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.

For a dear friend. In thanks and apologies.


Dorothy Meets the Lost Bohemians

Dorothy of the Sand Lands.
A petit and pretty lass.
Takes an invitation
from Sir Buck of Locksley
to visit the dark side of the garden.

Meets the lost bohemians.
Learns their handshake.
Embraced in welcome as one of them
in the huddle of the psychedelic realm.

Dorothy finds the Bohemians nice.
The Bohemians like her humor and spice.
The madcap laughter began.
And threatened not to end.

Dorothy listens as the Bohemians' bards
sing and play their songs.
Some tunes she likes,
some tunes she doesn't.

Carnival in the air.
A surrealistic affair.
She plays their games
of courtship with the other realm.

And there appeared before Dorothy,
like the Cheshire Cat before Alice,
were the grinning anemic cousins.
The slurring one with wavy locks,
and the lunatic.
Some playful conondrums,
exchanges and cursings.
Slaps on some silly heads.
And the foretelling of a dynasty.

Morning bells.
Weirdos come out to play.
The anemic water retention cousins.
The sleeping, growling tiger.
Jake's buddy (the man with the funny faces who tried to choke himself).
The mute.

As the sun rose higher,
Dororthy and the druid
caught sight of Sir Buck
showing his (lustful) affection
for his soft and fluffy lover.

The time for parting has come.
The adventure ends.
Dorothy leaves the garden
with a chilly parting shot;

You'll be the death of me, Sir Buck.
You'll be the death of me yet.

Sheila

Sheila's got a bike
And she's the girl that I like
But it's unfortunate she has to be a dyke

She likes white pearls
And sixteen year old girls
Kicks her football with a wicked bending curl

Skin that makes you sigh
And a touch that leaves you high
Just for her I'd kill and steal and tell a lie

But dicks don't appeal to her
She'd rather soon they dissapear
Should you have one you'd better not come near

Stabbed me like a spike
Cause she's the girl that I like
But it's unfortunate she has to be a dyke

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Wash my hands.
Scrub them till my skin peels.

If there's soap it's good
with detergent is better.

Wash in rigid rythm
(miss a spot I won't).

When I'm done I dry my hands
then do it over again.

Scare away my kin.
At least my hands are clean.

Syd shaved his eyebrows and all his hair

jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.

Albert sent Syd to the dark side of the moon.

jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.
jumped up and down and brushed his teeth.

Codeia Lovesick Singalong

Comic caper, odd go-getter, moral leper, chronic steamer
ever trapped in cosmic cough-mix bliss.

Smokes his pack of Luckies while he hangs out with his buddies
here's a slacker every slag would give a miss.

Anemia got him early, he is frail and he is dainty
gets his fix through cigs and magic clinic mix.

Now he's all alone at night, he cannot figure what's not right
few healthy swigs before he flicks the switch.

Plants

There are green plants, red plants, purple plants, brown plants, yellow plants, green plants with red spots, tangerine-hued plants and more.

Plants that coil through heights and depths
like Shiva's dance of death.

There are plants whose roots you eat
and those whose fruits are sweet.

Plants that make you think
and those that make you see things.

There are plants with flowers
and those that glower

Heart-shaped plants.
Plants that make you itch.
Plants you eat.
Plants with chlorophyl
and those without.
Plants that grow from seeds
and those that spawn from spores.
Big plants
small plants
medium-sized plants.

Plants, plants, plants.
There are many plants.

And they all wither and die
just like you and me.

InDejanous Vu (Postscript)

Write your history, we shall do
Kitsch and folklore, legend too
Nothing here of serious merit
You have no past, why don't you get it?

My children will despise you kind
You people of a lesser mind
And soon your kids will follow suit
Believe my thoughts, then they'll come good

InDejanous Vu

Dupe their kings with opiates
Take their land while they sedate
"Greedy pigs? Not us, old boy!"
His Majesty's servants have no such ploy


fast forward through time


Gratis night at Palace Ville
Politicians come to have their fill
"Turn it to a museum, shall we?"
Common fodder for you and me

Note to self:

Please kindly remember to bring a pen to your next exam paper. If you haven't noticed by now, despite it being the umpteenth time in close to four years, invigilators do not enjoy scampering around the exam hall looking for a spare pen for an idiot who remembered to bring a ruler (for who knows what purpose in an essay-based paper), but not a pen to write his answers with.

The next time you raise your hand at the very begining of a paper, it had better be to compliment the invigilator on the nice pair of shoes he or she has on.

End of note.

Let's get poetically spiritual.

The following poem is one of my all time favs. 'Twas written by the man himself, Mawlana Jalaludin Rumi (1207 - 1273), Sufi master and poet extrodinaire. Sufism is a mystical order in Islam, whose adherents focus highly on the spiritual aspect of the religion, intoxicating themselves with the love for God, 24-7. They lead a rather bohemian lifestyle (Muslim-style, of course), and have been labelled as "the hippies of the Muslim world" for their indifference and passive attitude towards the outside world, as well as their rabid simplicity through spirituality. They have been around for centuries to date. Theory has it that the Sufis played a part in bringing Islam to the masses in Southeast Asia; among other regions, I assume.

The poem I am about to bring you was originally written in Persian, but for the obvious reason that I and possibly none others of those accessing this blogsite understands the language (unless the Ayatollah or any of his people has this site in their favourites folder, of course), I present you the English translation of it:


Hearken to this Reed forlorn,
breathing even since 'twas torn
from its rushy bed, a strain
of impassioned love and pain.
The secret of my song, though near,
none can see and none can hear.
Oh, for a friend to know the sign
and mingle all his soul with mine!
'Tis the flame of love that fired me,
'tis the wine of love inspired me.
Wouldst thou learn how lovers bleed,
hearken, hearken to the Reed!


As with other Sufi poems, it is very easy to read this one as that of a man professing his love for a woman. However, the poem should be understood within its context. Sufis believe that man should be in a constant state of misery and wandering depression in his lifetime, for want of being reunited with his lover, his maker, God almighty. Every being can only be truly happy once this happens. To express this notion, numerous beautiful metaphors are used in Sufi poetry. One that I can remember off hand is that of a drop of water, formed by collected dew on the surface of a leaf, gloriously falling into a river or lake, hence achieving its union with its source (presumably by referring to the Qur'an, these dudes were aware of the water cycle even back then).

Wine is a recurrent metaphor in Sufi poetry, but it is not to be misunderstood with the coarse act of alcohol consumption. It is merely used to symbolise the act of intoxicating oneself with the love for God.

Let me now attempt a (very) brief explanation of the poem from what I understand of it. Excuse the crudeness of my account, for I have neither the words nor the artfulness to match its beauty.

The poem is a narrative about a reed stalk that has been chopped off from its root and crafted into a musical instrument, presumably a flute. Having been cruelly separated from its source, the tunes that egresses from the flute everytime man plays it is a wail of sadness expressing its overbearing desire to be reunited with its root. This, of course, is a metaphor for man's perennial plight.

Tis love so true, that transcends lust and other superficial desires. Tis the primordial and original love.

Now isn't that awe inspiring?

must be hormonal reactions, cause i feel the urge to get mushy for a bit...


A TRIBUTE TO THE ROLLING STONE.

I still remember that day when I was eight, sitting on the bed struggling with my long division homework when my father came into my room with two cassete tapes he had just bought. One was by the Rolling Stones and the other by Eric Burdon's The Animals. Both bands were part of the famous British Invasion of the 60s and 70s which saw a host of Brit musicians taking the music world by storm. The Stones were, and still are, the archetypal Rock band while The Animals were part of the 60s psychedelic counter-culture music revolution.

"Have you heard of them?" he asked earnestly.

"Like every eight year old should already have the pleasure of?" I thought to myself.

I told him no. For heaven's sake, I was still at an age where I was playing with action figurines. Still occassionaly peeing in my pants. Crying every morning at the thought of going to school. I probably had ten friends in the world, at most; and that is a generous estimate. How on God's earth would I have heard of the Stones and the Animals?

After wiping off the bemused look on his face at the thought of a spawn of his never having heard of the Stones, he proceeded to play their tape on the cassete deck. I remember having my mind blown away by the Stones' music. The first track on the cassete was the Stones' classic "Paint it Black". These guys were singing about having no colours in the world and painting everything black. For an eight year old, that was the coolest thing you could ever hope to hear! Yes. I had a very early exposure to evil and darkness.

I remember having a watershed moment then. The longer the tape rolled on, the more I felt cheated by those old coots at school who only exposed me to the likes of Cliff Richard and Tom Jones during music lessons. Blimey! There was more to music and culture than I have thus far seen! My father just sat there by the speakers singing and wailing along to all the songs and giving me brief run throughs of the historical and lyrical significance of almost every track that played. I remember sitting there in awe raving to myself at my father's brilliance. I know that I was still at a very impressionable and naive age then, but the man was spewing metaphysical narratives about an Animals song called "Little Red Rooster", for cryin out loud!

Most men would point to puberty as the turning point in their childhood life, where they stopped being boys and started bracing themselves for manhood. I pinpoint my turning point to that moment in my room. And I thank my father for having the sense to expose me to this explosive world of counter-culture music at such an early age. To be honest, I was already getting a little sick of singing those kookabara-type songs they were stuffing into our heads in school. These songs rot your mind to a stand still and make your guts turn inside out and in again.

But then again, as cliched as it may sound (hey, I don't give two tosses, frankly), I have always noticed that my dad was different from everyone else's. This was the man who stood at one corner laughing and watching as my then 6 year old big brother made funny faces and spanked his own backside in front of a school Prefect after the latter told him to stop playing by the drain. Dad was not one to teach us to be rowdy trouble makers just for the sake of busting people's balls off. But while he preached meekness and respect, he also taught us not to be a dumbass and follow authority just because everyone else was doing it. Enquiry of the norms was his way.

A taxi driver by profession, I remember him taking my brother and I along to work just to show us the value of earning money for a living. He'd make us sit quietly in the cab, my brother in the front seat and myself sprawled at the back. I couldn't have been older than four then. Dad would go along with his normal routine and pick up passengers, though usually just the solo ones since my brother and I were already taking up space in the cab. Everyone of these poor passengers must have had a traumatic ride, because my brother and I would just sit still silently and give each of them these up-and-down probing looks. If their ride lasted for half an hour, then it was half an hour of that shit. Poor souls.

Dad would also sit with us at the dinner table and hold fascinating discussions on topics that ran the gamut from theology to politics to music and culture. Not a big deal, 'cept for the fact that it started when we were both toddlers. As you can probably conjecture by now, we weren't too interested in his lectures. We'd sooner be watching "Fraggle Rock" which would usually be showing on TV while daddy's lectures were going on. His point in the exercise was to promote a spirit of intellectual enquiry from a young age. I would go through life encountering stuff he used to tell me when I was younger and smile to myself in reminisce. An example is a theory he once related to us when we were kids, about the origins of the word "asassin". Accordingly, based on his account, the word was derived from the Persian "hashishi" (hashish) after the practice of a warlord in pre-modern Persia who would reward his hit men with hash for killing members of the Persian royalty. At that time, I thought that he was just full of bull. Not after I read the exact account in the papers in recent years, though.

The old man is hitting sixty these days. He still drives a cab by night. His hair is thinning and one of his front teeth just dropped off. Funny how an old photo I found of him during his younger days springs to mind at this point, an image that has been casted permanently in my head. That image of a long-haired Javanese hippy decked in bell bottoms and a tye dye t-shirt, holding a fag with his left hand and a hot chick with his right (my mother, of course) will always linger in my mind.


To the man whose name I'll carry till the day I die - thank you.



... and the Stones still rule.

This morning I woke up deciding that checkered shirts cause me great offense for projecting a disarming sense of contentment in symmetry through the agency of the final frontier of human representation that is the bodily form. If it be only for one glorious momentary lapse of perspective, I would assume the role of the checkered shirt's variegator and confer disrupting strokes upon its texture, like flying vapor sieving through the night sky. But for the now and present, in the dark recesses of my mind, I hear the cynical and taunting sniggers of the checkered shirt as it makes plain its vision for order, and contempt for diametric thought.


But I should get a life and not be stirred by - checkered shirts.

JACK AND THE BEANSTALK

Just had this thought. Jack and the Beanstalk is a fairytale ridden with drug undertones. It is a metaphor for cannabis consumption. A subtext to a wider message. Probably some hippy's idea of a practical joke.

By way of revision, the story we've been told is that Jack was told by his mother to sell the cow at the market for money. Instead, along his way to the market, he sold the cow to a man in exchange for magic beans. Jack came back home, his mother went hypertension on him, and threw the beans out to the garden. The beans grew into a giant tree which went all the way up to the skies. Jack climed up the tree and found a world where there lived a giant with a chicken (or was it a goose?) that lay golden eggs.

Now here's the real story. Jack was told by his mother to sell the cow at the market for money. Along the way, he met a dealer (most probably a Rastaman, as witness testimonies reveal) who, for unknown reasons, sells drugs for beef (hey, a lot of wierd shit was happening back then during the medieval ages). He gives Jack a couple of cannabis seeds in exchange for the cow. Jack goes home and shows the seeds to his mother. His mother, an ex-hippy herself, recognizes the seeds and goes loco on Jacky. She was heard shouting, "I'm not going to have no drugger in my house!". She threw the seeds out to the garden and it blooms into a cannabis plant. Jack picks out the bud, smoked Mary, and flies to the skies. He enters this world of giants and chickens that lay golden eggs. Of course, it's all in his head.


Now don't even get me started on that fairytale called "The ICE Queen".

You know how this annoying banner at the top of most blog pages has ads which reflect the contents of your posts? Well, the programme that generates these ads obviously do not understand the concept of ironic texts. Ever since my spitting post a week back, they have been advertising Post Nasal Drips to "stop PND and sinus problems".

And it comes in natural spray!




Idiots.

THIS BLOG CONTINUES

Call me evil. Manupilative. Whatever. The only reason I announced the closure of this blog is to cry for help. Technical problems. Dunno how to operate this thing for the life in me. I had lots of ideas for improvement, but no one to help me out. My cries for help were falling on deaf ears. But since my ever-reliable and beloved sister has offered her assistance (i know... i could have simply asked her), I see no reason not to continue.

Best part is, she offered to show me how to upload drawings and pics and links. I see a major revamp on the way. A "Revolver"-like revolution. You know how the Revolver album totally changed the direction of the Beatles' music (do yourselves a favour and get THAT album if you haven't)? Out went the bandstand sappy "she loves you" tunes and in came the swirly sitars, sneering sound effects, melodic dreamscape texture, peaking wit and lyrics laden with drug themes ("ring, my friend I say you call Doctor Robert"). This will be my small way of immitating the fab scouser four. Change is in the air.

So spread the gospel. This blog remains.


I still see things.



p.s. will you sneaky bastids who visit this blog but refuse to tag me please show up??

THIS BLOG IS CLOSING

Hi! Just to inform the audience of this site that this blog is closing. I've had my foray into the public channel of the Internet, but it's time to quit and go back to the "underground" (webgroups, e-mail, snail mail). It's not too difficult a decision to make anyway, cause a viewing of my message board reveals that the audience of this site consists mainly of close friends and relatives, who share my access to the webgroups and mailing list, anyway. So not much will change, if you look at it that way.

Plus, I'm getting preety annoyed with the technical aspects of blog maintenance (yes.. haha.. i'm a caveman.. so what?). Can't figure out how to make this archive link work and am frustrated that I can't upload drawings, graphics and pics to the site. That would have been a fascinatingly whole new dimension to explore, wouldn't it?

But it was good while it lasted. So long, now! Thanks for the support!

See you in the underground!

SPIT LIKE A MAN, YA CISSY!!!

Finally figured out how to spit like a man today. You know how these macho guys ooze attitude just through the banal act of spitting? In the middle of a conversation, they'll just nonchalantly turn away for a moment, clear their throats, fashionably contort their faces... and spit. A gleeful and stylish spit. And while the crowd is still held in awe, he resumes the conversation without the slightes hint of pretension.

Prior to this evening, I have never been able to master the technique. I've asked around for instructions, but was never able to convert theoretical knowledge to practice. When I spit, I usually create a mess. First of all, I emit this hediously dry and empty sound when I clear my throat. And when I spit, the flam and saliva (and whatever bits of food left in my mouth from the previous meal) ejects from my lips in a spray-like fashion instead of the textbook bullet-like form. And on bad days, there's the additional embarrasment of my anointing my t-shirt and jeans with stray spit. Not to mention the excess spit which would line my lips, causing a shiny glimmer at certain slants of light. In short, I spit like a cissy. Due to this inherent deficiency, I seldom spit in public. I swallow (yes.. the secret's out.. I swallow.. any takers?.. hahaha!).

So that's one avenue not available to me from which I can assert my manhood. To make up for that, I scratch my butt a lot. That's another act of manhood assertion. "I scratch my butt... for I am Man!!!". So in times of low self-esteem and when I feel my masculinity is placed in question, I proffer my hand (usually left) to my posterior, extend my fingers and scratch. All in one felt swoop. And as the itch subsides, my masculinity swells (no sexual connotations intended here). The more people who see it, the better. Go ahead and call me pathetic. But when you have wrists as dainty as mine, you have to cover up and go through such measures just to assert your manliness. And I do it all the time. By way of illustration, here's an anecdote:

"It was midnight and I was alone in my hostel room. Seeing that I had nothing to occupy me for the rest of the night, I proceeded to watch the movie I am Sam from my laptop. The movie moved me to tears, causing a slight discomfort in my concience, having laughed at male friends who cry at movies countless times before. Feeling a bit unnerved by this psychological threat to my masculinity, I scratched my rear end even in the absence of any substantial form of itch. Knowing that I still had the ability to scratch my buttocks, I was better able to sleep that night knowing that I was still as much a man as I was before the movie."

Now back to spitting. I was malingering outside my house this evening having a fag after break fast. Feeling a slight discomfort in my throat, I cleared it. A growling, manly sound. "Good sign", I thought. Then it came. I spat. A bullet-like spit. And I got good projection and mileage on it, too. I was then engulfed by this almost perverse sense of fulfilment. The secret is to use the space between your upper teeth and upper lip as the launching pad. All this while, I have been using the lower portion. Damn those buggers for keeping this from me all this while.

And now, ladies and gentelmen, I can scratch my butt less.

I believe that a round of applause is in order.

Code In.

Dig the hole
Lie inside
Follow the song of the reed
Get sucked in
Nothing means a thing to me
No, nothing means a thing to me
Three pounds of loving in my skull
Swirl around and float downstream
Rapt in cosmic reverie
Nothing means a thing to me

Anything else would be so boring
Anyone else would be so boring

HOW TO SOUND SOPHISTICATED

Follow these simple steps and you'll be a PHD holder in no time!

1. Remember this golden rule:

Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum viditur.

English translation: Whatever is said in Latin sounds profound.

Pack your essays and speech with latin terminology and sound smart!

e.g. "ceteris paribus", "per se", "et cetera", "et al", "vis a vis".


2. Words ending with "-tion" make your sentences sound cheem.

e.g.

"We need to promote intellectual stimulation and a culture of rigid documentation within our community."

"His disposition towards laziness placed him in a position of contempt towards assimilation into mainstream society."

"The modification of political constructs such as citizenship and statehood has caused a paradigm shift in academic orientation within the discipline."


Hope this helps! Results not guaranteed.

HUMOUR: The Love Chemical inducer

I took a biological science course called "Evolution" at school last semester. It was very interesting. Amongst the topics covered, was sexual selection in the animal kingdom. About how the female of each species select their mating partners. Seemingly, there are criterias which females in the animal kingdom look out for in males before allowing them to father her children. Attributes like hunting skills, nest building skills, strength and health. They take this precaution not only to ensure the presence of a healthy mate to protect her and her children during the period of nesting, but also to ensure that her offsprings will inherit good characteristics which will increase their ability to survive in the world.

Well have you heard about how women are attracted to men who can make them laugh? Apparentlly, there is an inherently biological explanation to that. Studies have shown that women are subconciously attracted to males who can make them laugh. It seems that the ability to spark off laughs is one of the characteristics that human females look out for in selecting mates. Females seem to unconciously rationalise that the ability to be funny is an indication of intelligence. And as much as how women want their children to turn out beautiful, they also want their kids to turn out smart. Hence, the cliche, "I want a man who can make me laugh".

And I'm not making this up just because I can crack a joke or two occassionaly. I learnt it all in school. Honest.

PROSE ANALYSIS

Indulge with us in this exercise as we attempt to decipher the structural, contextual and symbolic meanings contained within given sentences.

Given this series' debut, we have a special treat for all you linguistics fanatics reading! There will be an analysis of TWO sentences in this entry!

1. The first sentence is lifted from the lyrics to the song "One Slip" by psychedelic icons Pink Floyd:

"Was it love, or was it the idea of being in love"

INTERPRETATION: Dave Gilmour addresses the age-old conundrum that baffled the ancients and continues to confound us - "what is love?". How often times have you been convinced of being deeply in love only to look back in retrospect and realize that there was more inspiration in the moo of a cow than in the passion that existed between you and the other person? The intangible nature of love guarantees its perpetual elusiveness, steering it away from the corridors of human reason and rationale. Is it cosmic? Is it psychological? Is it chemical? How do you tell if you're in love?
The use of past tense ("was") is a direct indication that the pondering was done in retrospect. A verbal recitation of the sentence will show it to consist of five iambic feet, hence making it an iambic pentameter. The enjambment effect creates a mood of ponderance, and even regret.

2. The second sentence to be analysed is an adaptation of the first:

"Was it sex, or was it the idea of having sex?"

INTERPRETATION: Masturbation.

Peak of Paranoia

sometimes at night i stare
not into empty space
not into nothingness
but into something
what i cannot tell
but often time i wonder
if i'm staring at impending tragedy
and impending tragedy is staring back at me
seeking recompense
seeking penance

at the arc of the bridge he waits for me
with a gun and a pack of cigarettes.

TRUE LOVE

They walked through the woods bare feet, picking wild daffodils along the way. He stops with a start and holds her back for a pause. He gazes at her as gently as a breeze blowing beneath the petals of a lily. Her hair flowed smoothly over her satin dress, over her healthy breasts; the sides of her glorious mane tucked over her ears like silk threads over a wooden spool. He runs his fingers smoothly over her soft rosy cheeks and whispered,

"Darling princess,"

"Yes, dear?"

"I'd love to fuck you".

Dr Crackpot: Theories of the Bizarre Kind.


Pockets.

I never knew the value of pockets until I left my house one evening for the nearby market. As I anticipated it to be a short trip out, I found no incentive to change from my home attire, that is, my sarong and t-shirt. I would soon find this out to be a terrible, terrible mistake.

I found myself struggling to open the house door to let myself out because my hands were full with my wallet, hand phone, keys, Marlboro hard pack and lighter; all because my sarong had no pockets. Unwittingly handicapped, I struggled with the knob for a bit before managing to execute a maneuver worthy of a circus encore and somehow succeeded in turning the knob and letting myself out. As I walked to the market, I started thinking.

What if man never put pockets in pants and skirts (and whatever other variations of covering we put on under our waist lines these days). What if the concept of having these compartments where we can keep objects never occurred to human beings?

The answer is rather elementary. If we never invented pockets, the momentum would be for the human race to remain static and stay in the Stone Age. You see, without pockets in our pants or in those days, loincloth, humans would find it a hassle to travel around and seek new pastures because, as I found out rather painfully the other day during my short excursion to the market, traveling is very tedious without pockets. They would remain static in their own enclaves, giving rise to isolated pockets (excuse the pun) of settlements with little, if any contact between each other. The germ of civilization would have never been planted. There would also have been little initiative to invent new tools and gadgets, given that such inventions would have little appeal to our nomadic ancestors, as carrying them would impede their mobility.

So do appreciate pockets more. Think about the pivotal role it played in the advance of the human race. Hail to the inventor of pockets, whoever you are!

However, through empirical observations, I find that men utilize and appreciate pockets more than women. Men will stuff anything and everything in their pants pockets. Women, on the other hand, have a more brilliant idea. Handbags. But why exert weight on one wrist when you can distribute it across both thighs and both bum cheeks (and for owners of cargo pants, both deltoids as well)? Functionality is not much of a priority for the ladies, is it?

Then again, perhaps this issue is purely an egoistical one. Men find it more fulfilling and validating to have bulges in their pants more than women.

You heard it first from here.

The Yuppie

the yuppie
intimidates you
with his fake accent
and subtle cologne
kicking squealing gucci little piggy

when i am king you will be first against the wall




*last two lines borrowed from the words of "paranoid android"

ML1101: Introduction to Malay Street Language.

In a bid to foster national integration, I have decided to do my part by compiling this series of words that constitutively, though not exhaustively, makes up Malay street language. Though I have never professed to being an authority on Malay street argot myself, it is hoped that this series would help non-Malay readers be better equipped to understand the lingo. Love thy countryman by understanding him.

The first installation to this series is the word:

Rilek: Spelling and prounounciation alteration of the English word "Relax". Shares the same literal meaning as its English language counterpart. Sometimes used with the omission of the first consonant, i.e. "ilek".
One of the most commonly used and celebrated terms in Malay street language, perhaps reflective of the community's general psyche. This point of contention can be viewed both negatively and positively. Negatively, it can be seen as reflective of the community's disposition to laziness and complacency. However, viewed positively, it can be used to imply that the community still hasn't lost the ability to chill, sit back and reflect on things, a lost art in this fast-paced modern world.
Instead of connoting indolence, it can reflect resilience.

Rilek can be used in different contexts, namely:

- Rilek, lah: (Chill, lah). Said out with a sinosoudal drawl.

A rejoinder to kiasu-ism and kancheong-ness. e.g.

X: Eh faster, leh! No time already!

Y: Rilek, lah!

- Or, to diffuse a tense situation. e.g.

A: (Angrily) What do you mean, I have a two-inch penis?

B: Rilek, lah! I was only joking!

Rilek, aje: (Can like that, huh?)

- To point out an absurd thing or situation. e.g.

Subject X sees a mat rock climbing over the gate to gain free entrance to a Deep Purple concert.

X: Eh, rilek, aje...

Rilek, sua: (Fuck off, or Bugger off, or Go and die).

- To tell someone off when he says something absurd or boastful. e.g.

X: I can get that girl any time I want.

Y: Lu Rilek, sua!

- To turn down a request. e.g.

X: My good man, would you please be a darling and
order me a cup of English marmalade tea on your
way back from the gents?

Y: Rilek, sua!



This concludes the first installation. Do look out for future entries in this series.


Up the Malays!
Godspeed all of you, children of my ancient mother!

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