The following is my latest entry to the "Mind your Slanguage" series, which takes a close look at Malay slang terms and examines their impact on the Malay conciousness. Providing socio-linguistic commentry through the medium of street slang and argot.

Apa stim?

Stim [stiːm] :

Colloqioul Malay slang term used to describe the state of intoxication and/or an altered state of conciousness.

The nature of the experience may take form and find origin in one, any, or all of the following:

1. Administration of psychotropic substances (narcotic or otherwise).

2. Sexual arousal (the term is often employed in describing the male erection).

3. Other sensations or experiences of hedonistic proportions that engages one at a pleasurable sensory level.

Although primarily associated with illicit drug use and abuse, the term "stim" is a catch-all phrase used to denote experiences characterized by sensations and emotions that incites and pleasures human sensory faculties. Although often used to deragotary effect (e.g. "Kau ni tak abis2 buang masa tangkap stim."), the term is also used as an indication of deep and high levels of enjoyment, reception and appreciation, often to confer glowing testimonial and compliment to given persons, bodies, action, display, artform, product or entity (e.g. "Stim siol, nasi ayam nenek aku.").

As with all hermeneutic enquiries and discussions, it is of customary importance to derive and postulate some theory or hypothesis on the origins of the term that finds itself as the subject of discourse. On this particular occassion, the most plausible and direct explanation would be that the term stim is derived from the English language phrase "to let off steam". In plotting and comparing the features and characteristics of the two entities in an attempt to determine if they are the same monster, one would note that both the causal factors that compels one to "tangkap stim" and its resultant benefits and after-effects are in congruence with the act of "letting off steam".

However, I would hereby like to postulate, by means of informed speculation, an alternative theory of the origins of the term stim. An examination of the definition of the slang term would reveal that the term encompasses all forms of sensory organ stimulation. Hence, it would probably not be too far fetched for one to conjecture that the slang term stim, is actually a short-form derivation of the term stimulate. Having emerged and found circulation into usage from within the realm of the sex drugs and rock n roll subculture, the term can therefore be said to have been coined by Mat Rocks. That having been stated, it is interesting to therefore note that this alternative theory of the origins of the term stim assumes that the Mat Rocks had quite a sophisticated grasp and knowledge of neuro-biological science and sensory processes.

Fancy that!

Return of the Jester!
(My 1st post after 3 years)

Greetings, blogsite visitors! Welcome to my humble writing log!

I would like to characterise this blog as an individual, micro-level, small-scale, and casual indie project whose primary aim is to spit the phlegm of defiance at the face of vulgar and epidemic proliferation of the culture and practice of mass-reproduction and regurgitation of thoughts and ideas, a phenomena which is taking place at both individual and en masse levels in this Xerox-age that we live in. This will be achieved by my offerings of random and index-less musings which are detached from the shackles and security blanket of the "gospel-truths" of grand theory, as well as the rigid templates and restricted set boundaries of what is considered "serious" and "intellectual" discussion.

Do not, however, be wrongly-impressed. I have no delusions of fame, recognition, acclaim or granduer. Neither am I under the misled impression of posessing Pulitzer-prize winning standard and quality in the craft of writing. The idea of this small venture is to be original, not brilliant. In progressive paradox though, it is my belief that one achieves brilliance by being, first and foremost, original.

On the same thread, this blog will not set the world alight nor shake the foundations of present-day paradigms within the established disciplines and modes of enquiry. However, I at least hope that small pickings of people here and there will find some amusement and pleasent distraction through this endavour of mine.

This Blog, however, is not a new, or even recent, creation. It has existed for some time yet. However, it has been quite a while, a matter of years in fact, since I registered an entry here. I have been experiencing a relatively lull period in exertions of general creative written form. However, in an attempt to try and re-establish acquintance with, and maintain, through regular practice, some semblance of competence in the areas of form, structure, syntax and usage of English language and linguistics (partly to keep up with the required demands of my salaried vocation) I am attempting a return to this art form and seeking a personal creative revival and rennaisance of sorts.

A few points of note to help orientate the reader to the general approach and framework of this blog:

1. The themes and subject matter of the contents of this blog will be of mostly irreverent, flippant, and occasionaly unabashedly downright nonsensical nature and orientation.
2. Though the entries will not be lacking in universal conherent character and form to facilitate reader comprehension and intellectual involvement with and attachment to the texts, it must be said that both my thought processes and expressional delivery tend to go off in tangents, resulting in above-moderate levels of display of erratic flow and logic.
3. The substantial employment of randomly obtuse literal devices may cause some bafflement, bemusement, and perhapes disorientation. Heavy use of metaphors and cryptic language and description will most likely be for the purpose of shamelessly creating false pretenses of mystic to embellish what essentially is trivial and most probably nonsensical trite.
4. I have the attention span of a lemming, as well as the motivational drive and productivity level of a corpse. Entries may therefore be less than prolific in writing and post.
5. My spelling is atrocious.
6. This blog will also function as a front and cover to fuel the attainment of my actual main ambition of world domination. (post-edit note: Pls refer to s/no. 2 of this numbered list to reconcile this statement of claim and assertion).

Caveats having been delivered out of the way, may I now wish all viewers entertaining and interesting reads.

Kudos!

(post-edit note: Gosh, that was so much pretentious poppycock and bull-shit from someone whose works remain entirely unpublished or even heard of by any literary or artistic circle)

The Evil that Men do.

It occurred to me that some grudges just don't disappear with time. Some remain like a bad smell across centuries. Take the Arab-Israeli conflict. The Israelites seem to think it their birth right to kick Arabs around senseless. Or at least stories in the old testament reflect this attitude. Someone should tell them plainly that it's not decent.

Everybody knows about the holoucast. It's written all over history books. And we all teared when Roberto Benigni's character in It's a Beautiful Life got excecuted at machine gun point. Other holoucast movies to recieve widespread acclaim include The Pianist and Schindler's List. I'm not saying that the holoucast was justified. Neither am I under the impression that the Arabs are totally without blame. But are we equally well-informed of Israelite massacare of their semitic cousins?

To provide a comprehensive list of such occurrences throughout history would be quite a task. I shall therefore here only highlight the more spectacular ones. According to Biblical accounts, this Jewish lad called Shamgar killed 600 Philistines (ancestors of the Palestinians) with an ox goad. An ox goad, by the way, is a narrow wooden stick used by sheperds to flog their herd into formation while they graze on the grass. Now imagine that! Killing 600 people with a narrow wooden stick. Even Rambo had a general purpose machine gun. This Shamgar character must have been quite a bad ass fighter.

His more illustrious counterpart Samson (of 'Samson and Delilah' fame) did one better by killing 1000 Philistines, armed only with the jaw bone of a donkey. Suddenly, the enorminity of David's feat against Goliath (a Philistine too?) pales in comparison.

It is also written in the bible that Samson went into Gaza, saw a harlot and "went into her". In what is perhapes a sick act of imitation, another Jewish lad by the name of Ariel Sharon is today sending his troops and bulldozers into Gaza and fucking the Palestinian inhabitants up, tearing down their homes and inflicting civilian casualties while at it. In an image beamed on television, an elderly Palestinian woman was seen scrounging around on all fours looking for her medicine amidst the rubble of what was her home. The war criminal Sharon's CV include the massacare of refugees, including women and children, at the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps in 1982, not to mention numerous other atrocities commited while he was chief of the millitary. The Israeli military machine continues to roll on, equipped with modern state of the art jet fighters, bombs and nuclear weaponry funded by American taxpayer money. Their arsenal also include spin doctors, gazillionaire political lobbyists and media moguls like Rupert Murdoch, prolific manufacturers of hate and deception.

I visited Jerusalem a couple of years back, and while roaming the streets, I bumped into a group of young Palestinian school children who had such adorable toothy-grins and razor-sharp wit. Their brown and blue eyes were brimming with innocence and life and each of them walked with the confidence and swagger of one with the world at his command. They seemed totally oblivious to the opression and poverty imposed upon them and their families. After a charming picture session during which they repeatedly shook my hand and revelled at the sight of the blinking flash, I was told by the tour guide that these were the same kids you see on TV pelting rocks at Israeli tanks and troops. Blimey!

As I bade farewell to my new friends, their smiles seemed to tell me that every stone thrown at a juggernaut Israeli tank is a spit of defiance in the face of tyranny. So bring on your tanks, ox goads, donkey jaw bones, and what have you to the fight. These kids will bring their courage.

Out of college, money spent
See no future, pay no rent
All the money's gone, nowhere to go
Any jobber got the sack
Monday morning, turning back
Yellow lorry slow, nowhere to go

But oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go
Oh, that magic feeling
Nowhere to go
Nowhere to go


Adapted from The Beatles' You Never Give Me Your Money.

What is Cool?

In this age of popular culture where trendiness and the ability to be within the "in" crowd serve as cultural capital in the social world, many amongst us are confronted with this daunting question: How can I be cool?

None of us would admit that our minds are constantly in the process of considering this question. Because if you do, then you're not cool. Which would render the original question self-defeating. But every second of our waking (and probably sleeping) lives, this question slithers its way across our subconscious mind, influencing the way we dress, speak, walk, laugh, write. Everything.

So how do you attain 'cool'-ness? If you try too hard, it ain't cool. But if you don't try at all, you're a slob. If you say you're cool, it ain't cool. But if you don't, then people might not notice. The answer to this conundrum then, is elementary. Cool-ness is inherent. You have it or you don't. But who's to say who is cool and who isn't, anyway? Who attributes and attains authority? Apparently, our enquiry has reached a dead end.

But I'll tell you who's definitely NOT cool. Those guys who organise government campaign roadshows around this island. I'm no cool guru, but have you even seen their shows? They'd have the same lame old acts time and again. These middle-aged men and women who assemble the acts must really thing that it melts the hearts of heartlanders every year to see adolescent boys and girls dancing around stage in native Hawaii costumes to some Beach Boys tune. And I do suppose they think it's trendy to have Elvis impersonators on stage every year. And balloon games are supposed to send a rush of blood to my head in excitement. Couple all of these with the tacky decorama, cheesy music and frighteningly excessive make up, and you cannot be blamed for thinking that you accidentally walked into a Cher concert. Or KISS, for that matter.

I came across pictures on the web taken at an anti-drug roadshow. Credit to the organizers for their valiant efforts. But they had little boys in loin cloth and headbands posing bare bodied on stage. A bunch of women were in striking red skirts dancing in synchronized fashion carrying rainbow-striped umbrellas. Ain't that cool?

Best part is, the article began with this proud boast:

"Put on your dancing shoes, move to the beat and feel the rhythm of DanceWorks! 2002, the dance event of the year!"

Dance event of the year? Even Woodstock 69 did not proclaim itself to be the concert of the year. Imagine the audacity of THESE lads!

The article ends with a tinge of glory and relief:

"To all participants of DanceWorks!, you are all winners for having had the dedication and determination to perform your wonderful dance routines on stage. We salute you for your hard work and for having taken that first step towards a healthy and drug free lifestyle. Till next year, do continue to move and groove;away from drugs!"

Perhaps the organizers believe that they have made use of their youthful sense of trendiness well by reaching out to the youth population with their message. Perhaps a heroin junkie decided to kick his habit for good after years of painful addiction because he was swayed by the cha-cha beats and colourful streams of banners at the concert.

I laud the organizers for their noble intentions in spreading the message. But still, the fact of the matter remains hauntingly, like the specter of a plague. You guys have absolutely no notion of "cool"-ness. You guys must have been seating on the organizing panel since the 80s. Back then, most of you still had hair. The more adventurous amongst you tried the afro then. A decade too late. Yes. You weren't cool even back then.

Make way for new and young talent. Get new personnel who will take your roadshows to greater new heights. What your gig needs is a fresh injection of concepts and ideas. The audience has suffered for far too long.

Just some feedback from an honest roadshow enthausiast.





post-article thoughts: a tinge too much passion and edge over nothing, wasn't it?

A gem I uncovered while going through the shelves of the school library.


do not say my people are lazy
because you do not know
you are only a critic, an onlooker
you cannot know or judge

do not think my people are weak
because they are gentle
do not think that we have only music
because we love life

do not condemn us as poor
because we have very few banks
see here the richness of our people
the brimful hearts that do not grab or grapple
we collect humanity from the sun and rain and man
transcending the business and the money

do not tell us how to live
or organise such nice associations and bodies
our society was an entity
before the advent of political philosophy

do not say -
because you do not know


Adapted in part from
Mohd. Hj. Salleh

Mind Rambles on a Rainy January Afternoon:
SARs, civet cats, the CIA and bludgeoned chickens.

They recently discovered that civet cats in China could be the hosts of the latest appearance of the SARs virus. Without intending this to be a fucked up comment that fringes on ethnocentricity at all, I must say that it's no surprise there's an outbreak, really. I've walked past a street market in Hainan once. They were selling all sorts of animals in there. A lady was splitting a live tortoise's body apart with a huge knife in front of me. When the front plate finally cracked apart from the shell, I could see the poor fella's heart still beating. The lady just ripped the heart apart (how often have we used the phrase "ripped my heart apart" repeatedly without understanding the full physical ramifications and reality behind the event actually occurring?) and threw it to one side, followed by the intestines and other organs. The guy who bought the tortoise stood near, looking introspectively, keen on having first view of the merchandise he paid good money for.

I saw cats stacked in cages too. But this is not an attack on any particular nations' dietry preferances and slaughtering etiquette. Every nation has its peculiar consumption habits and means of inflicting pain on others. Throughout time, mankind has excelled in the areas of invention and refinement when it comes to inflicting tourture and pain. Mordern day institutional manifestations of this inherent trait in human beings can be seen from the Gestapo to the KKK, and on through the CIA.

The point being, that few nations can be spared the rod when it comes to punishment for cruelty to others including animals. So let this be a message to all. Stop animal cruelty. I'm not a vegan. I eat meat. But if you've got to eat em, then kill em in the fastest and most humane way possible. Get a sharp knife and go for the big veins that run through the throat. There's even a consumer's health incentive to slaughtering by means of slitting the throat. You see, the blood has acidic content. When you kill the animal by pounding its head or running electricity through it, there is no bleeding and the blood therefore stays within the animal. After some time, the acidic content will dissolve in the flesh of the dead animal. Consuming the meat thus becomes harmful for one's body. Now there's a scientific rationale behind slaughtering by means of slitting the throat. But do you know how many electrocuted and bludgeoned chickens and cows are hanging by shop windows these days? Think about that.

Just a few tips on how to kill animals. For one's necessary consumption for the sake of sustenance, of course. Oh my, the story has deviated that far.

But back on the topic of dietry preferences, I reckon that China's fetish for consuming "exotic" animals is a reflection of historical circumstances. Historically, the commonfolk of China have had hard times surviving as a result of floods, famines and other natural disasters. Scarcity of food must therefore have been a major policy issue for them in the pre-modern days. The people therefore adapted to their surroundings to beat the scarcity by experimenting with consuming many different kinds of animals (and parts). This may be mere speculation, but think about it the next time you tug into your bear's paw soup.

My canary he died last night.
Suffered from a fright.
His hanging cage was jumped at
by my neighbor's curious cat.

His songs were always moving.
I heard it every morning.
A voice like chords from strings
in strains that come to sonnetting.

A trowel my father used
as he softly prodded and mused.
Buried the lifeless bird
in a handful of dirt.

A pinch of bread held by a stick
with bite marks from his tiny beak.
Some water left inside the dish.
A meal my lovely never finished.

But the tragedy of it all
is as he came to a fall,
his final song
wasn't that very long.

I never gave him a name.
Always thought it would be lame.
But in death, I call him Gerald.
Poor, sweet Gerald.

Unborn Chicken Voices In My Head.
- my tribute to the crackpots that are collectively Radiohead.

One can measure the state of his mental health through the kind of music he currently listens to regularly. In my opinion, when one listens to a lot of Radiohead (esp. OK Computer and Amnesiac), that is a damning indication of a mental state at the brink of decline into psychopathic obscurity and cold frigidity. Rather perversely, the statement just made is not a castigation of the band. Instead, it is a glowing reference to the brilliance and intensity of its music.

The paradox is that listening to Radiohead can be therapeutic. However, as I can only imagine, Radiohead is akin to mind-influencing substances. Both bring you to the highest echelons of euphoria and surround you with an aura of triumphant invincibility. Then without warning, it sinks you into an abyss of obscurity and vulnerablity of the highest order. In both the presence and absence of the music, you could very possibly end up finding yourself sitting in the corner of a dark and empty room staring coldly at people who are not there. You know you're even more fucked when you find yourself sitting in the corner of a dark room full of people, and you stare at them with the same coldness and detachment, while imagining them to be the same obscure images you were acquainted with in the empty room.

And in loosing yourself within the music, you find not a watershed, but a cogwash of poppycock your concious mind has been trying in all its existence to repress and erase - as it emerges, unsuccessfully. You go through life fashioning yourself as a strong, confident person so sure of himself. Then cometh the weak core, like an univited guest. The one who laughs the loudest is the loneliest. The funniest guy is the most twisted of the lot. With the music as catalyst, the very cognitive mechanisms that has allowed you to skip past life's obstacles and challenges easily now works against you by releasing a psychic network of conondrums and puzzles in a cerebral orgy of almost heathen perversity. You over-analyse things. Suddenly, within all your adult sure-ness, the oddball obese child who was scared shitless of all things around him and had problems adjusting to his surroundings finds his way out of your subconcious and into your concious mind, then finally and most terrifyingly, to your voice box. You undergo a fleeting flashback and involuntarily utter words and complete sentences you once spoke in the distant past and thought you had completely forgotten. Hidden within these words are cries for help and pleas for clemency. You freak out. You panic. Paranoia sets in. You imagine a machiavellian plot against you unfolding before your eyes. You sit there without feeling. Staring, pondering, waiting for the knife to finally be plunged in, the coup de grace of this torture and torment.

Then as the dust settles, it hits you like a diamond into the forehead. The current issues you are undergoing are actually miscellanous. They are merely a subtext to the larger collective. You then develop awareness that the task is actually more daunting than you thought. The music is more than a mind fuck. It is a mind gang-bang. And at the end of the whole experience, you feel like a whore for perversely and secretly liking it.

With a name fit for a poet or writer (then again, he is both), it is no wonder that Thomas Edward Yorke and his band of Oxfordites can spew such beautiful words and music. The thing with Radiohead's music is that it grips you by the balls and demands your attention. It gives you more than just sensory pleasure. Despite, yet also because of, the fact that their lyrics are mostly disjointed and obscure, it makes your mind work and create channels towards an infinite number of scenarios and possibilities, unlike your run of the mill "i love her, but she doesnt love me, and now I'm heartbroken" or "I have loads of bling blings, fast cars and women" songs. It is as much an intellectual as it is a musical experience. But in as many ways that their music makes you develop cognitive comprehension of yourself and surroundings, it also has a sneaky way of exposing the disturbed person in you. When you find complete relation and marvel at words like "so knives out / catch the mouse / don't look down / shove it in your mouth", "yesterday I woke up sucking on a lemon" and "i'll take a quiet life / a handshake of carbon monoxide", you know that you are a seriously disturbed person. These crackpots are dark without even trying. Fuck off Marilyn Manson!

In any tribute to Radiohead, there would be a vast ammount of material to cover. However, due to the fact that my energy and attention span does not come in equal abundance, I have chosen one particular song to analyse, line by line. I hope that it at least comes close to encapsulating what Radiohead means to me. There are many interpretations to the lyrics and music to Paranoid Android. To each his own, and the following narrative is my interpretation.


Paranoid Android.

The song opens with a catchy and almost 'cha-cha' like beat - a misleading prelude to the theme of the song. The listener catches glimpse of this fact as he gets a peek in to the mental torment the narrator in the song is undergoing, as Thom breaks into the opening line:


Please could you stop the noise, I'm trying to get some rest
From all the unborn chicken voices in my head


Then in a voice half mocking and half pleading, Thom wails:


What's that...?
What's that...?


Thom the scrawny and vertically-challenged geek with a face only a mother could love then recklessly exposes his inner pent-up emotions. The wierdo-geek in the song, largely ignored and unloved, foretells his ascendency into prominence and issues a chilling warning to his enemies:


When I am king, you will be first against the wall
With your opinion which is of no consequence at all


And again, but now in total and confident mockery:


What's that...?
What's that...?


The music reaches a crescendo at this point before falling into a less intense but equally captivating beat. Colin Greenwood takes charge on bass. Thom launces a diatribe at his enemies and sneers at them:


Ambition makes you look preety ugly
Kicking squealing Gucci little piggy.


It is now clear who the slur is directed at - those modish, swanky, upscale types so full of themselves and filled with pride towards their 'cultured-ness' and sense of taste. The same buggers who would step on anyone's head to obtain their material and superficial desires. King Yorke the Ignored then lets fly with his emotions, in a child-like manner that stinks of anger, frustration and the want for absolute revenge:


You don't remember
You don't remember
Why don't you remember my name?


Like an angry child who has just been given a flame thrower as a birthday present, Thom then dreams of a massacare of his enemies:


Off with his head, man
Off with his head, man
Why don't you remember my name


And in adding insult to injury, he spits at the corpses of his fallen enemies:


I guess he does.


The music then peaks into total chaos as Johnny Greenwood's guitar screams into the air. One gets the morbid imagery of heads falling and blood spilling everywhere. Then, just as the listener is getting accustomed to the noise and chaos surrounding him, it stops abruptly and the song breaks into a slow beat with gregorian-like chanting, introducing an air of divinity. The geek realizes that he is turning into his enemies and sees the ugly-ness behind his hate. He realizes the folly behind his scheme for revenge. He drops to his knees, holds his hands up to the air, and declares his repentence and seeks clemency and help from above. For all his deficiencies and failings, he cries out:


Rain down, rain down
Come on rain down on me
From a great height
From a great height... height...


God the almighty and merciful hears the pleas of the repentant. The repentant is then comforted with a promise that God has his own designs and those deserving of retribution will meet it. The repentant is then allowed a peek in to the ultimate fate that awaits all evil-doers:


That's it sir, you're leaving
The crackle of pig skin
The dust and the screaming
The yuppies networking
The panic, the vormit
The panic, the vormit


And a final assuarance to the faithful:


God loves his children
God loves his children, yeah


That is the epic that is Paranoid Android. It is a roller coaster trip that brings you high and low, before throwing you off to a sobering state.

The works and biography of Thomas Edward Yorke provide evidence that he is a genius and a lunatic. One may say that his psychopathy lays waste to his genius. On the contrary, like many other great artists, I believe that he finds the truest form and articulation of his genius through his lunacy.

The voices in your head are your very own.

It's going to be a glorious day.