tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2052656480500399482024-02-08T01:30:40.388+08:00Box of BoxesMy momma always said, "Life is like a box of boxes...what does that feel like?"Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-45408807567328541922011-10-09T20:06:00.002+08:002011-10-09T20:11:44.836+08:00How to Make 40 Billion Euros and Keep Your Day Job<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">There comes a time in your life, when you need to streamline your goals and really focus on what you ultimately want out of life. The time is usually around 3.30 am.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Once, at 3.30am, I decided that the only thing I want out of this wretched existence is 40 Billion Euros. And VENGEANCE! </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The next step is to say it out loud. Announce it to the universe. For example, if like me, what you ultimately want out of life is 40 Billion Euros (and VENGEANCE), then you have to find a group of people who are not hard-of-hearing and say to them, “I WANT 40 BILLION EUROS. And when I get my 40 Billion Euros, I will [insert whatever little things you like here]” Now, the first time you say it, it might sound like a joke. That’s because you’re a joke. And it can’t be helped. But make no mistake, this is a very important step. If you don’t do this, everyone from your mother to your manager will tell you that your problem is that you don’t know what you want out of life. No, your problem is sweaty feet. An itchy, sensitive scalp. Side parking. angrybirds. Humanity.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Repeat the aforemetioned step, even as you move on to the next one:</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Study your role model. Do some research and if possible, stalk the people who already have what you want. Unfortunately for me, Forbes Magazine says that there is no individual in the world who is worth 40 billion Euros (yet. Soon, I will be). Mexican telecom magnate, Carlos Slim Helu comes close at approx EUR 38 billion. So I started thinking about what I know of telecommunications. Well, recently, someone went through the contents of my bag and stole RM150 (approx EUR 35) from my wallet. The fucker didn’t take my phone. You know why? Because even desperate, lowly, petty thieves already have fancier phones than I do. So what do I know of telecommunications? I know that my phone is worth less than 35 euros. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I then got to thinking that maybe, I wouldn’t actually have to run my own business to make 40 Billion Euros. There is another, more traditional, time-tested way of becoming rich and that is to marry someone who is. Alas, I don’t have serious daddy issues and Carlos Slim Helu, at 70, is too old for my liking. My dad is 62 this year, and I prefer someone younger - like, in their 50s. Which brings me to the 2nd richest guy in the world (again, according to Forbes), William Gates III. Everyone calls him ‘Bill’, probably because he has no problems paying his. He’s worth about 37 billion euros - not bad for some IT tech support guy. How many IT tech support guys do I know? Just the ones at work and they hate me. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The girl who occupies the cubicle next to mine, all she has to do is accidentally press CAPS LOCK and three IT tech support guys instantly show up at her desk, ready to do her bidding. She’s Gen Y and has a background in software programming mind you, so I don’t really think she needs a trio of nerds to hold her hands as she navigates the big scary world of computers. And yet, her IT needs are supported, more than a bra made out of prison fencing wires support your boobs. My former line manager thinks it’s because she’s single, cute and gives away free cookies. Like, real chocolate chip cookies - not internet browsing history capturing-cookies. Me, I have to cry for three days for half an IT tech support guy to show up. I’m single, I’m somewhat cute but I already ate all the cookies. The half an IT tech support guy, he said to me once, “But I heard you were getting married.”</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Reports of my desirability have been greatly exaggerated and “WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?!!!!!!” I asked. Don’t let the Caps fool you. I asked very politely. </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Heh heh,</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> was the Muttley-esque sound that Half-An-IT-Tech-Support-Guy made in response.</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">“JUST DO YOUR JOB AND FIX MY COMPUTER, NERD!” I said, in a polite tone, as always. “I’M GOING TO GO FOR A SMOKE ,AND IF MY COMPUTER ISN’T FIXED BY THE TIME I FINISH GIVING MYSELF MY MORNING DOSE OF CANCER--” I grabbed the cookie out of his hand and shoved it down my esophagus. “NO COOKIE FOR YOU!!!!” </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Come to think of it, I really shouldn’t compare the IT guys at work to Bill Gates. </span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-75841511968879859152010-05-19T06:39:00.000+08:002010-05-19T06:39:35.415+08:00Nasihat bagi Mamat Sekerja<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Setinggi-tinggi tupai melompat<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Akhirnya jatuh ke tanah juga<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Sebesar-besar motor kau dapat<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Kalau hujan, tinggal di <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">office</i> juga<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-73002974854112026202010-05-15T22:31:00.001+08:002011-10-09T20:39:18.749+08:00Box of Boxes Career Guide: Episode 1 - Cubicle Makeover: From Grim to Dream<div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal;">Considering that we devote a majority of our time to being physically present in our cubicles, my colleagues and I think that it is very important that this place is transformed into something that at least, vaguely resembles our natural habitat; much like the different cages and areas in a zoo. The Lion must have his savannah, just as the Penguin needs his ice. The new guy in my department went home early for lunch one Friday and came back late with a rug - so that his feet will feel the warm, itchiness of sisal instead of the cold concrete floors, while he works. He has already managed to install a kick-ass sound system in his cubicle in his first week at work. Last Friday, I saw another colleague try to pitch up a tent over his cubicle using a large piece of black, velvet cloth that he found in the store room. He figured it would be a good 20 years before he would actually get an office with real walls and a door (I think he’s kidding himself - try never, bro) - in the meantime, a tent is the only way he can give himself some kind of privacy as he watches Maria Ozawa porn films at work. By the way, this guy also has an aquarium on his desk but all his fish died when he went on leave for a week. Additionally, the guy has an extensive collection of sand from various Malaysian beaches on display - kept in tiny jam jars with neat little labels. We don’t know why he would keep his sand collection at the office but a few of us suspect that great voodoo-hoodoo might be at work here. Apparently, when the boss isn’t looking, he scatters some magic sand in her office which compels her to not yell at him everytime he fucks-up (which just happens to be everyday). And she never does. She yells at the rest of us instead. So you see folks, decorating is not only about form, but function. Jars of sand is not only fabulously boring to look at, it also helps ensure job security!</span></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">As for myself and my own cubicle-decorating preferences, I will sometimes arrange the coloured thumb tacks on my cubicle wall to form motivational words and welcoming phrases. Like this: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHLDMoYF6UVXgUds84bF7wnJ3m77NokAIoe7dsuA8n7CQRZMDQKrutlQu7FSGAY70gPM5o2vaubdcKdrJ2cWy_O4A8PaA7azyineI_xjW_d2OMQOjaWcIq0WUnY3hHlXotqlmKgVmuR_I/s1600/fuckitbox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHLDMoYF6UVXgUds84bF7wnJ3m77NokAIoe7dsuA8n7CQRZMDQKrutlQu7FSGAY70gPM5o2vaubdcKdrJ2cWy_O4A8PaA7azyineI_xjW_d2OMQOjaWcIq0WUnY3hHlXotqlmKgVmuR_I/s320/fuckitbox.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Yeah, you’ve seen that pic before. Well, for a while, I also started a little mini cactus garden in a corner of my desk. One of the projects I’ve been working on at work is with a tree-hugging NGO and I got like, 5 of those spiky fellas from them. One Friday evening, I threw the contents of my mug over the cactus garden before leaving the office. Because that’s my idea of tending to plants. I thought I had water in my mug. I came back to work on Monday and found my cactus garden destroyed. Ants ate my cacti!!!!!!! It was then that I remembered; my mug was actually filled with sugar water because I had diarrhea that Friday and had been sipping sugar water to stay alive. As Homer Simpson would say, “D’Oh!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">When it comes to decorating your cubicles, I don’t have any suggestions for good shops where you can source material from. Some folks will suggest IKEA, with its abundance of cute little boxes, folders and other artifacts of Swedish perfection. I say screw that. Corporate offices are filled with accidental thieves and kleptomaniacs- that’s why you can never find your stapler when you need it. Trust me, you don’t want to be spending much of your own money on sprucing up your cubicle. The best places to source for material are:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .75in; text-indent: -.5in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">i.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">your colleagues’ cubicles. Steal their stress balls. Watch them squeeze their own. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .75in; text-indent: -.5in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">ii.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">office store room (particularly if you work in the Corporate Comm/ Public Affairs line - your division’s store room will be filled with everything a business doesn’t need). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .75in; text-indent: -.5in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">iii.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Office stationery supply cabinet (for coloured thumb tacks especially - you need more than the regular amount if you’re going to be spelling all sorts of shit with it)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .75in; text-indent: -.5in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">iv.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Your own home - particularly shit that your spouse doesn’t want around the house anymore. Or your mom. You're not the only shit that your mom doesn't want around the house anymore, you know. She hates that pink recliner your dad bought too. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .75in; text-indent: -.5in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">v.<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Gifts and bribes from colleagues, bosses, clients and suppliers - they’re usually too worthless to take home, anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">This way, you’re also doing your bit for the environment by not throwing out garbage for landfills to deal with and poison your own water supply. My cubicle is also known for housing a replica of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Petronas</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Twin</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Towers</st1:placetype></st1:place> using empty cans of Coke. It doesn’t actually look like the real thing so let’s not call it a replica, eh? Think of it as an artistic abstract interpretation…..<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">From my casual observation, I realise that most people just resort to covering their cubicle with keychains from places they’ve never been to. And I say - boooooooooo. So your Boss bought you a keychain of the <st1:placename w:st="on">Eiffel</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype> but tell me, why do you need to be constantly reminded that your Boss went on vacation to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Paris</st1:place></st1:city> while you can barely afford the bus fare home, again?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">There are really, many other things that one can do to spruce up a space that is no bigger than a coffin. But dead people don’t decorate. You, on the other hand, my precious white collar slave, have the advantage of having a heartbeat by default. The possibilities are endless - but whatever you do, don’t try to start a cubicle-design competition called “The Extraordinaire”, and insist that everyone participate and contribute RM10 each for the prizes. And then send “friendly” e-mail reminders (CC-ed to the Boss) every fucking day about how the deadline is approaching soon and <i>“those people with messy desks (you know who you are) better take note. Besides, messy desks give a bad impression to visitors. Also, don’t forget to all wear blue on prize-giving day.”</i> One of my former colleagues did that. We hated him. By we, I mean myself and probably one other person. 6 other people loved him. But his boss wasn't one of them. Hence, <i>former </i>colleague.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">With that, I wish you all the best with transforming your coffin from grim to dream! Stay tuned for the next episode of Box of Boxes Career Guide - maybe we’ll talk about things you can do to ensure that your Fridays in the office, isn’t wasted upon work. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Sehingga kita berjumpa lagi…………. semoga anda sukses selalu!</span></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-59862620743783420152010-05-05T23:53:00.002+08:002010-05-05T23:56:34.905+08:00When You've Spent the Day Writing 22,800 words of Corporate Bullshit, it's best to let other people do the talking at night<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt;">1: For When They Ask You Why. Again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">“I have always accrued status and validation through my indiscretions …………………… We all need something to help us unwind at the end of the day. You might hav.e a glass of wine, or a joint, or a big, delicious blob of heroin to silence your silly brainbox of its witterings, but there has to be some form of punctuation, or life just seems utterly relentless.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">-<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Russell Brand in My Booky Wook (dear god, why did he call it that?)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Well, at least Russell Brand gets it. Unfortunately, you are not the child of Russell Brand. And even if you were, there’s no guarantee that you would be any less disappointing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">But at least, Russell Brand gets it. You should be worried. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">And by you, I mean me. Obviously.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt;">2: For When You’re Sick and Tired of Every Living Soul <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Allen Ginsberg shot his famous friends. With a camera, that is. Here’s one of Jack Kerouac, taken after his visit to Ginsberg & Burrough’s Lower East Side, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city> pad in the fall of 1953. Ginsberg refers to Kerouac’s expression here as “Dostoyevsky mad-face or Russian basso be-bop <st1:place w:st="on">Om</st1:place>”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2jOdGJxYrxZZ9-mIesH-9hhF1Nh74VrJkbyhossmOzratFfZzu3jALUFV4dLQSt2-CEVIGWWi8sDDs9b_sI_VRx6oPvbE3zVB8O318hIY2QT-Uo5DstcBfBS8ic14ZQwSsyb1DCdzpXM/s1600/dex26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2jOdGJxYrxZZ9-mIesH-9hhF1Nh74VrJkbyhossmOzratFfZzu3jALUFV4dLQSt2-CEVIGWWi8sDDs9b_sI_VRx6oPvbE3zVB8O318hIY2QT-Uo5DstcBfBS8ic14ZQwSsyb1DCdzpXM/s400/dex26.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 14pt;">3: For When Somebody Tells You that Women who wear make-up at work get promoted faster than their bare-faced peers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">And also, for when somebody asks you what the hell is that entitled little, fuckwad of a receptionist is thinking half the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhf4-ls5aIIX0dQb8XfVDi5epQvZlyGg62aQ7UAfYubM3fcCExYDPSuUGce9wworX-HFNRDZtbPR4HdOR6wj2fyhT7L1I9bHdoLHNtKzeqQJ8HFhXNRP76p_CZX4zShmdVV036VA4SKs/s1600/73bd767d5049da6a6d8c75440491586d74bbf7b9_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFhf4-ls5aIIX0dQb8XfVDi5epQvZlyGg62aQ7UAfYubM3fcCExYDPSuUGce9wworX-HFNRDZtbPR4HdOR6wj2fyhT7L1I9bHdoLHNtKzeqQJ8HFhXNRP76p_CZX4zShmdVV036VA4SKs/s400/73bd767d5049da6a6d8c75440491586d74bbf7b9_m.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">Of course, in my case, it would just be “Give Us Money.” Uhm, yeah, that’s it. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-34175608242556286732010-05-01T09:34:00.002+08:002010-05-01T09:36:19.228+08:00Add this to the list of shit that goes down in Shah Alam<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Whatever criticism I level at Shah Alam, there will be those who are quick to come to its defence by saying that the town may not be as lively, entertaining or cosmopolitan as some of the other parts of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Klang</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place> but “it’s safe and peaceful.” This statement is usually followed by some other rubbish implying that the rest of the Valley is only filled with hardened criminals, road-raging drivers in day-long traffic jams, and degenerate liberals.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">I’m not going to deny that we have a ton of those outside of Shah Alam, but it’s not like Shah Alam is Seventh Heaven or anything where only the righteous and pure of heart and deed may enter. Methinks, that these folks are confusing Shah Alam’s dull facade with peace. Just look at the papers for the past year and you’ll find that all sorts of shit go down in Shah Alam, precisely because it’s so dull – even I’m considering resorting to some kind of crime, be it something as simple as possession of illegal substances or something more exotic - like sacrificing goats to the Death Metal Gods (like they did in Kedah all those years back) just to liven things up. A month or two ago, some guy lost his mind in the neighbouring state of Negeri Sembilan, chopped off his father’s head, placed it in a bag, took the train to Shah Alam and tried to bury it here. Why? I don’t know. Maybe he thought his father could rest in <i>peace</i></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></i></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">here. Geddit, geddit? Not funny? No?</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">The other day, the Inspector General of Police, Tan Sri Musa Hassan was quoted in the papers saying that Section 11, Section 9 and surrounding areas in Shah Alam have had high occurrences of burglaries (some of them armed, one lady was even killed in her own home, in front of her daughters). Yes, this shit happens everywhere and that</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">includes</span></i></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></i></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Shah Alam. Safe and peaceful? No more than the next <i>bandaraya</i>, my friend.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Anyway, some of you can probably guess by now why the IGP was going on about the crime rate in Shah Alam in the papers – it all has to do with the recent fatal police shooting of a 15 year old boy in town.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">The boy was on a joyride at 2am when the police caught on to him at Section 11, Shah Alam. The police officer said that it was dark, that repeated orders to the driver to stop were ignored, and that he was driving in a reckless manner “typical of a hardcore criminal.”</span></span><br />
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<span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">He didn’t stop because he was driving without a license and had snuck out his older sister’s car. He was 15. He panicked. He thought if the police caught up to him, he was going to get into so much shit with his parents or something. Maybe get grounded for life. Maybe have them look at you with that unbearable look of disappointment. Maybe take away his PlayStation privileges. Well, I don’t know, but that’s probably what would be going through my head if I was 15 and in that situation. Well, even at almost 25. Okay, so he wasn’t acting with much reason. So as he was driving away, he might have endangered the lives of others with his reckless driving. But let me just say that this is <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Malaysia</st1:country-region></st1:place>. Pretty much everyone in the fucking country drives recklessly – license or no license, criminal or non criminal. Also, 15 year old teenagers aren’t known for their fantastic sense of logic or reasoning; I think even scientist have discovered that that particular part of the brain doesn’t develop until you’re well in your 20s (and even that doesn’t happen for some. Like me.) But I don’t think for one second he thought that it would lead to him being shot by the cops. In the back of the head.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">My colleague knows the boy’s teachers, having worked closely with them on one of our community programmes. The teachers said the boy had</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">no record of disciplinary problems in school.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">He was a fairly good student, and never gave any sort of trouble.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">The IGP goes on to say, “The death of this teenager is unfortunate and sad. But how could the policemen have known that he was just a 15 year old on a joyride at 2am?”</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">And he goes on to add,</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">“In self-defense….the rules of engagement. It is not only a<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i> parang<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>or a gun that can be used as a weapon. Even a vehicle can.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Correct us if we’re wrong but in self defense, the rules of engagement mean that you don’t shoot someone in the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b>back of the head</b><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and call it self defence. It means that the person, whether wielding a parang, or a gun or driving a car was aiming and<span class="apple-converted-space"><i> </i></span>heading away from you.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>According to reports, the police officer said that the boy had tried to reverse the car into him. Hence a shot to the back of the head. Whether this is true or a concocted cover-up, is not for me to say. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Another colleague of mine, one of those obnoxious law-background blokes, started talking about another accidental police shooting case that happened a while back - an entire family travelling in a van was mistakenly, and fatally shot by the po-po. Extended family members sued the government. They lost. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">My manager, who I tend to talk to everything about BUT work, started going off on a rant about “How come everyone’s just looking at what the police officer did wrong and not what the boy did wrong?” Well, mostly, boss, because the boy is dead. And the police officer is alive. What’s the point of harping on what the boy did wrong when he’s already had a bullet in his head? It seems to me, like punishment enough for the most heinous of crimes, let alone, for what began as a misdemeanor; a moment of teenage transgression. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">The Sun yesterday captured the IGP responding to the public outcry regarding the shooting, by saying, “So do they want us to enforce the law? If they don’t, just say so and I will tell my men. So no need to check suspicious looking cars, no need to stop the Mat Rempit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Wow, you sound just like my mother when I tell her that I'm almost 25 years old for god's sake, so stop calling me every 5 seconds when I’m out for dinner with my friends. Except this isn’t dinner, is it?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">No,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Musa</i>, Mr. IGP-man, it means that we just don’t want your men<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>mistakenly<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>shoot another teenager in the back of the head, for the “crime” of panicking and an inability to properly think things through.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span> It means that if we the civillian public, must answer to the Law, then your men should too. And the Law requires questioning. Being the IGP, you should very well be aware of it. It’s not wrong for the public to question, so stop saying shit like, “The question of police discharging firearms shouldn’t arise…..” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">The Law sometimes requires more questions than we have answers to. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">The public is angry not because we knew the boy. But because any one of us, could’ve been the boy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Nobody said being a teenager was easy. No one ever said it was going to come down on you this hard. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">I never knew you. But we all could’ve been you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">Rest in peace, Aminul. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-82376609950596925992010-04-27T11:30:00.000+08:002010-04-27T11:30:23.414+08:00Box of Boxes Guide to the Klang Valley: Chapter One - Shah Alam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnHnfBMdJKh6eQPZHmuVW3IJc1OJqqseyRAUaYP0-vlPTDtcxWLLn_lxLsMqF_JpGJKbW7sWUqVlbHTGQ8yBTul0aDslO-UNajvL47LGFbSt6nqilymrp4y3IcMf8qyEll3QEOfVAZv_o/s1600/shahalam-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnHnfBMdJKh6eQPZHmuVW3IJc1OJqqseyRAUaYP0-vlPTDtcxWLLn_lxLsMqF_JpGJKbW7sWUqVlbHTGQ8yBTul0aDslO-UNajvL47LGFbSt6nqilymrp4y3IcMf8qyEll3QEOfVAZv_o/s400/shahalam-pola.jpg" width="328" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnHnfBMdJKh6eQPZHmuVW3IJc1OJqqseyRAUaYP0-vlPTDtcxWLLn_lxLsMqF_JpGJKbW7sWUqVlbHTGQ8yBTul0aDslO-UNajvL47LGFbSt6nqilymrp4y3IcMf8qyEll3QEOfVAZv_o/s1600/shahalam-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;">Chapter One: Shah Alam</span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;">Shah Alam is one of many little-townships in the somewhat sprawling area known as the Klang Valley. Most Klang Valley dwellers, particularly those born and raised in old Petaling Jaya, the tripartite of Bangsar/Damansara/Hartamas and the inner suburbs of Kuala Lumpur, are as familiar with Shah Alam as they are with Atlantis and other such mythical places. Yes, you’ve heard several hypotheses on where these places are supposed to be located. In the case of Atlantis, scientists have placed it all over the globe – from northern Europe to the Mediterranean Sea to the Indian Ocean – either way; you get an idea that it’s likely somewhere very watery. In the case of Shah Alam, some may place it somewhere beyond the toll plaza on the Federal Highway; the one that marks the end of Subang Jaya, and the beginning of a black hole that leads to an even bigger black hole known as Klang. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other guide books will tell you that Shah Alam is only about 20 - 30 kilometres away from the heart of Kuala Lumpur. That puts Shah Alam somewhere near the asshole region, or about 30 minutes drive from KL – traffic jam caused by USJ fuckers notwithstanding. Spiritually however, scientists will tell you that Shah Alam seems to not only operate in a different time zone; it might as well be on a separate planet, where the lack of gravity slows everyone’s movement down to a spacey Buzz Aldrin moonwalk. Either way, you get the idea that it’s probably not worth visiting. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;">And you would be right, under most circumstances. But many long-time Shah Alam residents will insist that Shah Alam actually has many things to offer, especially if you want to get the hell out of Pangkal “Pelle”, Kelantan to a place that sort of reminds you of Kelantan, if Kelantan didn’t insist on keeping PAS in power for the last 20 years. Sure, in the recent elections, Shah Alam, with its abundance of cow-head waving, beer-sale protesting residents, had inevitably fallen under the hold of “Islamic” party PAS but at least they were smart enough to wait until they had good roads in place before voting for the opposition. Shah Alam seems to be one of the last Klang Valley bastions of the conservative right, where Perodua Kelisa cars and Toyota Avanza minivans drive round-and-round the city’s many round-a-bouts with bumper stickers proclaiming “UiTM Hak Melayu”, (err...if you’re going to take that line of thought, what about other Bumiputeras?). Funny, I thought that the whole point of a university education is to “broaden your horizons” and open your mind up to new and different perspectives – but when everyone around you is from more or less the same ethnic background, I would imagine that this would limit things, just that little bit more. You know, I almost ended up at UiTM Shah Alam after my SPM but I suppose Fate was gracious enough to delay my suffering for just that little bit longer. As a Melayu person, I actually did, a long time ago, receive an offer to study <i>Seni Persembahan </i>at the UiTM Shah Alam campus but then, it occurred to me what the fuck would I do with a Performing Arts diploma in Malaysia? God knows I already have a hard time doing anything with a Media and Communications degree (should’ve been a lawyer, they told me. Fuck that, I told myself). Anyway, if I was going to study the Arts, it sure as hell wouldn’t be in Shah Alam. That would be like studying Marine Biology in Bhutan. Good luck finding an ocean! (at this point, I would like to apologise to all UiTM Shah Alam Seni Persembahan graduates. I’m sure many of you are fabulous nonetheless, unless your name is Farid Kamil)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;">Did you know that there are no cinemas in Shah Alam? Not that one can learn much in terms of arts education through Hollywood blockbuster movies like Transformers 2 (Megan Fox’s cup size, perhaps?). But I’m just saying, THERE ARE NO CINEMAS in Shah Alam, or any other type of “entertainment” outlets (you can forget about bars and clubs). It was decreed by the old Sultan of Selangor that Shah Alam, as the site of many universities and colleges and therefore, many impressionable youths, shall be a city free of morally corruptive influences. The current Sultan of Selangor has decided to go on with this, because he’s never in Shah Alam anyway and is free and rich enough to get his jollies anywhere around the world. Yeah, thanks a lot, man, thanks a lot. So you will find that the youths here have turned to other “healthier” forms of entertainment; the most popular one being “staring at people for no good reason.” If Staring was an Olympic sport, Malaysia can count on Shah Alamites to sweep the gold, silver and bronze medals. If you feel like no one ever pays you any attention, I suggest you take a stroll around Dataran Shah Alam on a Friday night – you’ll have many eyes on you, even if you’re usually, not worth looking at. You will find many boys and girls gathered there to watch each other, watch each other, eyes boring deep into each other’s souls and coming up with a handful of sand. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this is why a large number of Shah Alam youths are very fond of smoking weed; this way, a whole lot of Nothing suddenly becomes Something very interesting. Healthy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;">Other folks in Shah Alam might choose to enjoy Shah Alam’s many little parks in their spare time. And for this, I must give kudos to the Shah Alam Municipal Council’s (MBSA) parks & recreation department, whom I’ve had the opportunity to work with through one of my company’s CSR programmes, and who does a significantly better job than their whackjob peers at MBPJ. You would think though, that a city with so many parks and jogging tracks would at least, boast plenty of scenery-enhancing fit bodies. Au contraire, my friend. From my general observation, the Shah Alam population are generally fatter, or more accepting of fatness than the rest of the Klang Valley, and is therefore a good place to heal if you’ve had your self-esteem damaged by not being able to fit into a size 2 at Topshop. Half of Shah Alam’s park visitors forego physical activity in favour of sitting and wolfing down an entire picnic basket, while staring at the still waters of Tasik Shah Alam. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;">Since we’re on the topic of food, I should probably take this opportunity to talk about the dining-out options in Shah Alam and they are: Kelantanese food, Kelantanese food and other food cooked by Kelantanese people that end up tasting like Kelantanese food. Think that radioactive blue rice dish known as Nasi Kerabu. While I do enjoy stuffing my face with Solok Lada and lacing my rice with a generous helping of Budu, I don’t enjoy diabetes. You see, Kelantanese people are awfully fond of sugar. They love their sugar so much; they put sugar in their milk, sugar in their curry, heck, they put sugar in their sugar. Have you ever tried Spaghetti Bolognaise prepared by a Kelantanese chef? Don’t worry – just drown your spaghetti in maple syrup with royal icing on top and the effect should be more or less the same. Just another thing to note: it is impossible to find well prepared pasta in Shah Alam. And fast food doesn’t exist either. Don’t get me wrong – we do have KFC, McDonalds, Burger King and the likes over here but there is nothing fast about the food service. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Also, Shah Alam boasts the SLOWEST Starbucks in the word. I kid you not.) If you’re starving and looking for a quick meal, you would be better off waiting for the eggs in your fridge to hatch into a fully grown chicken. It ain’t going to happen just like that Happy Meal isn’t, my friend. If it’s Sunday morning however, you can pay a visit to the Pasar Tani (Farmer’s Market?) at Shah Alam Stadium where you can feast on something called Gearbox Soup (pronounced Kelantan-style as Sop Gear-bok) with the snap of your fingers. It might sound like boiled motor oil with old car engine parts but really, it’s tasty animal fat floating in water with 11 herbs and spices. You can add some flat rice noodles for an extra carbohydrate boost if you like. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;">Now, back to the topic of exercise and recreation in Shah Alam - there are no decently over-priced gyms in Shah Alam, blasting shitty dance music. Those who do exercise can take it outside for free, around the many parks, and they usually do so in a sartorially spectacular manner - in puffy, nylon-polyester track pants that makes your butt look inflatable and render you very flammable. Perhaps, if you were pushed or end up “accidentally” falling off the top of a tall building, say, Plaza Masalam in Section 9 Shah Alam, where the Malaysian Anti Corruption Commission is located, these pants may act as a parachute and save your life. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teoh_Beng_Hock">Well, it has been known to happen</a>. Anyway, back to our Shah Alam Jogger - these track pants are often tucked into white sports socks for reasons that I haven’t been able to ascertain, but my, don’t you look zexxy....... Oh, how can anyone resist you now? On the topic of style, remember that when it comes to dressing up in Shah Alam; you don’t. Just forget about it. Call it a day. Use those pages from Vogue to wrap your Nasi Lemak. Unless it’s Hari Raya. Then Shah Alam offers a great and wide selection of beautiful traditional festive attire, sure to make even the most non-<i>ayu,</i> Grinch-iest among us glitter and sparkle like Siti Nurhaliza on the cover of Nona.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;">Since my love for Shah Alam is as evident as white mice in a field of snow, you may wonder, why I haven’t made a real effort to get the hell out of the place and return to the dimension from which I came? There are many answers to this question; the simplest one being <i>free and abundant parking space. </i>Seriously, do not underestimate the power of parking space in the Klang Valley. Have you ever tried looking for a parking spot in One Utama on a Saturday? Have you found one yet? How long has it been? 3 years? You’re better off parking your car in Shah Alam and walking the whole 30km to Bandar Utama – you’ll save time that way. My friends who work in KL – either in the Petronas Twin Towers or anywhere around Bukit Bintang spend RM 250 a month on parking alone (and that doesn’t include the toll charges for using the Smart Tunnel and whatnots so they’ll actually get to work in less than 7 hours). I spend about RM50 a year, and that’s only for the occasional parking fines I get for leaving my car in the middle of the bloody road because I suddenly got tired of living my life in an orderly fashion. Not for any lack of parking spots. Of course, the abundance of parking in Shah Alam is probably a sound acknowledgment of the fact that public transport to and around the area is shit, with everything but the armpit-scented KTM Komuter train stopping short at Subang. Even then, the KTM Komuter only passes through the industrial areas of Shah Alam – so unless you live in a tractor graveyard, good luck trying to get home. And you should know that the taxis here refuse to use their meter, charging you an arbitrarily and extravagantly chosen fee of RM20 just to drive a little further away than where you can spit. You end up asking the Taxi driver if he is employed by Satan and he ends up going all Pacino on your ass. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;">I’m pretty convinced now that the lack of public transport in and out of the area is not due to bad town planning but a devious and diabolical conspiracy, between the Powers That Be to keep Shah Alam people in Shah Alam and the rest of Klang Valley out. They’re trying to isolate us. Maybe Shah Alam was established for the purpose of a wacky, secret social experiment – like the island on Lost. Or maybe they’ve decided to put us under quarantine for general public health and safety – like lepers and tuberculosis patients in the old days, H1N1 sufferers, Zombies!!!!!! You see folks, at the end of the day, Shah Alam is not just a physical and geographical location; like New York, it’s also a state of mind. Well, it’s a state of mind that is a symptom of some kind of infectious disease. Just like people infected by the Zombie virus can’t help but think that they would like to eat your intestines. I’ve been in Shah Alam for 2 years now. It’s too late for me. I feel it, I feel the Shah Alam taking over. I’m staring at you, aren’t I? Save yourself! I don’t want you to see me like this. Leave me to my puffy polyester track pants, my blue rice, my parking spots, my slow-ass movements. Leave and don’t look back. The only thing I ask of you is that you remember me as I was, remember me before this dastardly disease took hold! Remember me as I was, and remember me fondly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;">This is not a guide. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-themecolor: text1;">This is goodbye. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-91714858482400260952010-04-23T23:44:00.004+08:002010-04-27T11:23:47.553+08:00Box of Boxes Guide to the Klang Valley: Introduction<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">If you’re a foreigner, and you meet a Malaysian who says he lives in “<st1:city w:st="on">Kuala Lumpur</st1:city>”, otherwise fondly known as KL, do not automatically assume that he has a nice cottage smack next door to the glittering <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Petronas</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Twin</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Towers</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Hardly anyone from “KL” actually lives there, and if you do, fuck you, you’re an expat living off the strength of the Euro. Or, you might as well be one. Or, you’re from Kampung Baru. In that case, the rest of us will assume that you know where all the best <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nasi Lemak/ Tom Yam </i>stalls and weed dealers are. . <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> More often than not, “<st1:city w:st="on">Kuala Lumpur</st1:city>” is used by many to refer to one of the many cities, towns and suburbs that make up the <st1:city w:st="on"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kuala Lumpur</i></st1:city><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Metropolitan Area/ </i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Greater <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kuala Lumpur</st1:place></st1:city>, </i>usually referred to as the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Klang Valley</i>, named after the large drain that flows through it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">On foreign soil, <st1:placename w:st="on">Klang</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype> natives will present a united front as KL-ites because you might already have a hard time wrapping your head around where <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Malaysia</st1:place></st1:country-region> is and we don’t want you to strain a muscle in your hat. Yes, that’s right. Your hat. Nice hat by the way. For your information, West or Peninsular Malaysia, where the <st1:placename w:st="on">Klang</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype> is located, is a penis shaped thing below <st1:country-region w:st="on">Thailand</st1:country-region>, pissing out a kidney stone known as <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>. East Malaysia is irrelevant when we’re not stealing oil, gas and native land to make Peninsular Malaysia richer or come national election time, when Barisan Nasional (BN) needs to dig for votes to keep themselves in power since we’re all sort of fed up with them over here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">If you’re a local, you probably know all this already and you just should admit that back on home turf, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Klang</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place> folks are deeply divided by a sense of tribalism and you look upon other cities/towns/suburbs with a sense of superiority, or complete ignorance. Particularly, if you’re like me and you spent the first 20 years of my life in old PJ (that’s Bukit Gasing, not SS2, and definitely not the shitty PJS which isn’t even PJ mind you, but bloody Sunway). You see, even PJ kids are divided amongst eachother - it’s not just about where you live. Sometimes, it’s also about which school you went to when you were 14, even if you’re now 44. Graduates of Assunta, Sri Aman, Bukit Bintang or <st1:place w:st="on">La Salle</st1:place> might still hate eachother but at least, we recognise one another as equals. If you went to say, Taman Petaling/ <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Taman</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Sea</st1:placetype></st1:place>/ Taman Dato’ Harun - we might like you, but only because it’s so fun to root for the underdogs, isn’t it? If you went to a private/ international school like Cempaka or Kolej Tunku Jaafar, then you’re rich brat and even a 100k per year secondary education couldn’t save you from ending up dumber than a rock. We sniff at you for your lack of pretend-street cred, and you in turn, will sniff at us for our toilet-cleaning, Mission-turned-Government school, boringly bourgeois, middling middle class ways. Oh, and if your parents sent you off to some MARA Boarding school in another state; we wonder what you did to badly piss them off that they would destroy your life so. This is of course, only if you live in PJ. MARA Boarding Schools are completely acceptable if you live in places that some PJ kids can’t even name. And there are a lot of places that we can’t even name. Even if it’s just other places in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Klang</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>. We’re out of touch, like that, and if we appear to not be, we probably fancy ourselves as some “creative freelance type”, who gets featured in <a href="http://www.klue.com.my/">KLUE</a> a lot because all our friends work for the mag. And that ultimately means that we’re actually twice as out of touch but hey, look at this awesome DSLR around my neck, check out my “vintage” plaid shirt and wait, wait, wait, check out this dog-eared copy of this book with something that Nietzsche wrote on Andreas-Salome and uh, uh, we also write poetry on our blog and that’s where you can also find many artful pictures of us which makes us sort of look like <a href="http://animalnewyork.com/2010/04/police-release-photos-of-dating-game-killers-victims/">Rodney Alcala’s murder victims</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Oh. Don’t mind me, I’m just bitter that I ended up moving to Shah Alam, with a shitty 9 to 5, no, 8 to 8 GOVERNMENT-LINKED COMPANY office job that also happens to be in Shah Alam. And the last time I wore some skinny pants to work, someone asked me why I decided to wear my swimming costume to the office. These are not swimming tights or part of a burqini you sartorially challenged wart! These are called <a href="http://store.americanapparel.net/rsaah300.html?cid=153">“Disco Pants” by the pervert-owned poser-serving American Apparel</a><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">I want to have no EPF too. I want to write poetry too but as you can see, I have trouble sticking to a word limit. I also don’t have a Twitter account for this reason. I mean 140 word limit? The fuck! Do you tell Michelangelo that he can only paint using the colour purple? What’s that? I’m not an artist of his stature?!!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Stop digressing and end this introduction already. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Well, yes, Shah Alam. Living and working in Shah Alam for almost two years now, makes me hate myself and want to die. And that pretty much makes me the best person to write a guide on Shah Alam, doesn’t it? I mean, don’t you just hate those cloyingly optimistic, upbeat travel guides? They make it sound as if people in other places shit rainbows out of their ass. And they don’t. The only thing people shit out of their ass is shit. Hence, we refer to the action as shitting. Because it’s shit. Sometimes, I shit out of my mouth too or through my hands onto my keyboard and onto my blog. But not everyone is affected with that particular condition. Shitting rainbows however; well, no one can do that. Not even Care Bears. And screw Lonely Planet - dude, you people don’t even sound lonely! You know what’s lonely? Being stuck in gaddam Shah Alam. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">So ladies & gentlemen, for the next part of my guide to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Klang</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place> (yes, that would be Chapter One), I invite you to journey with me through time and space and non-matter to the “city” known as SHAH ALAM……………….<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Except I haven’t written Chapter One yet so you’re just gonna have to wait.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Who is going to have to wait? No one reads your blog. </span></i></span></div></span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM7WDDb6ytj0wSgDecozbi2au9Y2Uc7mkEgAlbaDxvs9uvhdxVoyzl2aiPQ1z_S8gumjQtRLtv9PmxSUrR-bA-h84OLcxfKQZMuPBH5d94lCBtPx98Tz4rPaHA8hXBySOauVLaoMkZip0/s1600/p1coverage-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-51385783908186865642010-04-11T20:13:00.000+08:002010-04-11T20:13:22.266+08:00Red Box: Morning Crap in Defense of Karaoke<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiIIClHTP_ACRfN9LVdqvm8YCPvkLh8t2mKfQUDW_pfkPYSF10O2feUEaHyWJtWqRfc9I9t-L_3xHEv7bXiDMg1-H5I3-pWEEWc0iHhvQKabvoIuJSvDOEB-11-7TlS6X6WiHlQ7TBZRc/s1600/25524_10150099320370107_605055106_11274216_7792374_n-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiIIClHTP_ACRfN9LVdqvm8YCPvkLh8t2mKfQUDW_pfkPYSF10O2feUEaHyWJtWqRfc9I9t-L_3xHEv7bXiDMg1-H5I3-pWEEWc0iHhvQKabvoIuJSvDOEB-11-7TlS6X6WiHlQ7TBZRc/s320/25524_10150099320370107_605055106_11274216_7792374_n-pola.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Sound check one-two-one-two……<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Yesterday morning, while taking an excruciatingly long dump in the loo<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(dammit, time to introduce more fiber to my diet), I flipped through a June 09 issue of Word Magazine to ease the boredom of bodily functions. A shirtless, 62-year old Iggy Pop was featured on the cover. Six decades of putting up with gravity had dragged his face down to his navel. He had his arms, with all its loose and wrinkly, grandpa-skin glory, defiantly crossed over his chest and the headlines read: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IGGY POP WANTS TO HAVE A WORD WITH YOU. </b>Ah, Iggy, the grandaddy of Punk who has now become the face of Swiftcover car insurance. How lovely. That’s what happens when you let rock stars live past the age of 27. They get old and start selling insurance to you.. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In the far right corner of the magazine cover, is a small picture of good ol’ Morrissey, his face looking like an off-pitch note, in a quarter-smile more constipated than my bowel movements were. Beneath his picture were the words: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Morrissey: I don’t want to go on much longer.” </i>And I’m sure he didn’t. Not with the trying to smile bit, at least. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Page 8 - 9 features Mickey Rourke, post-The Wrestler glory, with the headlines: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">MICKEY ROURKE WON’T FIRE a STAPLE-GUN INTO HIS OWN FOREHEAD</b>. Funny, I thought, seeing that his FACE sure looks like he did. And the little cat in my soul went “MRRRRRIIIIIAAAAOW”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Anyway, this is all besides the point. What really got me shitting was an opinion piece by David Hepworth about how he doesn’t do karaoke because he loves pop music too much. Bah! Hepworth writes: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“….there’s something about karaoke, whether participating or spectating, that withers my purist soul. This is because it seems a mockery of much that I hold dear.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And so I found myself thinking; so what if karaoke is a mockery of all that you hold dear? Marcel Duchamp made a mockery of all that was previously regarded as “art”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and now anyone who has been made to study at least 1 art subject at Uni has been forced to stroke their beards over <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fountain,</i> as one of “the most influential artworks of the 20<sup>th</sup> century”. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Discuss. </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fellow Dadaist, Hans Richter wrote of Duchamp’s work<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">: “You threw the bottle-rack and the urinal in their faces as a challenge, and now they admire them for their aesthetic beauty.”</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And thus, I throw this bloody, butchered, violated version of Queen’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bohemian Rhapsody </i>and Search’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fantasia Bulan Madu </i>in your ear and you may see it as a challenge my friend, or better yet, think that I am somewhat mentally challenged, but years down the line, you will grow to admire them for their aesthetic beauty and I will pooh-pooh at you for it. For I am ARTIST! Hear me sneer derisively at you!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">If Dadaism is anti-art as art, then, my friend, Karaoke, the lovely Japanese phrase for “empty orchestra”, is anti-music as music, yes?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">No. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Alright then, the world’s best jokes make a mockery of all that we hold sacred - religion, racial identity, your momma, and uh….. Tiger Woods - shall we then reject the notion of humour in our lives? Shall we never laugh again, Mr. Hepworth, never?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Hepworth further describes karaoke as “….one of those things you do to show that you haven’t got a poker up your ass..”. No, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dave, </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I karaoke because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you can’t read my, can’t read my Poker Face, P-p-p-oker m-m-my poker face, p-p-p-poker m-m-my poker face.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Uh…No, not really. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">David Hepworth did write one thing however, that I agreed with (oh, other than the bit about how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Only goats don’t like Abba.”</i>): “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I despise the arbitrary division between music that is allegedly fluff and that which is supposedly substantial. I firmly believe that all music has to be entertainment, because if it isn’t entertaining first, it’s unlikely to be anything else second.” <o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Karaoke is highly entertaining, provided you are the one participating and not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">spectating.</i> Come on, everybody, loves the sound of their own voice best. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>You go to a gig to watch someone else put on a great show; you don’t go to Red Box Karaoke Lounge to listen to your friend vocally butt-fuck a Whitney ballad. You go so<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> you</i> can be the one stripping Black Sabbath’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paranoid </i>out of all dignity that Ozzy Osbourne hasn’t done away with. That or the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Somewhere over the Rainbow </i>song from Wizard of Oz.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">What the masses don’t understand is that karaoke is not about singing pretty although it remains, about the worship of beauty or more particularly, beautiful songs. Those who worship beauty, do not worship it simply because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mon dieu, it is beautiful </i>- we worship beauty because it is so hard to achieve, so delicate, so fragile, so easily lost and transformed into the opposite. How many words do you know that can be easily transformed into its opposite? When one looks down from the edge of a 50ft cliff; there’s that moment of vertigo; there’s that sick temptation to throw oneself off said cliff, not in spite but precisely because you know that such action would only result in a tragic outcome. It’s the same when you look upon something beautiful; there’s always that sick temptation deep down, to stab it in the eye and claw it to shreds.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Uh….No<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">If the 200 spin-off series of CSI has taught us anything, is that as righteous as you are, or how much some deserve it, you can’t murder people and have some stupid Ginger actor as <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Miami</st1:place></st1:city> police lieutenant come after you. But you can easily murder songs. You can slash and rip them and splatter their insides all over the padded walls of the karaoke room. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can tear out its intestines and wear it around your neck like a feather boa. And then you can leave. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In his article, David Hepworth mentioned some record that he “respects too much to do violence to them.” It has naught to do with respect, Mr. Hepworth! Karaoke enthusiasts mean no disrespect when we try to bash the face in of a beloved classic. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In Hindu religion, creation and destruction is one and the same thing - Shiva is both creator and destroyer. What the musician creates, the karaoke enthusiast destroys, thus giving people who otherwise don’t have an ounce of ability or pop star potential, a chance to be an active participant in the world of music. As a long-time music journalist, Mr Hepworth has had the opportunity to be a part of the industry eco-system, albeit as some kind of scavenging creature - a vulture or hyena, maybe - to the pop star’s proud lion. We are not part of the eco system, we are not able to roam freely in the Great Savannah of music, watching the animals tear eachother apart the way one would a documentary on National Geographic. Karaoke, however, changes that. For about RM 50 for 6 hours (plus an all you can eat dinner buffet spread!), we can destroy and with that, we have created! One and the same! One and the same!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Karaoke gives me, and many others, a space for our primal side to breathe and destroy freely, at least for 4 hours, so that the rest of the time, we can maintain a civilized façade and safely function in corporate society. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can resume our usual routine of gritting our teeth in the office while fantasizing about bashing our boss’ head in with a loaded stapler…… without actually following through.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Just as the internet has democratized journalism and information, and placed it in the hands of the inept masses; karaoke, my friend, democratizes music. Takes it out of the hands of the talented, the skilled, the well-marketed elite and into<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the open arms of people who probably need the healing, expressive powers of trying to hit a High C note the most - the repressed suits, the budding American Psychos. I feel, if Patrick Bateman had only lived in <st1:place w:st="on">Asia</st1:place> and discovered the sheer cathartic joy of karaoke - he might not have ended up all psycho in the first place. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And with that, I wiped my ass and flush the toilet, feeling 10 pounds lighter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-47578497182766207112010-03-29T12:15:00.001+08:002010-03-29T12:29:17.569+08:00Stuff I Hate Other than Work #1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFzRrdGrREUACzQkD21SZBwaykhP9JQeLKnUpo-kSM2f7-Y6TH_aJKIvEi2_YscpvyCNfn2pJwE0-_AYJixgFJ_sx2wyMXYtZ61lzKUAxiRWGnZuF3OeT56N9Y3S1wFsxP8Ms9rm0hN8/s1600/img_2471-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFzRrdGrREUACzQkD21SZBwaykhP9JQeLKnUpo-kSM2f7-Y6TH_aJKIvEi2_YscpvyCNfn2pJwE0-_AYJixgFJ_sx2wyMXYtZ61lzKUAxiRWGnZuF3OeT56N9Y3S1wFsxP8Ms9rm0hN8/s320/img_2471-pola.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“What happened to you? You used to hate a lot of things but now it’s just your job, your job, your job.......” <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I take offense at this! Sure, I’ve been giving work plenty of negative attention lately but there’s still enough hate in my black, shrivelled heart to single-handedly fuel the Middle-East conflict for another thousand years. (Not that I have anything to do with that, mind you).<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aww, is someone feeling neglected? Does someone need a fist in the eye? Come here and let mommy punch it better.</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mommy hates all her children the same! </i>Fret not, vile things; my hateful interests are still as wide and varied as ever! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">A recent night out certainly reminded me that I’m still capable of hating things other than work – things like <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">R&B/Hip-Hop Themed Club Nights in KL</i></b>. You might be wondering, if I hold such nights with contempt, why turn up in the first place? Alas, alas, in life, you will face a million temptations to obscure, dilute and confuse yourself. These temptations fall under two general headings: boredom and desire for ‘something different’. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Now, I don’t actually mind some songs that can be loosely categorized in the genre of Hip Hop (uh, I like Jay-Z, does that count? No?) but the crowd usually found at such nights make me want to lose all faith in Humankind, until I remind myself that the crowd doesn’t actually represent Humankind, but rather, a bunch of escaped zoo animals trying to engage in some mating ritual in the wild for the first time, but getting the concept all wrong; having spent the formative years of its life being bottle-fed by a khaki-shorts wearing zookeeper. And then I lose all faith in animals, which I have always held in higher regard to Humankind.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">A friend once said that the problem with these nights in KL is that it lacks <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">authenticity. </i>Of course, I don’t think I’m one to judge how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">authentic</i> such nights are, but there’s certainly something off-base about a bunch of Asian boys calling eachother the “N” word. And also dudes, the RM40 cover charge comes with one free drink, not a Douchebag permit. And why are you walking like you’re packing a gun in your pants? Why are you trying to grind every girl from behind? If you really had a gun in your pants, then what if you accidentally shoot her in the ass? And then there’s the fact that 95% of females found “enjoying” such nights share more or less the same facial expression – something that can be generally categorised as “the bitch face”. Studies have shown that it takes more facial muscles and effort to give good “bitch face” than it does to smile. I don’t like effort. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I gots da F in effort, yo</i>. Now, “bitch face” is different than a plain “oh-this world-doesn’t-understand me-frown”. Bitch Face is the art of looking threatening to fellow females, for no reason, while appearing alluring to men, also for no good reason. To understand Bitch Face, please listen to songs such as Brandy & Monica’s “The Boy is Mine” or Lucy Pearl’s “Don’t Mess With My Man” (I can’t give you more current examples, mate) – it is the strong suspicion that every attractive girl is out to stab you in the ovaries and steal your man’s sperm. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Sometimes, good Bitch Face is also given to a person whose Bitch Face is not as good as yours or, to a female who makes for too weak competition for your man’s attention. You see, Bitch Face is often accompanied by outfits designed to intentionally highlight one’s secondary sexual characteristics while perhaps, creating opportunity to inadvertently flash one’s primary ones. If one fails to look this way, one can also be at the receiving end of Bitch Face, even from dudes, as they arrive at such nights expecting their loins to be tickled through their eyes, despite the fact that they themselves look about as attractive as an expired slab of Turkey Ham rolled over by a garbage truck. Twice. Still, no one likes a Tofu for sale at a Meat Market. Your failure to match your outfit to your Bitch Face makes you Tofu. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">At such nights, you will be frequently played songs that tell you to “get low and get down”. Down where? Downstairs? Oh, I see, you want us to simulate oral sex on the dance floor? The fact that I’m a bit of a prude aside, I find “gettin’ down” rather taxing on my body as I’ve torn the meniscus in my right knee twice, had it operated on in 2008 and skipped my post-surgery physiotherapy sessions because I was too lazy. My knee cannot take the pressure of my fat ass “gettin’ down”. My recently-hired personal trainer has advised me against engaging, for the time being, in high-impact exercise, including Running, Jumping Rope, Martial Arts and Gettin’ Down. Of course, when you are not being told to “get down”, there’s always some guest “MC” saying, in a fake accent, “Ay yo, put yo’ hands up, yo’ put yo hands up in da air, yo!” I will oblige your request the first time, but after the 50<sup>th</sup> time, it’s only natural that I would start to question the purpose behind this. Have I accidentally walked into a shoot for a deodorant commercial, hmm? Seriously, the guest “MC” at Roots on Saturday night would say every 10 minutes, “Ay yo, ROOOTS, put yo hands up in da air y’all! Put yo hands up!” (And just look at the way the fool is holding his mic, with the bottom facing up) After awhile, I just sort of left my hands up in the air because, heck, he was only going to tell us to put it back up in a few minutes time anyway. Save myself the trouble, I figured. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Next time, I’ll save myself even more trouble by crawling back to the electro-hole which I came from. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-90117110635154668462010-02-01T16:00:00.003+08:002010-02-01T16:17:22.050+08:00People in Boxes: Someone said I wasn't Malay-Malay and Esquire called Jay-Z "Black Black". So what race-race are we?<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hi there, my friends and I, over at that table, you see that table over there? Yes, we have a bet going on...........We were wondering whether you could help us out. Actually, I think you certainly can......”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Oh great. No. Whatever it is you have to say. No. It was a little after lunchtime on a Saturday and I was in Mont Kiara, having pasta and coffee with an old friend. We were talking about the very interesting subject of my bladder. Yes. Something about it being either the size of Texas or made out of double reinforced steel or both. And how my friend’s bladder is the size of a pea and made out of tissue paper. Yes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">zexxxy. </i>My friend needed to run off to the ladies and pee again. The woman needs to wear a diaper, I tell you. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">And the moment my friend left, Mr. Bet #1 came over. His face was flushed red and greasy from the afternoon’s heat. His belly wobbled like 100 pounds of pure gelatine placed on top of an old washing machine. He was old too. “So, we’ve been looking at you, right... and one friend of mine bet a 100 ringgit that you’re Japanese, I’m pretty sure that you’re Chinese and another friend claims that you’re of uncertain mixed parentage. Help us out, here. What are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">What am I? What I am is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">annoyed. </i>If you want to place bets and gamble, ask someone to point you to the nearest authorized 4D counter. Or what about Genting Highlands? Do I look like a Vegas crap table to you? A deck of cards? Woohoo black jack! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">My friend returned with a relieved bladder and a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dude-who-the-fuck-is-this-guy </i>look on her face.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“And what about you?” Mr Bet #1 asked my friend, “Are you Chinese? Pilipino?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Malaysian,” my friend answered with one raised eyebrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Do you girls want to join us for a drink?” he asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“No thanks,” I said, “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Are you sure? Let us buy you a drink.....”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">This is a decent restaurant. It ain’t no sleazy pick-up joint, asshole. Wrong place. Turn left at the exit straight down to fuck off. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“We’re sure.”<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Mr Bet #1 left with his giant belly wobbling meters ahead of him. “Geez, I can’t leave you alone for two seconds.....” my friend said to me, laughing. Ugh. I always get the gross ones. I feel like those garbage filters they stick in rivers. My friend and I tried to resume with regular programming but 5 minutes had not passed before friend of Mr Bet #1 approached us. Let’s call him Mr. Bet #2.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hi, so my friend established that you’re Malaysian but what kind of Malaysian?” he asked me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">What kind of Malaysian?! What kind of Malaysian?! </span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Malay.” There. Are you happy? Can you buzz off now? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Are you sure?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Am I sure?! Am I sure?! What is this? Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Oh, this is a tough one. Hold on, let me ask the audience. Maybe they’ll give me the right answer. Wait, wait, let me use my “talian hayat”. What? Mom? I’m Malay? Oh, ok, </span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Well, maybe you two can join us for a drink?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“No, thanks. We really don’t want to be disturbed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Oh, okay then,” said Mr. Bet #2 scampered off. Another 5 minutes went by and a third friend of Mr. Bet #1 came along. Please welcome Mr. Bet #3.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hi, I’m really sorry for bothering you......My name’s Ian. How are you two doing? So you’re... Chinese,” Mr. Bet #3 said to my friend and to me he said, “You’re probably Malay but you’re not fully Malay, are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Ugh. Not fully Malay? Oh yes, my right arm and my left big toe isn’t Malay. I got it off some white guy called Ian whom I chopped up because he was getting on my nerves. “I am.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">“Really? That’s funny.....” ‘Ian’ said.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Yes, so funny that I apparently laugh on the inside everyday over the fact. There’s a drum roll and a ba-da-bing sound everytime I look at my I/C and fill up the “race” section of inane forms. Do you hear it? Do you hear it? What if I slap you across your ear, real hard? Would you hear it then?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">And then Ian said, “You don’t look Malay <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Malay</i>. You don’t seem Malay <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Malay.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Oh, if I had a dollar for everytime someone said this to me..........I would shoot them in the face and use the money to bribe my way out of a murder charge. Or maybe I should just quit my job and make a living out of making people bet over my racial heritage. I feel like a carnival game sometimes – you know how they have the Guess the Weight of the Cake and Win a Prize or Guess How Many Sweets in a Jar and Win a Prize? Yes, I feel like one of those. Woo hoo! Ever since I was little, whether I’m at home in Malaysia or abroad, the “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hey,what are you?” </i>question follows me around like toilet paper stuck at the bottom of my shoe. Actually, it’s even worse at home because an answer of “I’m Malay” is usually followed by “I don’t believe you,” or “Are you sure?” or “But you’re not Malay Malay.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I remembered when I was really little, before I even went to school, my <s>brother</s> said that I was adopted from an Indian family because I was apparently, “dark-skinned”. But that’s only because the rest of my family are of a rather vampiric shade. The colour of white ceiling plaster. Albinos. Pigmentally-challenged. Clorox-bleached. Sorry, but you lot really do need a touch of Mystic Tan. Anyway, the fool said I was Indian as if it was supposed to be insulting. But really, I’m just insulted that you would actually think I would be insulted. What’s so wrong about being Indian, if you are Indian? But I’m not adopted. And not all Indians are dark skinned. Anyway, dark, light, who cares? I still got the better looking genes! Ok, no. The better looking bit as compared to my sisters is highly debatable. But you get what I’m trying to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">And then I went to school. And I remembered my first day in school, I got in line to go for Pendidikan Islam class and the other Malay kids screamed for me to get out of the line, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cikgu! Dia Cina!”</i> Uhm, I could be Chinese <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> Muslim, you know. There are tons of Chinese Muslims. But I’m not. I’m Malay. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mata dia sepet, kulit dia putih.”</i> Oh, so now, I’m fair skinned. I never knew. I had a music teacher in Std. 4 who said, “You Malay, ah? Cannot be. Too fair to be Malay” and do I really have to mention the tools who say, “You cannot be Malay, you speak too good English to be Malay....” Repeat all of this. Repeat everyday and fast forward my first week of work. I introduce myself to my colleagues and they ask me why I have a Malay name. A very <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Malay-malay </i>name. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ingatkan you Mat Saleh. You speaking dalam English tadi.... Oh, you don’t wear the tudung-thing so I thought you’re Chinese leh, I think better you don’t wear if not look very typical Malay, not pretty, look Chinese better........ Oh ingatkan you Serani....Oh...... you ni macam tak begitu Melayu. Oh, you tahu kuih Melayu ni nama apa? Tak sangka, ingatkan you Mat Saleh....Oh, you makan ulam dengan budu? Surprising, ingatkan you Mat Saleh... You ni kasar sangat lah, bukan macam Perempuan Melayu..... Eh, you eh, eh, eh, diam kau. Bak kata pepatah Mat Saleh............shut the fuck up. </i>Who are you to grade me on my Malay-ness from the way I look, talk, walk, from what I watch, read, listen to, eat? Is there a Chartered Malay exam I forgot to sit for?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">What do I have to do to qualify as this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kata-ganda</i> Malay-Malay person? I didn’t know there was such a category as Malay-Malay. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ya, berganda kali kemelayuannya! Bukan kemaluan tetapi kemelayuan!). </i>I’m suddenly reminded of Esquire’s ridiculous recent article on Jay Z, where the writer referred to Jay-Z as “black-black” Here’s an excerpt:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><blockquote><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>“Jay-Z is black black. He is old-school double-dark-chocolate-chunk black. He is black the way Labatt is blue. He is not white black, Barack black, like our president. Or the kind of black that doesn’t curse and deplores the n-word, the genteel black, like Oprah.”</i></span></span></blockquote><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Ok. So Jay-Z is a hip hop super mogul who used to deal dope on the streets and according to the writer, once shot his brother for stealing his ring. I see. So according to the writer, this makes him black-black. So that’s how you people, play it these days, eh? I see. I can just imagine kids in the future. Pretty soon, they won't just have to identify what race they are - Malay/Chinese/Indian/<i>Dan lain lain bangsa</i> - on all sorts of shitty irrelevant forms, they will have to go on to define and prove <i>how Malay-Malay/Chinese-Chinese/Indian-Indian/Dan lain-lain bangsa-dan lain-lain bangsa </i>they are. Well, I better get to work on this machine then:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3hL-k8vJ8_uS4olhN1_PEu-US-uNfvBlS-iMq972xlCQnunR32wmUgdCVSeVLxVR-ChIT0vxvhxzG_GkIRYSpXRZIbsFo_TSuiTe5zfXEhWHiq6efNQmstSZ79qXto9pIqZwZbPRqyY/s1600-h/melayuometer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr3hL-k8vJ8_uS4olhN1_PEu-US-uNfvBlS-iMq972xlCQnunR32wmUgdCVSeVLxVR-ChIT0vxvhxzG_GkIRYSpXRZIbsFo_TSuiTe5zfXEhWHiq6efNQmstSZ79qXto9pIqZwZbPRqyY/s400/melayuometer.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-43126333679808755962010-02-01T09:07:00.000+08:002010-02-01T09:07:51.301+08:00People in Boxes: The People You Meet Backpacking - Part Cinq<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">Read Part <a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet.html">Une</a>, <a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet_15.html">Deux</a>, <a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet_21.html">Trois</a>, <a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet_29.html">Quatre</a><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";"># 9 The Globe Trotting Party Person/ People <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdF6A7SJjIHwrijZdM1Kvr_dxWIWOHaGv1IgvDk48WpjEGEPAcBMO14_dv5rz_ZGtFjO13RN8REs1TjC8y_5byxTSJb9SCC_Eg6B97f5jXzjQlF5wBxjjwoy1JTes_WAsajxTdSdjqsJo/s1600-h/97588-Full-Moon-Party-0-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdF6A7SJjIHwrijZdM1Kvr_dxWIWOHaGv1IgvDk48WpjEGEPAcBMO14_dv5rz_ZGtFjO13RN8REs1TjC8y_5byxTSJb9SCC_Eg6B97f5jXzjQlF5wBxjjwoy1JTes_WAsajxTdSdjqsJo/s320/97588-Full-Moon-Party-0-pola.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">Everyone wants to get a little crazy on the road but the GTPP are creatures who will travel 10,000 km for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sole</i> purpose of doing the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exact </i>same thing they do back home – get wasted and get laid, under the false pretext that the former would be cheaper and the latter would be easier if they were to do it in say, Thailand (forget the temples and stuff – on to the Full Moon Party!) What they fail to realise is that a week-long state of inebriation, would make it very hard indeed to keep tabs on what they’re spending – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what? How much did that last round of Jager Bombs cost? Here, take my wallet. I’m so out of it maaaaan. Hey, man, have you seen my wallet? I had it last night... </i>As for getting laid? Well, it would be easier if you hadn’t already spent all your money on those Jagers. Enjoy getting laid on a discount! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">Party People usually travel in small packs of 4-6 like-minded Bros and Hos from back home. But as the global trail of vomit and herpes continue, and they become more confident and experienced travellers, the GTPP pack will be reduced to about 2 people. People are intimidated by big groups. The reduced GTPP pack makes it easier for the experienced GTPP to meet “fun, new people”. These new people will add another dimension, richness to the GTPP’s travel experience – meaning the GTPP now gets to do the exact same thing they do with their mates back home – get wasted and get laid – with people who are like their mates, only with a funnier accent. Woohoo! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">#10 The Mob</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">Upon closer inspection, The Mob of friends may consist of 4-6 Globe Trotting Party People or a mix of several different types of backpackers. A few of them may even be likable on their own, but to an outsider, they all seem like one giant mass of whatever. Certain members of The Mob may try to strike up conversation with you, as a way to while away the time as the rest of their friends try to get their act together - bloody wake up and shit - but they will certainly leave you hanging once their wave of friends approach and they are washed away by the tide, out to somewhere you’re not invited. You don’t like them anyway; the way they run in and out like a football team in training, the way they bring out painful, high-school memories of you eating lunch alone. There are 6 of them in an 8 bed dorm, and they take the entire place over, the way algae spreads in a neglected swimming pool. You are but a tiny droplet of regular-strength chlorine in a sea of shit. You feel like an oppressed minority – crushed under the weight and noise of inside jokes you don’t get; all while you’re trying to sleep or find time to write poetry in your journal. But then, The Mob is not here to accommodate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stranger </i>and they would’ve rented an entire holiday villa to themselves, were it not for the fact that they’re just too damn cheap.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">#11 The Romantic Couple <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO4YKaZsgAO8JJjm-WDjCO0TZwGH0FMnHubyOcB1egWP44dqQcOKQSPYKIN-VjDCM2eygkRz4Bb78GjJzYvdZR20N5kW30C6QqXeuRkXdm22DGyyFa24Zl31KoprRQI4bvEqlIbdJ440U/s1600-h/90419996-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO4YKaZsgAO8JJjm-WDjCO0TZwGH0FMnHubyOcB1egWP44dqQcOKQSPYKIN-VjDCM2eygkRz4Bb78GjJzYvdZR20N5kW30C6QqXeuRkXdm22DGyyFa24Zl31KoprRQI4bvEqlIbdJ440U/s320/90419996-pola.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">One wonders why The Couple bothers to trek the globe with the rest of the backpacking herd when really, no matter where they go, they seem to remain stuck on a planet of their own anyhow. There are several sub-types under this category; the most difficult one being The Well-That’s-Not-Going-To-Last Couple – the kind of couple that will ruin a nice peaceful morning at the hostel, not by actually talking to you, but by arguing publicly, loudly, emotionally, passionately over undercooked tofu burgers. But even the The-Fun-Friendly-Likable-Made-For-Each-Other Couple can irritate your bitter, lonely, unloved-self at times, particularly with their use of the word “We” – “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We </i>are going to soandso tonight; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> should come”, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We</i> just got here last night”, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We</i> are hungry”, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We</i> think it’s great – even if only one of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we</i> thinks so”. For the Globe Trotting Party Person, this particular well-adjusted sub-type of romantic couple offer nothing but disappointment – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yeah man, that’s one less person I can possibly get laid by. Bummer. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-86945439826563263322010-01-29T15:46:00.000+08:002010-01-29T15:46:22.860+08:00Complaint Box: Asia Travel Guide for Pop Stars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8C-vC1X8x8Aw9KZAZMm_00gQp2Tz-TfIAVI3tWOEZSKrDqHUswyDZujktLyjDBjjnN3SL0BfFBO_FoMpa5MHWK9nCeaOkrQxaICy2k8kXWRHrgZkTl2Gn-LHpjM7f-Qv4s0gN0Si5VmA/s1600-h/Untitled-1+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8C-vC1X8x8Aw9KZAZMm_00gQp2Tz-TfIAVI3tWOEZSKrDqHUswyDZujktLyjDBjjnN3SL0BfFBO_FoMpa5MHWK9nCeaOkrQxaICy2k8kXWRHrgZkTl2Gn-LHpjM7f-Qv4s0gN0Si5VmA/s400/Untitled-1+copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;">Asia is a continent rich in culture, history, natural wonders, shopping malls and bad drivers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can spend your entire lifetime here and not run out of things to do – sleep, eat, breathe, mostly. Maybe procreate if you’re lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The casual visitor may also participate in sleeping, eating and breathing in Asia. Some of them even procreate while they’re here – intentionally, accidentally but probably not immaculately even if many visitors have described their time in Asia as a “spiritual experience” Their offspring may even grow up to become minor Asian celebrities – MTV Asia hosts, pop stars, actors, “models”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, out of the many interesting things a visitor can do in Asia, the one that tops our list is this: Cancel a Concert. Now, not every visitor has the privilege to engage in this activity - Cancelling a Concert is strictly for American/ British/Australian Pop Stars or rock Bands. Furthermore, you must have had at least one platinum record in the last 10 years or at least, had your songs regularly included on snooty “Hipster” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>playlists in the last 7 years (right before you sold out and allowed it to be used on some fecking Teen drama TV series). Additionally, you cannot belong in the same category as Cliff Richards or Uriah Heep or trying to stage a sad comeback, after snorting your career up your nose and spending the last decade married to Bobbi Brown.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you meet all of the above requirements, then no doubt, the most fun thing you can do in Asia is to say you’ll be here and then to not be here at all. Perhaps, there’s nothing as interesting as hearing, from a distance, the sound of thousands of little Asian music fans being let down by YOU. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Very spiritual.</i> Of course, your very distant ancestors, way back in history when Britain was Great, would’ve sailed for months and fired cannonballs to set foot on Asian soil. But alas, times are different now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You think you’re probably not going to make much money out of our little Asian currencies and heck, it’s not like we ever buy the original copy of anything since music/movie piracy makes up like, 50% of the economy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s okay, we won’t hate you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ll get a refund for the concert ticket, right? Yeah, guess, that makes it all okay then. Even if say, some of us Malaysians took RM 200 out of our meagre salary to pay for a plane ticket so we could make it for your concert in Singapore. And the money was all burnt when you cancelled at the last minute. Even if we took annual leave to travel down to Singapore, and was already halfway through the journey when news of cancellation reached our ears. No problem. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Really, it’s okay, you’re only human. Maybe, two weeks before your scheduled concert, your douche of a boyfriend beat your face to a pulp. Or maybe, the local authorities here made so much fuss about your sparkly bodysuits “corrupting our youth”, that you decided you were going to help preserve our modest ways by staying at home. Or maybe, you or a loved one back in the US of A has a serious illness that will only allow you to play your Australian tour dates. Or maybe, you do it just because it’s fun – the best thing you can do in Asia without being here. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever it is, you don’t even have to explain the reasons behind your cancellation to us. I’m sure you find that Asians, due to years of living under Feudalism, Communism and comedic, satirical versions of democracy, don’t tend to question things. If Chairman Mao says so, then it must be. If the Sultan says “kill your best friend, then so it is done”. Yes, we’re sure you can just say you cancelled your concert due to:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“unforeseen circumstances”</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“exhaustion”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“a hiatus”. Because all of a sudden, you know, you would rather take a hiatus than play in Asia.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t worry about it. When you’re as old as Cliff Richards, you can come back here for real and perform in the Genting Arena of Stars. Because that’s another fun thing you can do in Asia: pretend like you still have some semblance of a music career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Soon.....I’m going to see the love look in her eyes, I’m a hoot and holler away from paradise.....travellin’ light...hmmm...well I just can’t wait to be with my baby tonight....hmmmm....(fade out)<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-91938407617743529052010-01-29T09:04:00.000+08:002010-01-29T09:04:27.677+08:00People in Boxes: The People You Meet Backpacking - Part Quatre<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Read Part </span><a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Un</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, </span><a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet_15.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Deux</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet_21.html">Trois</a></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">#7 The Princess.</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKPV2aTJb_wITJlYYrQXlLb8D-FyxZyh8me8QYaeeKvu-HhqnX6R6_UxFiTX5JXMvL-_FV84kpjwe_vJG3EBJCvMj8pzEuhFp2K7AZ9ehE5DEE4jpIX6SQ0-inj3UZborpa5QxFvIC5m4/s1600-h/dina_goldstein_8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKPV2aTJb_wITJlYYrQXlLb8D-FyxZyh8me8QYaeeKvu-HhqnX6R6_UxFiTX5JXMvL-_FV84kpjwe_vJG3EBJCvMj8pzEuhFp2K7AZ9ehE5DEE4jpIX6SQ0-inj3UZborpa5QxFvIC5m4/s400/dina_goldstein_8.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;">No, you don’t have an ear infection. You’re just in the presence of a Princess. A very unhappy one. You see, when The Princess’ many demands and unrealistic expectations are not met, The Princess produces a sound as beautiful and harmonious as a dental drill - IN YOUR EAR! There are several ways to deal with a Princess: you can amuse yourself by putting a pea beneath her mattress and watch her flip-out like a frog in hot water, you can enjoy the novelty of having venom spat in your face or even better, you can just send her to the guillotine and declare your dorm a republic. Yes, let’s see how well you eat cake without your head, Marie!</span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">Unlike the North Face-jacket-donning backpacking masses, the Princess’ clothes are always chic, pretty and death trap-like. These include too-long maxi dresses for getting caught on scooter wheels and tripping on during boat transfers, flimsy sandals, high heels – all packed into a too-large TROLLEY BAG that is as convenient to rollerblading up the Eiffel Tower. The Princess is never found backpacking (or in her case, “trolleybagging”) alone, as who would carry her around on her ornate dais as she floats past the dirty plebeians? No, she will always be seen with either a group of seven dwarves or friend-servants made out of any one of the other types listed here. The question is, how did she get into this predicament in the first place, of having to slum it in a USD$2 per night hostel with scratchy sheets and suspicious stains? Well, how did the Princess in The Princess & The Pea end up in a place where she had to sleep, on like 1000 mattress and a pea? I’m not sure – it has been a long time since I read the story. But in any case, if Princesses always managed to remain in their plush castles – Snow White, Princess & The Pea, Little Mermaid etc.. – the world would be devoid of fairy tales to tell, valiant princes would suffer a sense of worthlessness from having no one to rescue,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>there would be no happy endings; who would want to live in such a world? Therefore, we must thank the Princess for gracing our travels with her esteemed presence – like Disney; she’s only adding a little wonder, magic & excitement into our lives. Bow, subjects, bow!</span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">**Yes, <i>The picture above I stole from photographer Dina Goldstein. Sorry Ms. Goldstein. To view her modern interpretation of classic fairy tales, click <a href="http://www.fallenprincesses.com/">here</a></i></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><i><a href="http://www.fallenprincesses.com/"></a></i></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">#8 The Anal-yst</span></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;">While the Anal-yst might be as much as a whiner and complainer as the Princess, there is one striking difference between the two: the Princess makes no secret that she is only speaking out for her own comfort and well-being, while the Anal-yst does it all in the name of “courtesy”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. It’s only common courtesy to wipe the sink dry after use, buhblablabla. Who touched my things? Don’t touch my things; it’s basic courtesy not to touch people’s things! (But nobody touched your things!) </i>The Anal-yst is under the impression that everytime he/she reprimands, bitch-stares and sshhhushes his/her dorm-mates for the slightest crinkling of a plastic bag in the wee hours of morn’, he/she is performing some great service to Mankind as a whole. When an Anal-yst is pushed to the brink, the Anal-yst will leave the room in a huff. The Anal-yst intends for you to feel his/her absence in the very core of your soul. But you don’t.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">While the Anal-yst is as much fun as a deflated balloon, he or she might come in handy when you need a first-aid kit, a map or for someone else to tell the party people to shut the fuck up so that you won’t tarnish your easy-going reputation. (but make sure that you return the map to the Anal-yst in perfect condition as it’s only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">common courtesy </i>to do so).<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode";">The Anal-yst is also a sucker for political correctness and any joke you make will be viewed as either racist or plain ignorant. He or she will often be disproportionately offended on behalf of non-white people around the world. Secretly however, the Anal-yst feels that every other country’s hygiene standards are inferior to his or her own nation, classifies Singapore as “third world” and thus, carries a large amount of water-purifying chlorine tablets and hand gel sanitizer in his or her well-secured backpack. This feeling of superiority may also extend to a country’s democratic practices and human rights record.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Anal-yst will no doubt return home to write an academic thesis on the matter, feeling more superior than ever for having experienced these problems first-hand (during a 50 min stop-over in Changi Airport, that is).<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-89901914395384741972010-01-29T08:43:00.002+08:002010-01-29T08:47:49.216+08:00Pic of the Week: This is My ANGRY face<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieHFqAQxSGNtD5CYIRBxd5UntWseydFKURrJj4DNNfhL-xmNm_23aEfzI5yyvCIZEJ5_m1kgc-vfvKLoM1vbnTguuEUk_4mR6-NxziF0Zhd5GQZb-SdlbNlb-DUgASVFeuQ9hCsDY7P_g/s1600/2045965060105101600S600x600Q85-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieHFqAQxSGNtD5CYIRBxd5UntWseydFKURrJj4DNNfhL-xmNm_23aEfzI5yyvCIZEJ5_m1kgc-vfvKLoM1vbnTguuEUk_4mR6-NxziF0Zhd5GQZb-SdlbNlb-DUgASVFeuQ9hCsDY7P_g/s400/2045965060105101600S600x600Q85-pola.jpg" width="328" /></a><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">The only <a href="http://www.lolcats.com/">LOLcat</a> that makes Chuck Norris LOL. </span><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-55536593851064729602010-01-25T13:42:00.001+08:002010-01-25T13:58:28.343+08:00Uhm... Sure, you can hide your face in a box – but not when it’s made out of clear plastic. HI DAD – I KNOW YOU’RE READING THIS JUST AS I KNOW ABOUT THAT 25 YEAR OLD CHICK ‘THROWING A PILLOW AT YOU’ ON FACEBOOK!<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dear Blog Readers,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So I just found out that one of you told my Dad about my blog. Nice one! For now, I will refrain from hurling an expletive towards you because it’s not nice to swear in front of Dad. [ HI DAD!]. You’re probably not some random blog reader. You are probably well acquainted with my dad and I long before I took to the blogosphere. And chances are, I probably already thought you were a [censored expletive] [HI DAD!], for various other reasons. But you can say, what’s the problem? It’s a PUBLIC BLOG! It’s not like you gave him my personal diary [HI DAD!]. If other people, random strangers are allowed to read it, why not my own father?</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yes. Okay. I get that. But hold on and let me continue. I do not use my last name, which is of course, my Dad’s name on my blogs. I don’t do jack squat to publicise my blog, and I don’t intend to. I don’t list my blog address on my Facebook or in the signature line of my e-mails. So the chances of my blog being found by my dad on his own, is really miniscule unless he searched for, I don’t know, “DEAN FROM SUPERNATURAL, HOT BUNS” [Hi Dad!]</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The reason why this blog is public is because, there is comfort to be found in sharing your thoughts with strangers, who are not in the position to judge you or make your life all that difficult. That’s why plenty of people talk to therapists. Alas, I’m too cheap to pay for a therapist. Hence, the free blog [thanks, Blogger!]. But anyway, you’ve just cost me that freedom. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You know, I also have phone conversations with my friends in plain, audible English (or Malay) instead of fancy secret code written in invisible ink. That doesn’t mean I would welcome it if my parents picked up the other line and listen in [HI DAD!]. Look, it’s not that I have much to hide these days [HI DAD! I REALLY DON’T] - in fact 75% of all my thoughts are very clearly and loudly aired out to them over dinner. 75% is ALOT. No parent needs to know EVERYTHING that goes on in their child’s head. If they did, human beings would stop procreating. Seriously. And we would be less able to grow as our own person. And also, does my DAD really need to hear me wax poetic about the butt of [insert name of hot, unattainable male celebrity] l and how I would like to spank it twice and have him scream my name [uh...HI DAD!]? And I’ve been known to say that stuff on my blog. Now, do YOU really need to have my Dad reading about it? Hey, say, once a long, long time ago, hypothetically– I found a photocopied issue of some dirty magazine just lying in your room, which also happens to be the common computer room (photocopied, really? Couldn’t even get yourself a real one?). Did I run straight to YOUR DAD? No. It’s natural to be curious about these things as you grow up, just as it’s natural for me, to form my own political opinion on current issues as I get older - no need to press the panic button for the folks. </span><br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And that is exactly what YOU did. You know, it’s not so much the fact that you send a plain link to my Dad. This makes things uncomfortable but then heck, I’ve learnt to deal with the fact that my dad is on Facebook and that my mom will occasionally go into my room, whether I like it or not. No, the fact that my Dad knows about my blog is not what angers me. It’s the fact that YOU took my words, twisted it, sensationalised it, before actually presenting it to my parents. My mom doesn’t know how to use the computer so I doubt she actually read my blog entry. And my dad has admitted it himself that as far as his reading habits are concerned, he prefers to “skim” through books and articles just to get the “gist” of it – this works if an opinion is presented in point form, less so if it’s in my rambling, round-a-bout style. But as far as reading comprehension goes, YOU are probably the worst. And you know what angers me even more? Is that you do not have the courtesy to identify yourself and properly discuss it with ME – regarding my opinion the Allah issue or otherwise – before running off to report to DADDY about it in a way that only a tabloid like KOSMO could be proud of. It’s not religion or God that I’m questioning – read my blog post properly as well as the comments that followed (I added practically a 2nd blog entry in the comments section)– it’s people, politicians, bombers, and people who would probably fail reading comprehension tests. You’ve probably been reading my blog for a while now and I doubt you’ve ever commented as yourself even once. Or, if commenting on the internet is not your style, CALL ME UP or SPEAK TO ME FACE TO FACE and we can clarify what needs to be clarified before you cause unnecessary tension between my parents and I. If you know who I am and who my dad is then chances are you have my number and you know where I live. So go on, tell me what your problem is. Are you concerned about my spiritual well-being? But not concerned enough to want to talk to ME about it? That’s probably because we don’t have a real relationship, isn’t it, despite the fact that you know my personal details, despite the fact that we’ve probably known eachother for a very long time, despite the possibility that we’re probably related? You know, my sisters read this blog too and whenever I write something that they feel they disagree with, they have the courtesy to talk to me about it, as themselves, first. That’s because we have a real relationship and they have enough respect for me as a human being that is by international standards, a legal adult. And I respect them as such too. You however, have been lurking on my blog like a creep. Stop playing whatever game it is you think you’re playing. And whatever virtuous, fair or righteous reason you’ve come up with in that head of yours, I have this to say: GO FUCK YOURSELF. </span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yes, dad, you heard me right, I just told this person, whoever he is to GO FUCK HIMSELF. And I’m not sorry. So you, PERSON, run along now and complain to my mom and dad about it. Whatever you have to say for yourself from this point onwards – I don’t want to hear it; too late; don’t give a shit and you can go fuck yourself with it. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-26173729119257015032010-01-21T08:57:00.001+08:002010-01-21T08:59:13.678+08:00People in Boxes: The People You Meet Backpacking – Part Trois<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">*Click here for <a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet.html">Part Une </a> and here for <a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet_15.html">Part Deux</a></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet_15.html"></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">#5 Jesus</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgc02-4gFgIIx_F4NWZEhzfSGFsJ7Ac2qWjxyyBPpmNWW7igrcBEVJb_C7ylB-KpwMZ7RGDQ5aTQEZJAIuUhCpNRhBZDIAR8sBt_Tr1bX7rM4xZQ3AsUgGotm_aiPc30uHP4nWVas9ZIY/s1600-h/3871519-Jake-channeling-Jesus--don-039-t-they-look-alike-0-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgc02-4gFgIIx_F4NWZEhzfSGFsJ7Ac2qWjxyyBPpmNWW7igrcBEVJb_C7ylB-KpwMZ7RGDQ5aTQEZJAIuUhCpNRhBZDIAR8sBt_Tr1bX7rM4xZQ3AsUgGotm_aiPc30uHP4nWVas9ZIY/s320/3871519-Jake-channeling-Jesus--don-039-t-they-look-alike-0-pola.jpg" width="263" /></a><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><b></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Remember that Mitch Albom (yeah, YOUR MOM’s favourite author) book called </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">The Five People You Meet in Heaven? </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Yeah, guess what? Jesus isn’t one of the five. Why? Where did he go? He went backpacking. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Jesus just loves cheap independent travel. The last time I saw Jesus; he was on the top deck of a Junk, cruising Ha Long Bay in Vietnam. I asked him to help snap a photo of my friends and I (didn’t you know? Us Asians are all about cheesy group photos). Jesus duly obliged and mentioned something about growing up in Colorado. Prior to visiting Vietnam, he had been working for a year as an aid worker for a Christian relief organisation on the Myanmar border (well, that’s Jesus for you). But before that, I bumped into Jesus in Byron Bay, Australia. He was playing acoustic guitar and singing a little song about beers and bongs and peeing in his pants. I also spotted Jesus down in Coffs Harbour but that Jesus wasn’t doing anything remarkable. He was just sort of shuffling around the hostel in his sandals, looking for cereal. Jesus has also been spotted tubing in Vang Vien, Laos; another friend spotted him in LA and six years ago, while on a short weekend break on Perhentian Island, I saw Jesus walk on water. Actually, he was walking on a wooden plank across a small stream but from where I was lying - flat on the sand, smokin’ a little somethin’ somethin’, it really did look as if he was walking on water.</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Right then, I don’t know what is it with these blokes and looking like Jesus – the long scraggly hair, long beard, long, thin faces and sad, you-have-killed-me-WHY-JUDAS-WHY eyes. When it’s hot enough, you might even be privy to see their bony torsos – torsos that look as if they really did suffer for all of Man’s sins. Dude, eat a steak, find a cheap barber and stop freaking me out already. I’m on holiday. I don’t need to be reminded that I’m going to Hell. </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">This person provides you with a great opportunity to come across as the moron that you truly are. For example, take that Chinese guy who doesn’t know a thing about China and speaks Portuguese. You ask him, “Hey man, so where are you from?” And he answers, “Brazil”. You, assuming that Brazil was the place he last travelled to, go on to say, “No man, I mean, </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">where are you from?</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">” And again, he answers “Brazil”. Before you can repeat your question for a third time, he explains that while he is of Chinese descent, his family has been in Canada for two generations but he has lived in Brazil since he was 9 months old and no, he has never been to China. To make you feel better about being an idiot, he mentions his interest in getting in touch with his roots with a much-practiced benign smile. At this point, you wonder whether you should ask if he’s referring to his Canadian roots or Chinese roots but as the concept of human immigration becomes all too much for you to process, you nod and quietly slink away. The next morning, you greet him with a pat on the back and a </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Ni Hau Ma?” </span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">but soon realise that you must have said something wrong; so you quickly follow this up with a hesitant, “Uh....</span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">ohayagozaimasu?”</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 14px;">[Part Quatre and Part Cinq coming up.....well, soon enough]</span></span><br />
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</div></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-86739147917712784132010-01-15T10:41:00.011+08:002010-01-15T14:19:38.032+08:00People in Boxes: The People You Meet Backpacking – Part Deux<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzzs9ZLD1Prhhg3H1s2sokFJj6eA3L58NJWQhLQOv9oeiPRWa0rCnD4gGdqnWtZB779THYGTKk8kN1HSQBmgn4X0CWuQQNEGHGXPVhexhvMaeckrcRR14KXYxVoJgq7M9EyKeWUrKIhBg/s1600-h/18750_262489920819_528090819_4386721_6000715_n-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzzs9ZLD1Prhhg3H1s2sokFJj6eA3L58NJWQhLQOv9oeiPRWa0rCnD4gGdqnWtZB779THYGTKk8kN1HSQBmgn4X0CWuQQNEGHGXPVhexhvMaeckrcRR14KXYxVoJgq7M9EyKeWUrKIhBg/s200/18750_262489920819_528090819_4386721_6000715_n-pola.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Did you miss Part Un (1)? Click <a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet.html">here</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://box-of-boxes.blogspot.com/2010/01/people-in-boxes-people-you-meet.html"></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: normal;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">#2 The “Soulful” Wanderer</span></span></b></span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Characteristics of the Soulful Wanderer include a gaze that is alternately intense and dreamy, out-of-(shitty bunk)bed/sleeping bag hair, some stubble (if male) and perhaps, small Buddhist prayer beads wrapped around the wrist (particularly if the Soulful Wanderer isn’t actually Buddhist). The prayer beads are often matched, with plain, practical clothing that are worn and crumpled but still smell of the loveliest fabric softener, wet grass and a hint of sweat. Soulful Wanderers will never let stubble grow into a full beard or match the prayer beads with tie-dye pants because they’re fully aware that the Hippie Revolution is over, thank you very much, and their interests lie in the socio-political realities of the here and now. The Soulful Wanderer travels solo and is not afraid to be seen alone or left alone. It gives them the opportunity to enjoy moments of contemplative silence, to jot down deep thoughts in a Moleskine journal or to finally finish reading that dog-eared copy of Maxim Gorky’s </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Creatures that Once Were Men</span></i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> which he/she found abandoned at a guesthouse in Mongolia.</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While Soulful Wanderer-types may not be overtly vocal or friendly, they possess commendable social skills nonetheless. They often stray from the pack and path of People-Who-Need-a-Visa-to-Be-here, in search of a more “authentic” experience, a Random Friendly Local (please refer to #3) or two to befriend and most importantly, to “find himself”; be it in the eyes of strangers or in the little-known ancient ruins of Choqueqirao, Peru. But alas, the Soulful Wanderer must eventually return to the hostel, or take some kind of minivan or another with other travellers, where he or she may engage you in a late-night talk of life, love and liberty up on the rooftop. This talk will leave you wishing that you had something more profound to add, something other than – <i>Yeah, exactly, EXACTLY, that’s so true, oh my god, yeaaaaah and yeah?</i> The feeling is not unlike being on LSD and looking at a work by Dali or a song by The Beatles and thinking, <i>“Damn, man, why didn’t I think of that?!” <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 14px;">What you may have thought of is this: you’ve never met anyone who is as <i>interesting, </i>as<i> intriguing </i>as the Soulful Wanderer. Alas, you fail to realise that one of your friends back home is actually a Soulful Wanderer. But stripped off the romance of being in a faraway land and mired in familiarity, the Soulful Wanderer, as it turns out, is a real piece of Emo-bore.</span></i></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18px;">#3 The Random Friendly Local </span><br />
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</div><span style="line-height: 18px;">Ah, what backpacking adventure is complete until you can boast the fact that you “hung out” with the locals. The Random Friendly Local is heavily sought after by those wishing to up their status from “tourist” to “traveller”. And by locals, we don’t mean - hostel employees, cab drivers, restaurant waiters, tour guides – they don’t count – the Random Friendly Local must be just that; <i>random (</i>that guy sitting next to you at the hawker stall slurping away at his bowl of noodles) Now at the end of the day, the “foreigner” befriending the Random Friendly Local will probably not be able to describe their new friend in great detail, but that’s because they’re not so much interested in the person as they are in earning a new Traveller Merit Badge to show off to their still “tourist” friends back in the hostel. </span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; line-height: 115%;">#4</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; line-height: 115%;"> <b>The Person Who Came For a Summer Break and Ended Up Sort of Manning The Hostel’s</b> <b>Reception Desk for 5 Years or So</b> </span><br />
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</div><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; line-height: 115%;">The Person Who Came for a Summer Break and Ended Up Sort of Manning The Hostel’s Reception Desk for 5 Years or So is always welcoming, chilled-out yet moderately efficient and chances are he/she will be able to communicate with you in English (albeit sometimes with a thick, Scottish brogue – <i>FERRR FERR TTTHEUWWW </i>Pardon? <i>FERR FERR TTTHEUW </i>Again, please? <i>AH SEEEIID the secuuuurehte couahd is FERRR FERR TTHEUWWWW </i>Oh, you mean, the security code is Four Four Two? <i>Yes, theit’s wha ah seiid, FERRR FERRR TTHEUWWW</i>) and will help you steer away from all the tourist traps by recommending some great local hang-outs ....that’s not you know, <i>too </i>local. But secretly, he daydreams about setting you on fire. So what’s this person’s back-story?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; line-height: 115%;">Well, once upon a time, there lived a “Soulful Wanderer” who decided to spend the summer after graduation to “find himself” in a far off land. He did in fact, “find himself”. But alas, the “self” that he found sort of manned the reception desk of a hostel on the other side of the world. The “self” he found, had a hard time wrapping his head around the concept of “return ticket”. 5 years down the line, life has pretty much lost all meaning and sense of purpose for the former-soulful wanderer, and he’s absolutely <i>loving it; </i>the way a fat kid loves McDonalds but gets all sensitive when people call him fat.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; line-height: 115%;">Alas, while our former-soulful wanderer turned hostel guy may have found himself, back home, two parents mourn for the son they lost. The parents spend all day praying that the kid would come home and get a damn real job already, after all the money they spent on his education. Why, God?!! WHY??!!! He had such a promising future, God, why, God, WHYYYYYYYYYY?!!!!!!!!!!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">[......stay tuned for Part Trois (3)]</span><br />
</div></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-82373174661709952762010-01-14T14:08:00.004+08:002010-04-27T11:22:40.591+08:00Talk Box: Malaysia, Interrupted<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">You know, I really thought I wasn’t going to comment anymore on the non-Muslim use of the word “Allah” controversy and the whole Molotov-cocktail throwing fiasco which ensued. I really was going to blog about something else today. But then, I came across this really interesting article in today’s edition of <a href="http://www.sun2surf.com/">The Sun</a> (the Malaysian one, not the trashy British one) and it got me thinking again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Zakiah Koya interviewed Professor Tariq Ramadan, a European Muslim academic who advocates reform in Islam and promotes interfaith dialogue, named by Time Magazine as one of the 100 Most Important Innovators of the Century. Some excerpts:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">ZK: Muslims say that their religion is perfect and it is because of this many are against interfaith dialogues......<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">TR: We have a perfect religion but we are not perfect........ (interfaith dialogue) may make you see something which you have neglected to see. For example, when I was in South America, the priests there were talking of love. So, I learnt to also talk of the spiritual dimension of love in Islam and its importance in life. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">I always suspected that the religion had something more to offer other than eternal damnation and suffering. Tariq Ramadan further adds, “Malaysia cannot have social cohesion if you do not have dialogue.” Of course, in Malaysia, in place of dialogue, we have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">balas pantun – </i> where 2 out of 4 sentences we say doesn’t actually mean anything – just some bullshit that’s been thrown it for rhyming purposes. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ayat pembayang </i>galore!<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">ZK: Since Muslims say that their religion is perfect, why are you talking about the need to reform Islam?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">TR: ... Islam does not need to be reformed and Islam has in itself tools for Muslims to have a true understanding of it. What we need to reform is the Muslim minds. .... It is our static rationality that is betraying the text (the Quran & the Hadith). Active rationality is what makes the text universal. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">ZK: Malaysia is country with a lot of diversity.... How does Islam view these diversities?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">TR: The Quran says that if God wants it. He could have made you one community. He said: We made you tribes and nations so that you may know one another. It is God’s will. It is therefore, not enough to tolerate others – we must respect them.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">.......At the same time, Muslims must stop the belief in this illusion that we have one and the same thought in Islam. There is diversity among Muslims too. It is a reality.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">ZK: Most Muslim societies are guided by their ulama and religious scholars. In time, they have become revered people. Whatever they say is accepted without question. Thus many Muslims grow up with a fear of asking questions...<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">TR: ------- there is no deep faith without a critical mind.....The scholars must listen to the community and know what is happening. By definition, a scholar is serving the community – not to be served by the community – his power or authority is coming from the community he is serving. What we have now is the other way round. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">(And I think the same can be said, not only for certain ulama and religious scholars, but also for most of our politicians). The professor goes on to say, “We have to revive the questioning mind. During the time of the Prophet, when he gave an opinion or a ruling, his companions questioned him, “Is this coming from God or is this coming from you?” When he said, “This is my opinion,” they said then we challenge you. They were his authority to find out how he came up with his opinion.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><ul><li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">ZK: You must have heard that there is a request by a Catholic publication, the Herald, to use the word “Allah” when referring to God in its articles in Bahasa Malaysia. The government has objected to this. What is your view?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">TR: In the Arab world, Allah is used by all Christians – Coptics and others. The point <u>is the substance and the substance is one God.</u> When the Christian Arabs speak Arabic in their Bible, they use “Allah” to speak about God. This has been the case for centuries. The Roman Catholics among them do not use “Allah” to describe Jesus. There is no problem there. And my understanding of their general hypothesis is that the Trinity is Three in One but they are not confusing the three dimensions of One God. If that is not a problem for them, neither is it for us.</span></span></li>
</ul><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Well, that should solve the problem. But the moral panic that has swept a segment of Malay Muslims doesn’t seem to have so much to do with “Allah” being used to describe Jesus Christ (which it isn’t) or something other than the One God, but over the fact that the Christian missionaries are out to confuse and convert us all, because you know, we apparently have so little ability to think about our own beliefs. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">To add to all this, I’ve been receiving shitloads, and I mean SHITLOADS of inflammatory e-mails about this matter at work (further affirming the fact that I work for a company of idiots. I’m sorry I have to use the word ‘idiot’ but I can’t be bothered to sugar coat it)! WORK! A General Manager in my company actually forwarded me an e-mail yesterday with the subject: Beware Malays!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">The e-mail relates to the story of a man who was born into a Malay Muslim family in Kedah. He went to Johor Bahru looking for work – and failed. He was penniless, homeless, sleeping out on the streets at a train station. He was taken in by a Christian priest and taken care of, and after quite some time, he became a Christian himself. Now, this e-mail is full of accusations that the man was fed with “holy water” which apparently, works like some magic voodoo potion and this, and this alone, led to his conversion. (dude, really? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DRINK</i> the holy water?) Right then. Sooo, I have an atheist friend who accidentally drank a whole bottle of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">air zam zam </i>which my mom had brought back from Mecca. And guess what? He’s still an atheist! That friend has also been dragged to church before by an ex-girlfriend where he ate communion wafers and sang hymns. And guess what? He’s still an atheist! He has also gone to Sikh temples and ate the sweets they served (no, I don’t know what it is with this guy and eating food from holy places) And guess what?! Yup, that’s right – he’s still an atheist! The person who wrote the “Beware Malays” e-mail, along with the people who thought forwarding it was a good idea must have forgotten about the very thing that makes us human: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">free will. </i> God said so himself. He gave us free will. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">People, you enjoy the benefits of living in a “democratic” country, don’t you? And that should include freedom of religion. And what does freedom of religion mean? It’s the freedom to practice your religion, be it the one you were born and raised with or the one you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">choose </i>to hold on to. Or, you can choose not to practice your “religion” at all; like my zam-zam-water-drinking, Communion-wafer-eating Atheist friend who despite not believing in a “Higher Power” is more or less a good friend, a good son, a good citizen and as a human being, he doesn’t seem to be any better or worse than you and I. As much as some of us might personally worry, about others who do not choose to take the same “path to salvation” we do, worry of how they will burn in Satan’s pits with the rest of the “disbelievers”; that is our own problem and another’s choice. I’m sorry, but that’s what you have to put up with if you like the idea of a free country, free will, and God’s will for us to have free will. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRF3T-VG-ZdlHrj3FS1hPrHAIspIFbikkFv_2Jh7P1FrHHwV8Mnveot4LSEuw7CSnelw6IB8Sm46TT1oQRXSV9W4nrmbInaoOc4X4pnVkV6GKFA8YXqro_ZHXBCigQe5s5UjyxXJh2bs/s1600-h/n_01goodwill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRF3T-VG-ZdlHrj3FS1hPrHAIspIFbikkFv_2Jh7P1FrHHwV8Mnveot4LSEuw7CSnelw6IB8Sm46TT1oQRXSV9W4nrmbInaoOc4X4pnVkV6GKFA8YXqro_ZHXBCigQe5s5UjyxXJh2bs/s200/n_01goodwill.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> I must add here, that it is heartening to see that the silent (and sane) majority of Malaysians have finally decided to come together and speak out against the attacks. We are good people. The majority of Malaysians are still more or less good people.The other day, flowers were freely distributed to anyone at Bintang Walk to tell people, in the words of the organisers, “that everything’s gonna be alright” (and here I initially thought they were funeral wreaths given out as an RIP to Najib’s 1Malaysia). Several Muslim NGOs have volunteered to patrol and protect churches and other places of worship from being attacked. Church officials have called for voluntarily dropping the use of the word “Allah” in Christian publications in Malaysia, seeing the anger it has caused in certain segments of the Muslim community. Still, while these gestures and actions are indeed wonderful and much needed, I can’t help but feel that it’s all a bit like spraying perfume on dirty laundry. (and I know ALL about spraying perfume on dirty laundry!). Spray as much you like, there will come a time when you really do have to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wash</i> them.</o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> I do think it’s about time that we not only re-examine our view of Islam but particularly for this country, the way we view Islam and the Malay identity. And to begin, we can go straight to the definition of “Malay” in our Constitution. No wonder we assume ourselves to be easily “confused” people. The Constitutional definition for “Malay” itself confuses <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ethnicity </i>with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">religion. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;">*And please, before you so casually accuse me of blasphemy and being a disbeliever, and start to lightly throw around heavy phrases like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">murtad, kafir, ahli neraka, liberal wanker....</i>oh what the hell; it’s a free country – those words are your problem, not mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;">** Also, as a side note, I don’t understand why international news networks decided to interview Anwar Ibrahim on the Herald controversy and the Molotov cocktail church attacks. I’m sorry, but the guy has no real insight, nor any real solutions to offer – neither do I, but then I’m an unknown office drone with a blog that no one reads – he’s the de-facto leader of the Opposition and is on an international news network and therefore, has higher expectations to meet. Anwar is one opportunistic fucker. Does anyone remember that he used to present himself as an ultra-Malay Nationalist and when that didn’t quite work out; he’s Mr. Equality Ladida? Like I said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fucker – </i>he’ll fuck about with any stand as long as it gets him your vote. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Alright, enough ranting for now. To end: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">ZK: Would you describe yourself as a moderate Muslim?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">TR: I am not using this vocabulary. This qualification is coming from the colonisers who always had a binary view of the colonised – the good and the bad, the moderate and the fundamentalist. All the people who resisted colonisation were bad and fundamentalists; and all those with them were good and moderate. I think it’s silly.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-outline-level: 1;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Me too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-87793153735043032062010-01-13T16:41:00.001+08:002010-01-13T16:45:17.303+08:00People in Boxes: The People You Meet Backpacking – Part Un<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;">“He who does not travel does not know the value of men,” according to a Moorish proverb</span><o:p></o:p></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;">A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles,” Tim Cahill said.</span></i><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;">“I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them,” concluded Mark Twain</span></i><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Ok, ok, I get it; travel is about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people</i> more than sights. You know, I was going to write about the things I saw on my recent mini-adventure in Vietnam but I’ve been persuaded to write about all the new people I met instead. Except, they weren’t entirely new. I’m pretty sure I’ve met them before. My friends have met them before. You’ve met them before. In different corners of the world, with different names and different faces but you say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to-mah-to</i>, and you say to-may-to, and I say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">don’t-put-too-much-of-it-in-my-pasta-sauce-dammit</i> – they’re all the same, people can all be stuffed into one box or another. And since this blog is all about boxes – SUCCESS! <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;">“Too often, travel, instead of broadening the mind, merely lengthens the conversation.” –Elizabeth Drew</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I do realise that most of the people listed here are just fellow travellers – but isn’t that usually what happens when one travels? Or maybe, I’m just a lousy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tourist. </i>The horror! Well, maybe half-a-step above <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tourist – </i>as behold, I have the added advantage/ street-cred of being a cheap-bastard who refuses to buy souvenir key-chains. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Now on to the list (which is arranged in no particular order...............)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">The first Backpacking creature on the list amuses me so much, I've decided to dedicate today’s entire entry to this creature and this creature alone. Today, I present:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">#1 The Loud American We All Love to Hate (LAWALOTH)</span></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSehRYayCi2tIbgKyRn7ubBj0aGB8G0u0mF7oNrq54bvuGpdUQXXMQpB33PUkAqnpy6Q1OLv-F3z_1t3v74eudcZIhXGmexTRiwbaN4HFPnzpwYv9lWphdsduZj5aXmY_Itp9ly8sqzMk/s1600-h/134267_f248.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSehRYayCi2tIbgKyRn7ubBj0aGB8G0u0mF7oNrq54bvuGpdUQXXMQpB33PUkAqnpy6Q1OLv-F3z_1t3v74eudcZIhXGmexTRiwbaN4HFPnzpwYv9lWphdsduZj5aXmY_Itp9ly8sqzMk/s400/134267_f248.jpg" width="298" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;">The LAWALOTH will loudly (and nasally) air, share, declare and impose its opinions on EVERYTHING upon EVERYONE that crosses its path. The LAWALOTH considers all silent moments as an invitation for it to speak. It is further recognised by its inability to modulate the volume of its own voice, so a simple one-sided conversation with the person next to it on the bus, will be heard all across planet Earth and echo through neighbouring galaxies, provoking the aliens into a Roland-Emmerich-Independence-Day sort of attack on the White House. But you must understand, the LAWALOTH can’t help but release its opinion into the universe, just as a green tree can’t help but release oxygen into the atmosphere. Except, none of us really need or care about what the LAWALOTH thinks of anything especially since the more the LAWALOTH speaks, the more doubt is cast upon its ability to think.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;">The presence of an LAWALOTH is particularly unappreciated and dreaded on the morning of New Year’s Day, especially when stuck in a cramped mini-van, on a winding, bumpy, 4 hour drive to Soandso with everyone including the tour guide & driver suffering from the worst hangover since 1999.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The LAWALOTH will keep the entire world awake with such gems like:</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Oh, you’re from Malaysia? Maaaan, the penalty for drugs in Malaysia is like harsh, man, I mean, it’s practically a human rights violation. I mean, seriously, death penalty???!!!” </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> And you answer, “Why are you worried? Are you a drug trafficker?”</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Like, they must execute people there </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">everyday, right?</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">”</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Why? Do they execute people in Texas everyday?” </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Or</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You’re working? I don’t see alot of women in the Asian workforce. Aren’t they all housewives?”</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">And you say, “Dude, I thought you said you work as an English teacher in Japan; I’m sure there are women who work in Japan.”</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">(That’s another characteristic of the LAWALOTH – it can be well-travelled and exposed to many different cultures but its brain is somehow resistant to gaining new insight)</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">My favourite LAWALOTH gem however, is this:</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I once saw a monkey slap a puppy and I slapped the monkey back.”</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Thank you, LAWALOTH, for that wonderful piece of information that wasn’t even meant for me; as I’m all the way up on the floor above you.</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Not all Americans turn into LAWALOTHs once they venture out into the world beyond their own borders, although the fact that they </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">are</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">American</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">, certainly puts them at risk. Still, it would seem that there are other factors, other than a US passport, that contributes to the creation of the LAWALOTH monster. Like the fact that they must already be made fun of by their countrymen back home</span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">. </span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">In fact prior to acquiring a passport, a plane ticket and an entry visa to complete the transformation, the larvae-LAWALOTH</span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">must already have a Facebook group dedicated to their charming personality, something along the lines of </span>**Ryan Packall Demands Yo’ Respect!!! - <i>You can laugh at Ryan Packall once, but not twice.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">This group must have no more than 20 members (including the creator) - all acquaintances who invite the pre-LAWALOTH to their parties, because pre-LAWALOTHs are a cheaper form of amusement than a trained juggling monkey. And it would certainly show up with its own 6-pack of beer. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Now, LAWALOTHs are not to be mistaken for villainous Americans (refer Bush, George W.; Cheney, Dick; Madoff, Bernard; Palin, Sarah). The LAWALOTH might deep down, be all about hope and establishing warmer ties with the world and all that shit. The LAWALOTH is just going about it the wrong way. If you give it half a chance, a bucket-load of patience or some earplugs; you might actually find that beneath the LAWALOTH monster; is a great new friend ...... who </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">demands yo’ respect. </i></b><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">** The name has been changed to protect the identity of LAWALOTH. Because you can laugh at him </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">once </span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">but not TWICE. Respect!</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 14px;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 14px;">[part deux (2) will be up tomorrow]</span></span><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-38618004735772098042010-01-11T23:51:00.000+08:002010-01-11T23:51:03.806+08:00Please Tick the Appropriate Box: The Loveless Marriage Placement Test<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0KVgu491XvTo-9J33v7yMdzpLO35c5_tAOCfcIoUFF3aSraHJIJ9z6p-zvdI762hbZe1IqmNIIqydXWH1XTL9PtWxJcrtPS98PKJ3zrzIwUieyqmGcm38y3P4EcTq_WGmuzZFLJzYE8/s1600-h/72472448-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0KVgu491XvTo-9J33v7yMdzpLO35c5_tAOCfcIoUFF3aSraHJIJ9z6p-zvdI762hbZe1IqmNIIqydXWH1XTL9PtWxJcrtPS98PKJ3zrzIwUieyqmGcm38y3P4EcTq_WGmuzZFLJzYE8/s400/72472448-pola.jpg" /></a><br />
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My mom is on a mission. She's sick and tired of her unmarried daughters "gallivanting" around the world, causing her blood pressure to remain at a high 150/90, despite a healthy diet and regular exercise. "Gallivanting" - her words. What can I say? The woman just has a natural gift for melodrama. </span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">She has threatened, <i>yes, threatened </i>to marry us off to the next guy that asks, thinking that marriage would in some way, <i>tame </i>us and perhaps, render us immobile.<i> </i>Who does she think we are? Warren Beatty? Warren Beatty stays at home all day because he's OLD, MOM and probably in need of a hip replacement; I don't think it has all that much to do with being married to Annette Benning.</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Frankly, I'm quite disappointed in my mom for resorting to such a regressive form of punishment. She used to be more original. My Dad wants to implant GPS tracking devices in our necks but it would cost too much and my mom would then endlessly worry about the risk such a device would pose to our health.</span></span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>-I heard GPS tracking systems may cause cancer</i></span></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>-Momma, EVERYTHING these days may cause cancer</i></span></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>-Oh, so you think cancer is funny? </i></span></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>-I didn't say that</i></span></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>-Quit smoking!</i></span></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My mom refuses to buy a microwave for fear that it will cause cancer. Seriously. I've grown to enjoy eating leftovers straight from the fridge because I can't be arsed to heat things up on a stove. Chilled chicken curry - yum!</span></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Anyway, back to my mom's plans to marry my sisters and I off.</span></span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>- Oh yeah? And who are the lucky guys? </i>(God knows we don't have anyone in mind), I said</span></span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">-<i>I'll find them. Any random boy would do! You just wait and see........</i></span></span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Ah, don't you just smell romance in the air? Throw a bunch of forms, a ring from a Coke can and a wedding invitation through Facebook in the mix- and you'll have a modern fairytale! To aid my mom in her quest, I've come up with the <a href="http://www.quibblo.com/quiz/bsPmYz_/Loveless-Marriage-Placement-Test">Loveless Marriage Placement Test</a> to determine which unfortunate lad gets to share a lifetime of indifference with which sister. To take the test, please click <a href="http://www.quibblo.com/quiz/bsPmYz_/Loveless-Marriage-Placement-Test">here</a>. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Yeah, eat it Cinderella - your slippers ain't got nothing on this!</span></span><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-62323196304252873852010-01-08T16:15:00.003+08:002010-04-27T11:21:51.134+08:00Talk Box: Who can use the name of God?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyH7WJxQ9rdTu-DImXv9ygHWgkY-zWtsEhNWIqFPZdT14_6BNkeerdxlrvuRJ5KK3aMD6nI3ZSHdsLVF4bAL79pLi6GefzufoRUYHN50tuFMJnbpYiFQaF7JfEkVDw4fnqThi6oAb8i4/s1600-h/hello-my-name-is-god-300x201-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyH7WJxQ9rdTu-DImXv9ygHWgkY-zWtsEhNWIqFPZdT14_6BNkeerdxlrvuRJ5KK3aMD6nI3ZSHdsLVF4bAL79pLi6GefzufoRUYHN50tuFMJnbpYiFQaF7JfEkVDw4fnqThi6oAb8i4/s400/hello-my-name-is-god-300x201-pola.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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I love my country.<br />
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Political aide falling out of a building after being interrogated by the Malaysian Anti Corruption Commission and now, now, don’t jump to conclusions, they tell us, it might not be murder, really. <br />
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I love my country.<br />
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Two missing F5-E fighter jet engines stolen from the Royal Malaysian Air Force Base and ending up in Argentina and no, no, they tell us, <a href="http://www.themalaysianinsider.com/index.php/opinion/breaking-views/48808-the-new-tragicomedy-the-royal-malaysian-air-farce--mariam-mokhtar">no senior officials were involved in the conspiracy</a>, really. The two lowly grunts sentenced for it must be infinitely more awesome than David Copperfield circa when he was still dating Claudia Schiffer to be able to smuggle FIGHTER JET ENGINES out of the country without any sort of help from “senior officials”. And without being discovered until 2 years later. Well, recently, at my office, a whole bunch of spoons disappeared from our pantry – just like that, *poof* and my boss has absolutely no idea where it went. But we’re not talking about spoons are we? We’re talking about FIGHTER JET ENGINES. <br />
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It’s nice to see that after everything that has happened in this country, after the rude shock of the last elections, after over 50 years of Independence, after human evolution, after the internet, after Vision 2020, Islam Hadhari and now 1Malaysia; the government and the mainstream media still takes the general Malaysian public for fools. <br />
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I love my country.<br />
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But today, some of us have proven once more, to be very much the fools we are taken for. <br />
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I think my country is sick. This is not the country I grew up in. The country I grew up in was pretty stupid, but it was not sick. Stupid people are funny. They might even be loveable. Sick people might still be funny but my momma once told me that that it’s wrong to laugh at them. So I don’t. I cannot laugh at my country anymore. And you’re afraid to love it just as one is afraid to love a terribly sick person because they tend to die on you and grief is such a hassle to deal with. Yes, my country is sick and pale and in need of a bone marrow transplant. The chemo’s not working but the hair keeps falling out. The doctor’s report came out today and it seems that the cancer has metastasized.<br />
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Last year, we had severed cow heads being held up in protest of a Hindu temple. Today, we have <a href="http://www.thestar.com.my/news/story.asp?file=/2010/1/8/nation/20100108115637&sec=nation">arson attacks on three churches in the Klang Valley (Klang Valley!!!)</a> in wake of the “Allah controversy”. <br />
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You want to know what my take is on the use of the word “Allah” by non-Muslims in Malaysia? Of course, you don’t. You don’t really care, do you? But I’ll tell you anyway. The only people I think, who should be prohibited from using the name of God are thugs and despicable waste-of-Life who try to justify their acts of violence and provocation. Whether you’re a local arsonist or a suicide bomber on the other side of the world, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Jewish, Buddhist, Zoroastrian, etc....... But Malaysians, really, what the hell? Is the Muslim community so oppressed here that you have to resort to such measures? It’s not freakin Palestine over here, is it? What exactly are you defending? What are you fighting for? <br />
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And suddenly, as a Malay Muslim person, I found myself being invited to join the Facebook group protesting the use of “Allah” by non-Muslims. In here they claim that it is a deliberate move by the Church or something to confuse and lead the Muslims astray. Can’t you see, the Facebook Group shouts, they’re all out to get us! They’re all out to destroy us! Oh please, give the community some credit. Not all of us are as dumb and easily confused as you are and if we are, then maybe why aren’t we doing more to educate ourselves and eachother? Instead, we have in-fighting between our muftis and what nots, getting eachother arrested and charged in court out of probably, though I can’t say definitively, professional jealousy. Forget about external threats. I think we’re doing a pretty fucking good job of destroying the community on our own. Way to go team! <br />
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Also, if there’s anyone out there who’s really out to confuse us; it’s not the Church as it is our politicians – whether they’re in the ruling government party, opposition, opposition who used to be in ruling party, politicians from the ruling government party who went to the opposition – they’re all the same. They might officially be of different race, religion, colour, creed and ideologies but they’re all united by the fact that they ultimately, truly, worship the same thing: themselves. <em>Uh-oh, threat to my power – hey look, I’ll pull out this race/religion card out from under my sleeve. Ta-da! This will cause a violent distraction across the room so no one will notice that I’m just fucking about getting Botox injections at my desk and siphoning the people’s money into my pocket. Missing jet engines? Murdered political aide? No – look there – someone is trying to lead the Malay and Muslim people astray! And we have exposed a fundamental weakness in Pakatan Rakyat – DAP and PAS will never be able to work together, really, just look at how they’re butting heads over this issue, on top of the beer in Shah Alam shit. Keep us in power, people!</em> And the opposition says – <em>no, look there, the government should take responsibility for this church arson incident because they’re the ones who brought the matter up. So vote for us people! Yeah, eat that Barisan, backfired on ya didn’t it? Ha-Ha-Ha, nyehnyehnyeh. No, we don’t actually know what we’ll do if we do win the next elections – there will be no BN federal government to blame for blocking our grand plans anymore but heck, did you hear what UMNO did? Over there! </em>Ah, what would we do without violent incidents? Hey remember a long, long time ago when the whole Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky sex scandal blew and the next day he orders an airstrike over Iraq? Like that. That's how Michael Bay makes up for movies with bad actors and bad scripts too -<em>just throw in like, a really big explosion in between shots of Megan Fox's ass. yeah, like that. Fuck, I'm rich. </em><br />
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I do not vote.<br />
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I cannot bring myself to vote. And it saddens me so. <br />
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I still love my country. <br />
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On a related note, neutral ol’ Switzerland banning the construction of mosque minarets, Islamophobia on the rise everywhere and the global Muslim community whines, whines and whines about how the world is out to get us. Sure, maybe the Swiss are secretly prejudiced assholes, maybe the US Foreign Policy is biased (it’s the US – how do you think they became the most powerful nation in the world without looking out for their own interests, doh!), maybe Israel is bloody guilty of war crimes but hey, there comes a time when we need to stop this self-pity party. You want Jihad? Go home to your family. Take care of your kids! Get educated. Get rich. Control the world financial system. Take over Hollywood. Movies can solicit more sympathy for your cause then a 100 Molotov cocktails/ suicide bombs ever will. Seriously.<br />
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I hate politicians, terrorists, fanatics, bigots and thugs speaking on behalf of all of us. I hate that they claim to be speaking on behalf of ME. I am not a part of your community. I am not “your people”, “umat”, “sister” or whatever stupid ass familial term that you like to use. I disown you. <br />
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Not in my name. <br />
I love my country.<br />
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And if I’m upset about it, me, mere mortal, whose name is not directly being used, can’t begin to imagine how God/Allah/Tuhan/YHWH, feels about the whole matter.<br />
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*<span style="font-size: x-small;">Yeah, although I doubt this will happen as no one ever comments on my blog anyway, I think I should say anyway, just in case - don't leave your damn political opinions here unless you agree with me. This isn't some free speech democratic forum. For reasons that I will explain in future entries, if I'm bothered to do so at all, I no longer believe in Democracy. I believe in ONE RING TO RULE THEM ALL. Preferably worn by ME. Yeah, that's right. Just like Sauron from Lord of the Rings. Yessssssssssss (would rub hands together in evil glee but since I'm only a fiery eye in a tower - I have no hands. Bummer). </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-66334409924929718682010-01-08T13:30:00.000+08:002010-01-08T13:30:06.829+08:00Talk Box: Corporate Responsibility, Why H&M is Horrid & Miserly and Everybody loves a Baboon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eKGSd2qR-cJ1sWsRaqfhm60bXcMHly1pInuGev7nj8OrCA3hlJxgY2i1JPn6Y3Jgip96nNG7UTzM67ClgZA0hwiu9IsDATokTCUBt654wLNHNoHThZBw2lCyeDwcTJN5pWGW1EJpkZo/s1600-h/ignore-pola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eKGSd2qR-cJ1sWsRaqfhm60bXcMHly1pInuGev7nj8OrCA3hlJxgY2i1JPn6Y3Jgip96nNG7UTzM67ClgZA0hwiu9IsDATokTCUBt654wLNHNoHThZBw2lCyeDwcTJN5pWGW1EJpkZo/s400/ignore-pola.jpg" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s winter time in New York and a third of the city is poor. With that, the homeless are at risk of turning into human-shaped ice cubes. And meanwhile, you have fashion retailer H&M not only tossing unsold coats and other clothing items into the trash, but also destroying them before tossing them out so that they can’t be used by people who might go rummaging through the trash out of desperation for a few pieces of warm clothing? Found an </span><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/06/nyregion/06about.html?partner=rss&emc=rss"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">article</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> about this on the New York Times website. Jeebus.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hey, H&M what do you stand for? Horrid & Miserly? Why do you hate the homeless and poor? Why can’t they wear your unsellable clothes? Mary Kate & Ashley Olsen have made fashion icons out of themselves by looking homeless! And you mass fashion retailers have made a fortune out of helping girls look like the Olsens (ie: homeless). So what’s the deal with your 34th street New York Store? <br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I must say, I’m a little shocked. You guys don’t come across as the evil sort. Everyone knows oil companies, insurance companies, pharmaceutical companies, insurance companies, any company that they work for are inherently evil. But a Swedish fashion-retail company? Aren’t you Swedes supposed to be perfect? Aren’t you one the world’s top 10 happiest countries? Aren’t you guys like a model “welfare state” and an excellent example of effective national taxes with universal tax-funded childcare, parental leave, health care, education (including university), retirement pensions and sick leave? Didn’t you give birth to IKEA? Man, i love IKEA. What’s that? You don’t see how this is all relevant to the overseas operations of one corporate entity that is NOT IKEA? Neither do I. Sometimes, I just like to rattle off things I know about a country. That’s why I have no friends. What’s that? It’s not Swedish HQ’s fault – blame the American branch? Oh, okay. Yeah, those Americans. We get it. They would slit their momma’s throats to prove that they ain’t goddamn socialists. I’m kidding. Don’t hate me. I love Americans. Until I meet one of them while on holiday. I’m kidding again. I wish I was American. America is awesome. Until I watch a Michael Moore documentary. <em><span style="font-size: x-small;">But he’s a goddamn socialist in disguise. He should go live in Canada. We don’t want no goddamn socialist here in the U.S of A. And you know who else is a goddamn socialist? That </span></em></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jamie_Johnson"><em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Jamie Johnson</span></em></a><em><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> brat, trying to be Michael Moore 2.0, while parading that wonderfully handsome face around and living off his band-aid and baby powder riches. (p.s. marry me Jamie Johnson?) </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milton_friedman"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Milton Friedman</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> said so. Milton Friedman called Jamie Johnson a socialist and Mr. Friedman is all about the free-market. I don’t have any goddam idea what a free-market is but if it has “free” in it then it ain’t socialist or even worse, Moslem. Fuck yeah. But you know who’s an even bigger socialist? Obama! Yeah, that’s right, the President is socialist AND he’s got a Moslem middle name!! That’s what’s wrong with this country, man – the socialists and Moslems!</span></span></em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I’m kidding. I’m not even American and I love America, truly. Also, if we didn’t love them, they might us bomb us back to the Stone Age. Oh, wait, those days are over aren’t they now that they have a socialist president with a Moslem middle name? Hey man, if I didn’t love America why else would I be reading the New York Times all the way from this side of the world? Anyway, back to the article. An excerpt about the good people of H&M:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<strong><em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">H & M, which is based in Sweden, has an executive in charge of corporate responsibility who leads the company’s sustainability efforts. On its Web site, H&M reports that to save paper, it has shrunk its shipping labels.</span></em></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here is where I go on a bit of a rant on this term called </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corporate_responsibility"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Corporate Responsibility”</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> for it is a term, close to my <strike>heart pain in the butt KPI review</strike> heart.So every monkey in a business suit talks about corporate responsibility these days - Myself included, although as a monkey swinging on the lower branches of the corporate tree – I won’t always be found in a business suit (<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">for such attire is ill suited to doing Senior Monkeyment’s dirty hands-on dirty hands-on work in the jungles of Borneo – look, we gave a few free toothbrushes to the rural folk – wooohoooo we’re responsible! But then, we profit off logging and supplying equipment to the oil palm plantation giants who have stolen much off your native land – but look, here’s a toothbrush! A toothbrush!!</span></em> Boy, have I got a story for this one but I’m sort of under gag order from both my company and the NGO we helped out so maybe next time) So yes, I work in the corporate responsibility (CR) line but I’m parked in the Public Relations division (because Senior Monkeyment can’t wrap their ancient brains around the concept that CR is supposed to be a core business strategy/ wealth-creation process for all instead of an optional publicity stunt) You go into the job thinking that you’re going to do some good for society without having to settle for modest NGO pay, because for all your lofty humanitarian aspirations; you’re just a greedy ass clown who has watched too many emotional Anderson Cooper CNN news reports and you suffer from bourgeois guilt. Heck, if you can’t beat the Corporates, you join them because change comes from within, does it not? Sure, unless the company is structured less like a corporate entity and more like a feudal state (<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">forgive me my kind Employer-Lords for saying so, it is only my humble employee-serf opinion).</span></em> There isn’t room for reform in a feudal state man, only revolution. (And you know how messy those things can get) As a white-collar serf, I sometimes find myself, like alot of other serfs in my line of work, having to work along the myopic CSR strategies that Senior Monkeyment has set. Sometimes, these CR strategies aren’t so much short-sighted as they are conceived through friggin beer goggles. Still, I work in a region where CR is still in its infancy and we are constantly told at these stupid ass CR Conferences my boss makes me go to about how advance the Europeans are with this shit (<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">whatever you say, I’m just here for the awesome and free buffet lunch. Ooh, are those mini chicken pies? Kuala Lumpur Convention Center makes the BEST grape smoothies by the way</span></em>)<br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anyway I just wanted to say bravo, H&M, bravo for shrinking-shipping-labels-to-save-em-costs-and-trees while destroying-these-obviously-hideous-coats-that-no-one-will-buy-so-the-homeless-cant-get-their-freezing-hands-on-it-and-we-can-send-more-shit-to-the-landfills. And getting blasted in the New York Times? CR Perspective – Fail. Public Relations Perspective – A Bit Fucked, eh? The article further states:<br />
</span><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This week, a manager in the H & M store on 34th Street said inquiries about its disposal practices had to be made to its United States headquarters. However, various officials did not respond to 10 inquiries made Tuesday by phone and e-mail.</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Directly around the corner from H & M is a big collection point for New York Cares, which conducts an annual coat drive for the homeless</span></em></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<em><strong><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">“How about all the solid waste generated by throwing away usable garments and plastic hangers?” Ms. Magnus asked in a letter to the executive, Ingrid Schullstrom. She volunteered to help H & M connect with a charity or agency in New York that could put the unsold items to better use than simply tossing them in the trash. So far, she said, she has gotten no response. </span><br />
</span></strong></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh H&M you have lots of explaining to do. Good luck! My boss once kept me up till 2am to finish a response to a UK-based “Human Rights” NGO to explain away our business dealings with the military junta in Myanmar/ Burma (the gist of it went like this: <em><span style="font-size: x-small;">we do it for the everyday people of Myanmar; the Burmese people need jobs damn it and we’re paying them heck of a lot of money; what’s freedom of speech when you’re hungry? Let’s see you talk when you’re hungry</span></em>!) And that was just some twatty NGO people whose website no one reads. <br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In other news, The Daily Express of the UK </span><a href="http://www.express.co.uk/posts/view/149899/Pictures-Baboons-keep-warm-with-hot-potatoes-"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">reports</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> that the baboons in Knowsley Safari Park, Merseyside, are being given hot baked potatoes to keep warm during winter. The article states:<br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em><strong>“Keepers braved the freezing conditions to check on the welfare of the animals throughout the park, many of which are more suited to balmy weather”.</strong></em> <br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Man, come winter time, it would seem that even the baboons in England are having it easier than the homeless and poor of New York City. God Bless. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">*** <span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong><em>a day after the NYT article was published, an H&M spokeswoman said, “It will not happen again. We are committed 100 percent to make sure this practice is not happening anywhere else, as it is not our standard practice.”</em></strong> Translation?</span> <em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Fuck, fuck, fuck, hey Sven, where’s that calendar; you know the one with the monthly meaningless damage control phrases for PR dummies? Yeah, let’s go with December. December’s good. What? Who has used it to explain away kids in sweatshops? What about September? What does September say? “I did not have sex with that woman? Awh damn, let’s just do December. I don’t think they’ll notice. </span></em></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">***I’m serious, Jamie Johnson, you might be an arrogant little poser Trustafarian with a pseudo-conscience but marry me anyway. I did ask Anderson Cooper but he said no. For obvious reasons. And then he stared intensely at me with his blue, blue eyes and made a sad face. And I forgave him and continued to watch CNN long after news and journalistic integrity has lost its meaning. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-25822233055692570122009-12-29T10:59:00.002+08:002010-01-08T13:31:59.012+08:00Shoe Box: Is That an Armadillo on Your Feet or Does McQueen Just Hate Women?From <em><a href="http://frockwriter.blogspot.com/2009/12/mcqueens-shoes-werent-meant-for-walking.html">Frockwriter</a></em>: <em>Wonder why we didn't see (Abbey Lee) Kershaw, Sasha Pivovarova or Natasha Poly in the (Alexander McQueen S/S 2010) show? According to Kershaw, that's because after taking one look at the shoes, the supermod trio convened for a powow and decided to nix it.</em><br />
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There's art, there's style and then there's haute-torture. <br />
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I’m not actually averse to suffering for fashion. My rapidly growing collection of killer heels practically amounts to mass murder. But I wouldn't blame anyone, professional models or mere mortals for drawing the line at these McQueen shoes. <br />
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It actually reminds me a bit of ancient chinese foot-binding custom. It has been said that “Bound feet limit a woman’s mobility and therefore her ability to take part in politics, social life, and the world at large. Bound feet rendered women dependent on their families, particularly their men, and therefore became an alluring symbol of chastity and male ownership, since a woman was largely restricted to her home and could not venture far without an escort or the help of watchful servants.”<br />
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Nice one, McQueen!<br />
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Sure, Lady Gaga wore them in her Bad Romance music video but A) it’s a music video and b)should anyone really be taking sartorial tips from a person who seems to constantly forget to wear pants when she leaves the house.<br />
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So some guy commented on Frockwriter’s post saying:<em>“I believe, these shoes are thought up not for walking along the street. This is art, instead of workmanship. Therefore models arrive nonprofessionally, refusing the direct duties.”</em><br />
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Coco Chanel gave women their bodies back with her designs. We shouldn't be giving them away in the name of "art". <br />
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I swear, the next time someone tells me that something like this armadillo is "art", I'm going to stick the Mona Lisa over my head and go - "voila!"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-19303717013775313662009-12-28T23:24:00.003+08:002009-12-29T10:45:37.611+08:00Art Box: I made this when I empathized with you<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLlABmf18t11-8Ta8jCrpCb01QF1cQ7TIpIaEF_VEkv0IAHFN_7Gcd1CZ7x2QhVwAWqoX54CIrqqVZjcpGdeIj3DIqyyMyrhoIL7x6RB4K3U8_2s6dAIlxUNpgrhky4vqyU9H5PNX7lI/s1600-h/balloon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwLlABmf18t11-8Ta8jCrpCb01QF1cQ7TIpIaEF_VEkv0IAHFN_7Gcd1CZ7x2QhVwAWqoX54CIrqqVZjcpGdeIj3DIqyyMyrhoIL7x6RB4K3U8_2s6dAIlxUNpgrhky4vqyU9H5PNX7lI/s400/balloon.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205265648050039948.post-67668853878982917372009-12-08T10:03:00.002+08:002009-12-08T10:05:22.129+08:00Art Box: I drew this while you were talking to me...<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAvlybbW8TOJyH_AhbRo3wy6aSMz_YLwXITk5rIQCfNt_UUUCd9ueC8WYj1Em42E459L0ggegQBDccs5_ClUc40Nrxv20lUp1G4KAVsOdewsTkaPTXRBN4ImAYw8PJY1FPqd5OAlkjHmI/s1600-h/hangthekittycropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" er="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAvlybbW8TOJyH_AhbRo3wy6aSMz_YLwXITk5rIQCfNt_UUUCd9ueC8WYj1Em42E459L0ggegQBDccs5_ClUc40Nrxv20lUp1G4KAVsOdewsTkaPTXRBN4ImAYw8PJY1FPqd5OAlkjHmI/s400/hangthekittycropped.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I hope you're happy now.</span><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0