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The Visitor |
It's 2:02am...
...and I'm back in the office. As I walked out of my car to come up ten minutes ago I watched as a RM50 whore gave a goodnight kiss to her last john, a 55 year old caucasian with curly white hair and a smile of sexual satisfaction as he buttoned up his tweed jacket in the cool KL night. "Goodnight, honey," she said in a non-"me-love-you-long-time"-kind of way. The whore stared at me as I walked into the office and she to the hotel next door. I stared back. She's probably working the guests, the bellboy getting the cut of whichever RM50 fuck she comes across. Maybe I'm underestimating her. Maybe she earns more. Maybe she came down from Thailand, thoroughly trained in the art of shooting bullets from her womb, gunning down Coca-Cola cans at 50 paces. Maybe not. Down the rest of the street on my end of Jln Sultan Ismail, ancient prostitutes who've honed their craft over the past thirty years still stalk passers-by, sitting under the tree opposite the tall, cement pillars holding up the monorail tracks, opposite the huge letters making up the MAS ambient advertising of their multiple destinations. They're sat opposite the letter 'O'. It's big and purple and won awards at the MC2. My company won none. If you walk those streets after 8pm, pimps will pester you dressed like VCD sellers hawking an altogether different form of entertainment. This is beyond audio-visual. These old bags will stradle you with their granny undies still on in the back of the car, channeling whatever strength they have into their vulva to squeeze every last drop of semen you can muster. It's no coincidence the whores hawk their wares between two hotels. One look at these hotels and you would've thought the patrons would have considerably more expensive tastes. But the middle aged kwai-lows don't mind. The hand's too lazy and much less exciting. These funny locals are where it's at. If you walk down another block from my office and turn right, opposite Sungei Wang plaza and Low Yat, that's where the pimps really work the streets. Everything from heroin to rent boys if you walk down the right alley and ask the right person. RM120 will get you a girl of the barely legal category flown in from China, a hotel room and possibly a sauna and refreshments. That's less than 20 quid. Of course, I wouldn't know what these 'hotel rooms' look like. Common sense and my Swedish friends' lack of funds made sure of that. Why he wanted a whore in such a drunken state I'm still not sure. How I managed to get us both home is still a perplexing mystery. For a Swede, he sure gets drunk quick. These pimps aren't of the 'bling-bling' variety. They have no cape, no cane, no ice. Just the bare essentials and a bevy of delicate delights who somehow managed to get suckered into all this. Then there's the college girls playing their pussy out for a bit of extra dough. Their not pimped. Their either looking for some extra money or an extra thrill. A while back a bunch of them got found out and the papers made a slight fuss about it, but they weren't Malay so it didn't last long. For a country that supposedly practices racial equality there sure are some inconsistencies. Take buying a house, for example. Malays get first dibs by law. That means, if Eddy and I both want to buy the same house, I'll get it, guaranteed, because he'll have to wait till all the Malay's have made their choices. Malaysia is the perfect example of the discrepencies of an infant economy, from a macro perspective all the way to an intensely micro one. Example 1: The Proton car sells like hot cakes simply because their's no other affordable choice (besides a Perodua). The Proton is poorly manufactured because there is no competition. The second they bring the taxes on foreign cars down Proton will be so royally screwed up its metaphorical anal passageway that no amount of sponsorship money to Norwich City is going to boost their sales. Example 2: Going on from the ' Eddy and I' example, Malay's get all the government benefits they could possibly have, they can get the house before the Chinese person can, and yet it's the Malay's complaining about the fact that the Chinese are richer and have better houses and 'why isn't the government doing something about this?' bullshit yakety-yak. We Malays have an inherent gene in our system which forces us to constantly complain about the grass being greener on the other side, and boast when our grass finally grows. Believe me, I know, I'm one of them. I supress the gene with comic books, DVD's and the sound of my cats fucking outside my house. Fucking cats. Whoring themselves to the local tom's. I've seen the tom that's been fucking my cats. He tries to eyeball me sometimes. I wish he'd bring home a fish or a rat or something for the other cats to eat. The fuckers balls are getting brassier: I found him waiting in the back for feeding time. Bastard. And now mommy cat's been 'fixed' and she's gotten some weird rash around her ears so I can't stroke her like I used to. I can see the sad look in her face sometimes, the "I can't fuck anymore and it's all your fault" look, and her kids are growing up to become real brats. And I keep feeding them. Outside, the RM50 whore has probably found her next john. 3 to 1 it's a caucasian on holiday, looking for a bit of Asian meat and can't be arsed to go 'round to the Beach Club to play the Sarong Party Girls. Malay male meat isn't much in demand. The FILTH have got the upper-hand. For now. ( I really have no idea where all this came from. I was going to write about work and got carried away. I've now made that whore famous. She owes me.)
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3.3.05 18:39
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Stumped.
I've been trying to write a post for the past ten minutes but feel about as inspired as a deflated flan. So I won't bother.
Except to tell you I won't be bothering.
Harumph.
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4.3.05 07:50
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"I do not believe the great English culture is going to be undermined by one eastern European cat."
Got this article from the Malaysian Cinema newsgroup on Yahoo. I've never seen this directors stuff, but he sure sounds like a cool motherfucker. Time to pop into the DVD store...
I've formatted it as much as I could, considering I got it as just one line of text with no paragraph breaks...'I will not cut my film' - He has won two Palmes d'Or and is threatening to pull his latest film from British cinemas. Emir Kusturica invites Fiachra Gibbons to the village he has built near Belgrade to explain all.By Emir Kusturica, Friday March 04 2005, The Guardian Emir Kusturica has just finished writing his letter to the censor. "I will not cut my film because, because, because ... because of the Wonderful Wizard of Oz." "What do you think?" he asks me. I tell him that as an argument it has a certain economy and elegance, but it might not be the most practical of approaches. "I don't care," he says. "That shithead is driving me nuts. He is messing with my sleep." The British censor has asked him to remove a scene from his new film, Life Is a Miracle - a typically full-blooded romance set against the backdrop of the Bosnian war - in which a cat pounces on a dead pigeon. Kusturica had thought it a reasonable metaphor for how idealists and innocents are easy prey for calculating big beasts in times of conflict.The offending shot lasts of all of two seconds and is about as disturbing as an episode of the Teletubbies. But the British censor said no and Kusturica, one of the greatest film directors in the world, is so flummoxed and upset that he is considering pulling the film from the UK altogether.I beg him not to. "You don't realise what an emotive issue pigeons are in England," I say, with all the plausibility I can muster. "I am not cutting my film for this jerk," he insists. "Was he brought up by pigeons or something? I love Ken Loach and your football and your working class, but I do not believe the great English culture is going to be undermined by one eastern European cat. "I just don't get it. The pigeon was already dead, we found it in the road. And no other censor has objected. What is the problem with you English? You killed millions of Indians and Africans, and yet you go nuts about the circumstances of the death of a single Serbian pigeon. I am touched you hold the lives of Serbian birds so dear, but you are crazy. I will never understand how your minds work." The workings of the undeniably brilliant mind of Emir Kusturica, the only director other than Francis Ford Coppola to have won the Cannes Palme d'Or twice, can be equally unfathomable. Stories of Kusturica are legend. Of his gonzo love for guns, how he likes to fire off a few hundred rounds before breakfast to get the juices going, of the controlled anarchy of his sets, awash with goats, geese, Gypsy bands and explosives, and how he works his crews to the point of lunacy. On Life Is a Miracle, a sprawling Zhivago of a love story, he shot for 12 full nights in the small city of Cacek and didn't use a second of the footage. Kusturica is a walking morass of contradictions: a Sarajevan "Muslim" whom many Bosnians accuse of abandoning his city at its hour of greatest need to side with the Serbs. And yet Kusturica was a fearless critic of Milosevic. He challenged one of his most blood-drenched henchmen to a public duel in Belgrade and squared up to a still more grisly Serb supremacist in the street. Like his great films - Underground, Time of the Gypsies, When Father Was Away on Business and Black Cat, White Cat - he is passionate, unpredictable and hilarious: you can see why he drives himself and the people around him to madness, and why they always forgive him for it. He has an irresistible mix of bravery, warmth and vulnerability. Kusturica does not have fans as much as followers, who turn out in their thousands all over the world to his concerts when this bear of a man takes his Balkan "punk" band, the No Smoking Orchestra, on the road. But nothing could have prepared even them for what Kusturica has done now... Read the rest at the Guardian Unlimited site, which you can get to byclicking here.Life Is a Miracle is released on March 11. Copyright Guardian Newspapers Limited
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4.3.05 10:43
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God knows.
Of course he does. He's all knowing.
God knew I wasn't in the mood for a Religious Talk on a Sunday morning. God knew I'd rather go to Zoukfest. So God decided to teach me a lesson and ensure my car got buggered.
Mysterious ways indeed.
I woke up on Sunday morning ready to go through whatever religious ordeal I had in store. My mom would lead me to the mosque where the talk was, and then she'd be off for some pottery class. I was already planning a quick getaway.
Understand this. She drives an Isuzu Citation 4X4. I drive a Perodua Kelisa. When she's going at 80km/h, she feels fine. I, on the otherhand, am in Speed Racer territory.
Her car is big, mine is small. Her car can handle potholes.
Mine can't.
THWACK!!
Before I knew it, my car was veering to the left. To drive straight, I had to hold the wheel as if I was doing a hard right. When we got to the mosque, I discovered my wheel was flat and a part of my rim (my pretty lil sports rim) was missing. As I fixed the tire, my mom asked a passerby if this was the right place.
"Ceramah Agama yang untuk remaja tu? Ah, sini lah."
Translation: "You mean the religious talk for children? Yup!"
Children. CHILDREN?!?!
"Don't worry," my mom replied, "there are teenagers and uni students too."
"I have a JOB!!! I'm a MAN! I'm an AD-MAN!!!!"
When a grown man is whinning at his mom in front of a mosque full of 8 - 10 year olds complaining that he's a 'man' whilst holding a tire iron you know something's wrong.
I later sat down with the little children and listened as the priest recounted stories of how drug addicts with no cash will sniff 4 day old panties or steaming cow dung to get high. Apparently.
when I drove home, my steering wheel wobbled and shook violently. When I hit 80 I looked like I was having an epileptic fit. The alignment is fucked and I haven't enough money to fix it.
Let that be a lesson to you all: Don't mess with the one and only. Seriously.
But Man Method a.k.a. Saj of the Ta-Dhin is here, and all is good. We shall be merry and much laughter will ensue of the knee jerk variety.
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7.3.05 04:28
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This Is My Life: An Essay on the Filth
Opposite me in one of the rooms: a rubber chicken is hung from it's neck on the sprinkler. If you choke the chicken, it squeals.
Opposite me in another room: the Filth are discussing a job on the surface, but deep down they wish some of us in the team had our fathers shot down during the Japanese Occupation of Malaysia.
On my right: my art director goes through reference books, hoping to get inspiration for our current job. And by inspiration I mean 'there must be something in here I can steal for this job'.
On my desk: a waste of paper, remnants of a once forgotten forest, lie strewn about with various red date stamps and requests for jobs I have no intention of giving the time of day.
It's 12:02pm, and I've got a concept to crack by this evening. To be honest, I can't be fucked.
This is my life. By day, I tip-tap and caress my iMac keyboard, praying to the gods that it won't crash halfway through. I may surf for random crap and immediately hide it the second the Filth pass by. I gave the Filth an offering this morning, and for once those eyes stopped piercing the hearts of Locals. One of my ex's who's moving down to Singapore has been reading my posts and fears that her Caucasian complexion will get her in a bind in the Asian workplace after reading my writings on the Filth.
She has nothing to fear.
The Filth are specific: the same ones that travelled the continent and abused the ingrained politese and good nature of the indigenous, the ones that the American's are still saying sorry for. We Asians are humble people. Our guests are always treated as Kings.
But we do NOT expect to be treated as servants.
The Filth in the areas surrounding my cubicle are, for the most part, nothing more than a P.R. initiative to sell. There are those that are here based on pure skill. These are not Filth. They didn't fuck up anywhere and forced to serve their sentence in the most wonderful prison they could ever imagine. They were bought for high sums of money, and there's only so much to go around, and by God they deliver what they're paid for.
The Filth, on the other hand, are the make-up. The locals are the sparkling personality you'll eventually fall in love with. And the clients buy the Filth, the same way I once bought the vision of beauty I saw in my A Level days, waiting at the bottom of the stairs as she walked up for an upskirt peek, and shockingly realized later on that without make-up, this girl had no pigmentation, no colour and no fucking eyebrows.
That's the Filth without the locals. Eyebrow-less and an absolute let-down. We could do less of this Filth. My ex coming down is not Filth, and she has nothing to worry about.
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8.3.05 06:28
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Trailer Park Trash...
..or not. Some upcoming movies that's got me on the good foot: Lords of Dogtown - There hasn't been a proper, decent skate movie ever. Gleaming the Cube has kitcsh value, Grind was so-so and I never saw Thrasher. Like the award winning documentary, this follows the Z-Boys from rags to riches, and it looks kick ass. I may not be able to skate well. In fact, I've never been able to skate well. But I still love the feel of a board on my feet, and ain't nothing gonna take away that childhood wide-eyed awe of watching a skater move. Click here for trailer. Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - When I was a kid my teacher got me this book. I tried to swap it with my classmates for something else. My teacher told me off, saying he got it especially for me. I'm glad he did, and only when I finally actually read it did I realize he knew me a lot better than I knew myself at the time. The school was Hendon Prep and his name is Mr. CJ, and I haven't seen him in a long time. There are two versions of the trailer: You can click here for the 'Mr. Voiceover-man' version for those who have no idea what the book is about, and click here for the absolutely hillarious dry-British humour version. Mr. & Mrs. Smith - Angelina Jolie. Brad Pitt. Lots of guns. Click here for the first trailer and here for the 'Mr. Voiceover-man' trailer. Crash - Not to be confused with the Cronenberg film of the same name, this looks like a drama of the 'Magnolia' and '21 grams' variety. Trailer looks good. Cast looks better: Don Cheadle, Matt Dillon, Brendan Fraser, Ryan Phillippe, Sandra Bullock, Jennifer Esposito, Thandie Newton and Ludacris. Click here for the crash.
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10.3.05 05:38
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Rock n' Roll Sores
So yeah.
Played the Musiccanteen Charity Tour, a tour where a lot of money was pumped into a huge truck that transforms into a stage, payments for bands and even very nice hotel rooms for everyone involved. If they spent some money on flyers and posters maybe people would've turned up. At least fun was had, sweating on the stage and laughing about the direct Malay translation of the word 'cornhole'.
So yeah.
Friday night was also interesting. Went to Red fm to do a live acoustic performance and q&a live on RedRottw with Abang Rom which is always fun. then brought Man Method to the Loft at Zouk for some Twilight Action Girl which was definitely of the kick-ass variety. Sitting in a Zouk bar listening to the DJ spin Smashing Pumpkins and the Clash still boggles my mind, but fun was had. Might make it a Friday night ritual.
So yeah.
Before the events of my three day weekend, Man Method assured me a fun time was had discovering the streets of KL and spicy foods of multiple varieties. Thursday night was spent at Nouvo listening to bling-bling-jigga-jigga-top-40-r'n'b. The rest of the week was spent fucking about.
So yeah.
This post should've come across a lot more interesting, but I'm too damn tired to write it with extreme flourish and/or expression. Just the facts, ma'am, just the facts.
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14.3.05 03:44
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The Gift of Gab...
...ain't the gift that I have.
I hate being off the brief.
When you're presenting to the client and you look into their eyes and know you've gotten it wrong. Then you look at your servicing people and they're looking at you like you're the one that's fucked-up and you just want to scream, "IF YOU HAD GIVEN ME A PROPER BRIEF I MIGHT'VE DONE A PROPER FUCKING JOB!"
Hate it. Hate it hate it hate it.
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14.3.05 08:27
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