end of this week.

After all, Chinese New Year's a-coming. Half the staff have already dissapeared: on leave for family moments, drinks and gambling. Me? I'll be spending quality time with my family on Wednesday eating barbeque'd fish on the plot of land at my dad's village (they'll be camping, I won't), spending some quality time with my girlfriend somewhere new (aha, more secrets!), spending some quality time with friends and most importantly, spending some quality time with myself.

I started writing yesterday at Starbucks whilst my girlfriend worked on her work (you know the relationship is going somewhere positive when you can sit with your partner in total silence doing your own thing and not feel the need to chat for the sake of chatting, just happy to have the company), and I wrote till the damn batteries died on me. I wish they hadn't. I could've pumped out another twenty pages that day, given time. Then to Ikea, to buy Swedish furniture of the flatpack variety.

I'm not sure whether I love or loathe the Swede's. Like Andreas, I think he's a fucking brilliant mate, but he also left me to handle three drunk Scotsmen by myself as he legged it down the road (heard he's getting married. Weird). And with Ikea furniture, I think it's fucking brilliant, but I swear they could've taken some time to actually write some fucking instructions instead of using little diagrams with pointers you may miss.

Or maybe it's just me.

Either way, if one of their pieces of furniture required something more than the funky allen key they give out, they could at least say so on the top of the fucking box. This is the second time I've opened up a bookcase only to find I need not only a hammer, but a fucking screwdriver as well. I buy Ikea because it's supposedly simple to set-up. Liars. The last time this happened, I didn't have a hammer so Jay and I took turns trying to nail the bugger with a broken leg off one of the dining room chairs.

I hope my mom didn't notice.

7.2.05 05:36

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Chain Gang.

Another one of those chain mails that I actually took notice of and thought was quite funny, although I tried to edit out the dull ones.

Only In America...

For those who've just joined us, I don't live in America. The 'we' in the post below is from it's original source, whoever that may be.

1. Only in America ... can a pizza get to your house faster than an ambulance.

2. Only in America ... are there handicap parking places in front of a skating rink.

3. Only in America ... do drugstores make the sick walk all the way to the back of the store to get their prescriptions while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front.

4. Only in America ... do people order double cheeseburgers, large fries, and a diet coke.

5. Only in America ... do banks leave both doors open and then chain the pens to the counters.

6. Only in America ... do we leave cars worth thousands of dollars in the driveway and put our useless junk in the garage.

7. Only in America ... do we use answering machines to screen calls and then have call waiting so we won't miss a call from someone we didn't want to talk to in the first place.

8. Only in America ... do we buy hot dogs in packages of ten and buns in packages of eight.

9. Only in America ......do we use the word 'politics' to describe the process so well: 'Poli' in Latin meaning 'many' and 'tics' meaning 'bloodsucking creatures'.

10. Only in America ......do they have drive-up ATM machines with Braille lettering.

Ever Wonder...

Why women can't put on mascara with their mouth closed?

Why don't you ever see the headline "Psychic Wins Lottery"?

Why is "abbreviated" such a long word?

Why is it that doctors call what they do "practice"?

Why is it that to stop Windows, you have to click on "Start"?

Why is lemon juice made with artificial flavor, and dishwashing liquid is made with real lemons?

Why is the man who invests all your money called a broker?

Why is the time of day with the slowest traffic called rush hour?

Why isn't there mouse-flavored cat food?

When dog food is new and improved tasting, who tests it?

Why didn't Noah swat those two mosquitoes?

Why do they sterilize the needle for lethal injections?

You know that indestructible black box that is used on airplanes? Why don't they make the whole plane out of that stuff?

Why don't sheep shrink when it rains?

Why are they called apartments when they are all stuck together?

If con is the opposite of pro, is Congress the opposite of progress?

If flying is so safe, why do they call the airport the terminal?

And Finally...

In case you needed further proof that the human race is doomed through stupidity, here are some actual label instructions on consumer goods...

On a Sears hairdryer: Do not use while sleeping. (and that's the only time I have to work on my hair.)

On a bag of Fritos: ..You could be a winner! No purchase necessary. Details inside. (the shoplifter special?)

On a bar of Dial soap: "Directions: Use like regular soap." (and that would be how??...)

On some Swanson frozen dinners: "Serving suggestion: Defrost." (but, it's "just" a suggestion.)

On Tesco's Tiramisu dessert (printed on bottom): "Do not turn upside down." (I wonder what it says undernea... oh. Shit.)

On Marks & Spencer Bread Pudding: "Product will be hot after heating." (gee... you think?)

On packaging for a Rowenta iron: "Do not iron clothes on body." (but wouldn't this save me more time?)

On Boot's Children Cough Medicine:"Do not drive a car or operate machinery after taking this medication." (We could do a lot to reduce the rate of construction accidents if we could just get those 5-year-olds with head-colds off those forklifts.)

On Nytol Sleep Aid: "Warning: May cause drowsiness." (I sincerely fucking hope so!)

On most brands of Christmas lights: "For indoor or outdoor use only." (as opposed to...what?)

On Sunsbury's peanuts: "Warning: contains nuts." (talk about a news flash)

On an American Airlines packet of nuts: "Instructions: Open packet, eat nuts." (The people that brought you this packet of nuts are also in charge of your safety at 30,000 feet.)

On a child's superman costume: "Wearing of this garment does not enable you to fly." (I don't blame the company. I blame the parents for this one.)

On a Swedish chainsaw:"Do not attempt to stop chain with your hands or genitals." (was there a lot of this happening somewhere?)

7.2.05 09:22

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The Gemini Factor.

Like I said earlier, Friends & Foes is the name of the category, and we've gone on about friends long enough. But what about those that make up both sides of the coin? Someone who was both a pal and a pain? Enter Neil.

We both had the same birthday, making us both Gemini's, and if you know anything about Gemini's you'd know that there's two sides to our personalities. Two extremes. It was his cool side that made me want to befriend him, but it was living with him that brought out the un-cool side of things.

The first inkling of stormy weather was during our road trip at the end of the first year of uni. We had managed to procure the union van for 'drama society reasons', claiming we were going to Stratford-Upon-Avon to check out Big Willie Shakespeare's place of origin. Instead we went to stonehenge to stare at hippies during the solstice, followed by somewhere down south I can't remember (maybe Exeter) where I slept in rabbit's piss, back to London to pick up the others then down to Brighton to oggle at chicks on the beach. On our way back, Neil was driving. Irish James was taking the piss out of something and in the midst of it, told Neil to fuck off, jokingly, at a red light.

Neil stared at him for almost a minute, then stepped out of the van and walked away.

The light turned green and none of us knew what to do. Thankfully, he came back and the rest of the trip was a lot quieter. This was when we were first introduced to Neil's 'moments'.

Staying with him during my second year brought it's toll on me more than ever. Not only were we living with a pothead who was a moody bastard whenever he was off the stuff, we also had to put up with his issues over the fact that he was older than us, a fact that never once enterred any of our minds as a problem. He was adamant about his beliefs on good and evil, right or wrong, and any comments of the opposite opinion were met with hostility.

Regardless, Kul (my other flatmate) and myself were very peaceful people, but also capable of outbursts when pushed over the edge. Neil pushed me over mine when he told me he didn't want my girlfriend around and yelled at her in her face before my eyes.

I don't even know what I said, I just saw red and blew up, screaming and shouting a fury before slamming te door behind me and walking out barefoot in the rain, sitting at the bus stop. My girlfriend joined me later and comforted me, and we spent the rest of the holiday in my bedroom.

After that I never wanted to go back except to sleep. I'd eat out every single day and find something to do before making my way back to Hackney where I'd run up to my room and occupy myself with whatever I could. Kul took his TV and playstation to his room and remained hidden too.

You know there's something wrong when you're not comfortable in your own living room.

I honestly can't remember the last time I saw him, but there were good times to be had with the ol' geezer. Out on the town, he was a laugh, and he'd stand up for his mates whenever need be.

I remember the one time we celebrated our birthday together, though. Laura's housewarming party. At the stroke of midnight, Saj and Kul pulled out Jay and Silent Bob toys. Almost instinctively, I grabbed Jay and he grabbed Silent Bob. Looking back, thinking we'd be heteral-life-mates like that sonambulistic duo was a tad bit on the wishful thinking side. So here's to Neil: a decent friend, but one I could never live with.

8.2.05 07:17

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Bloody Hell.

I know I've been lambasting it throughout it's entire production, but now that I've finally watched the finished product, I am quite embarresed to admit that Constantine was... well... pretty damn good, actually.

I know, I know, I know. They gave him superpowers where he can visit hell by putting his feet in a bucket of water (holding a cat), they gave him a crucifix shotgun, they made Chaz a whole lot younger and they turned the blonde Brit into a dark haired Yank. And Keanu, no less.

But it's good. It's actually a decent movie. Granted, it's not the comic book, but this was one of those rare occasions where Hollywood changes a lot for the sake of mass audience but still manages to retain the spirit of the character and the comic book. He smokes 30 a day, he's a rude bastard and he gets all his mates killed trying to help him. He's reluctant, he's cocky, he's a mean cunt. This isn't typical Keanu.

At first I was taken a-back by how quiet his Constantine was, but then again, when it comes to Keanu a 'less-is-more' approach in his lines usually works for the better (there are some well dodgy lines that he just couldn't pull off, no matter how cool the man is).

And as for all the changes, the move to the States, the bucket of water, the bloody crucifix gun, they're all aceptable. By the time he actually uses that gun you want Constantine to start kicking some serious demon ass, the first of which being Gavin Rossdale, the Bush-man himself, with a much meatier role than his other half had in Aviator.

Sure, it has it's flaws. whilst this is the first time I've seen CGI used effectively enough for something of the supernatural genre since 'The Frighteners', the design of the demons was a tad bit on the... well... naff side. The half breeds were alright. The angel was alright. The actual demons in hell? Fucking crap. That said, Mnemoth looked pretty cool (an insect-type demon thingey).

But the one thing, the one thing that ruined it form being an A- movie for me was the last ten minutes. That last resolution (Spoiler Alert!) when Constantine makes peace with heaven and (possibly) quits smoking.

Constantine. Quitting smoking. Yeah right.

The fuckers had to endure a dose of lethal lung cancer, not once, but twice in his lifetime in the comic books, and he still smokes thirty a day. You expect me to believe after just one experience with saving the world he'd switch to nicotine gum?! Fuck off!

Here's the other thing: Constantine's a con-man. In the movie, for reasons you will discover when watching the film, Constantine slices his wrists because he knows his soul is damned and Satan himself would come to pick up his soul if he ever died. The whole thing is a trick to get Satan up there to see what was happening so that he could stop it, and thus Satan owes Constantine. Instead of being selfish, Constantine asks that a soul that is in hell (one of the characters) is sent back to heaven (giving ol' nick the finger in the process). Through this sacrifice, just before Satan tries to take him away, heaven opens up to take him because he did something selfless. Satan won't have none of this, he wants his soul with a vengeance, and pulls out his lung cancer and lets him live so that he may sin again.

Now, to me, him asking for that soul in hell to be sent back to heaven was not self-less. I think it was a fucking con. This is Constantine we're talking about here! He doesn't play for either side, he's just surviving. Then again, that's just just my opinion.

So yeah, fanboys hear me out! It's actually alright! This is not LXG, ladies and gents, and it's definitely not Batman & Robin or, God have mercy on us, Catwoman. It's not Spiderman or X Men or Hellboy either, but it can stand up on it's own right, so check it out. I still can't believe they released the thing in Malaysia to begin with.

14.2.05 04:31

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Roaring Fires, An Everyday Thing and Upcoming Stuff n' Stuff.

So on Wednesday I had to go back to my dad's kampung (village). They'd left the day before and met up with a bunch of my relatives on my mom's side to go camping on our land. I can just imagine what the relatives on my dad's side that actually live in the kampung must've been thinking.

UNCLE: What aren't they staying with us?
AUNT: They said they wanted to camp out in the field.
UNCLE: Are they mad? There's snakes and chickens out there. Nasty bugs and things.
AUNT: I dunno. Some city thing, I suppose.
UNCLE: I spent my entire life working so that we'd have a nice house, a nice brick house with toilets you can sit on, and they want to spend the night under a piece of plastic propped up with sticks. Nutters.

Of course, it would sound a lot different in Malay.

I drove there in my dad's Mercedes under strict instructions that I do not make such a long trip in my Kelisa. I don't see what's the problem with my Kelisa, but my dad feels safer knowing if I do crash, I'd be wrecking his expensive German car and not my local tin can on wheels.

Like I said, my family isn't much in the logic department.

The second I got there at 5pm I found my father, two of my uncles, a bunch of my nephews and cousins and my brother all swimming in the mud infested lake that they had been draining. My brother had been in the water since 9am, and the sight of him paddling in two feet of muddy water reminded me of days long gone when I didn't give a fuck whether the water was clean.

"Jump in!" cried my dad, "Join us!"

"Are you mad, these are 500 dollar sneakers!" was the reply I had in my head. Instead I simply shook my head. Was I so stuck in Western ways that I couldn't see the fun of jumping into a pool of mud? I guess. There might be leeches. Or those fish that swim up your urethra and lay eggs. There could be fish shit. Or chicken shit. All kinds of shit.

Goodness gracious me I'm a city boy.

The land I was on will soon be inherited by my brother, but for now it serves as our own little playground of gardening. Rough and rugged, with no visible pathways. Weeds ant hills and snake holes surround the ground. Trees of durian (spiky Malaysian fruit that smells something fierce), cempedak (not so spiky Malaysian fruit that doesn't smell as fierce but still puts me off) and rambutan (furry Malaysian fruit that's like lychees, but better) are your only hope for shade if you're not under the two huts built for chilling out purposes amongst the bushes of cili padi (tiny chilli's. The name literally translates to 'fire chilli's', and with good reason. Like our banana's and other fruits, more often than not they're quite small but intensely potent). I have no idea of the size of the land, but it's quite big, and right at the front are two lakes filled with all kinds of edible fish.

My parents empty out the two lake/ponds every year. I call them lake/ponds because they're not big enough to really warrant calling it a lake, but calling it a pond wouldn't do it justice. 20'X15' isn't exactly big, but it's not small either. And why do they empty it? To catch fish.

See, first we put some fish in, feed them merrily and allow them to fuck like rabbits for the whole year. Then, we empty out the lake/ponds and go at them with nets, which will work for a good 9/10th's of the fish. The last batch must be taken by hand when the lake/ponds are completely empty, because that last 1/10th are the toughest sonsabitches of all.

Catfish.

At least, I think they're catfish. They're called 'ikan keli' in Malay. Is that catfish? They have whiskers.

Anyway, those little bastards are slippery and can survive quite a bit. Once all the water's gone they hide in the mud where there's still moisture, so you grab them from out of the mud, which is not an easy task. Try holding onto a fish, any fish, even a goldfish, and the fucker will slip out. Now add mud into the equation. Once all the fish are caught, we give them out to anyone in the village who feels like having a bit of fish for supper, or to keep as pets.

Like I said, catfish can survive quite a long time. Even when you leave them out in a bucket with no water. They won't move, but the second you touch them they'll spring to life. They just don't die. Even when you repeatedly thwack its head on a rock (which is not a fun way to spend a Wednesday afternoon).

"Just slit its throat!" I exclaimed, "Kill it! Put it out of its goddamn misery!"

"We can't, we need the head."

"I'm not gonna eat the head!"

"You're not gonna eat it anyway! You're going to concentrate on the chicken."

They had me there. Eventually, we came to a compromise. My mom would slice off its nose. Not much of a choice there really, if you were a catfish: beaten on a rock or have your nose chopped off, Mr. Catfish? Ooh, I'm not sure... Jimi Hendrix has an acoustic blues song in the John Lee Hooker tradition where he sings the lines, "I wish I was a catfish, swimming in, whoooaaah! The deeeep blue sea." If he spent that afternoon with me he'd probably change the lyrics. Unless it was a cover.

The sun was setting, and my bro was still in the lake.

"B! Get out of there!"

"No!"

"Please?"

"No!"

"If you don't come out I'm taking away the bike I bought you!"

"Take it! It's too slow!"

"That's 'cos you're not strong enough to pedal fast!"

"No! It's because the bike's no good!"

Cheeky little bugger.

"Fine! I'll take away the train set Diana bought you!"

"Take it! The train's don't move fast enough!"

"Ok! I'll take your drawing table!"

"Fine! It's got a hole in it!"

I swear, when that kids old enough to take a beating, I am opening a serious can of whupass.

On this particular occasion, we were going to have a barbeque. All the relatives had brought mass amounts of food so on top of catfish and other fish, we had squid, prawns, chicken, lamb, fried rice, fried noodles, chicken pie, sweet pie, chocolate cake and pringles. You haven't lived till you've got half a barbequed chicken in your hand and you've no fork and knife, just your bare hands. Ripping into a chickens flesh and holding its carcass up to your mouth brings out the primal in you, harking back to caveman days, except with the modern application of black pepper sauce.

Before all that, I spent the sunset raking leaves and picking up twigs. We were going to have a bonfire. By the end of our little sweep up I was stood infront of a good seven feet of logs, twigs and dried leaves.

"Can we light it now?" I asked my dad.

"Not yet. It's not totally dark yet."

Five minutes passed.

"Can we light it now?"

Finally, I took out my lighter.

"You sure this lighter will be enough?" I asked.

"Just light up the leaves underneath and stand back."

I do so, and watched as the flames licked and twirled, rising up till what was seven feet of dried wood and twigs turned into 15 feet of flaming heat. The edges of the flames shot out in bursts, sending tiny red ambers into the sky like fairies whilst the fire spun within, causing the smoke to float up in a spiral. I watched, astounded.

I can't remember the last time I had a bonfire. I'd almost forgotten what fire looked like except for my lighter. This was not my lighter. These flames were alive, crawling around the logs, climbing over twigs and eating up leaves. I just sat and stared, half a chicken in my hand, chucking the occasional log on.

Before I realized it, I had been staring at the bonfire for over three hours straight.

Whilst my parents spent another night sleeping in tents, I went back home, and the next day I spent cleaning my room in Taman Tun from 2pm till 10.30pm, taking a one hour break in between to grab a bite with my girlfriend. I rearranged my room, rearranged my comic books in chronological order and organized my CD's.

This was the kicker. There must've been RM150 worth of unlabelled CD-R's, and there was nothing of any importance on any one of them, just mix CD's and random data I'd transfer from one computer to another. That's a lot of fucking CD-R's. I chucked them, together with a lot of random empty packets of porn VCD's and useless magazines. Next week I'll reorganize the magazines, take out whatever articles or pin-ups I want to keep and chuck the rest. Waste of fuckin' space.

The rest of the week was quite relaxing. Watched Constantine (which I've reviewed in the Comics n Movies n Guitars section), spent some time with my girlfriend, spent some time by myself and slept like a baby. Now I'm back in the office and they've called me over to check on some FA's, but my brain is still in bed. Tonight it's valentine's, exactly one year since my first 'date' with my current girlfriend. And I have no idea where to buy roses. And my migraine's returning.

Ah, well. At least there's no mud.

14.2.05 08:56

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It's that time again...

The Kelab Seni Filem Malaysian shorts thingey's happening again this March, and I feel a tingling in my filmmaking scrotum. Whilst my feature length film, whatever it may be and whenever it may be produced, is stuck forever in limbo land, it doesn't mean I can't spend some time behind the camera doing my thang.

Yet again, the question of what to film comes to mind. The last one was about cigarettes. What now? Alcohol? Masturbation? Gerbil obsession?

What I do know is that I want to film something where I can test techniques I have in my head and whatever actors I'm thinking of using in the future. I already know what Paul can do, I want to see what my other friends are capable of, acting wise.

In the meantime, I've got an ad to figure out by today. Any of you guys know any teeth scenarios which don't involve fighting or dentists?

15.2.05 03:31

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