SUFF:ÉCRITURE

A Harris bin Potter Hari Raya Special

2011-09-03T15:52:00.002+08:00

(Before we go into the expository madness of Chapter 3, here is a little story from Harris bin Potter's earlier childhood. I need to thank Munira Maricar for that brilliant one-liner, and Sean Lee for agreeing to have a character styled after him. Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri everybody!)

There are several things that many Malay people do not know. That is not to say that Malay people are predisposed to not know things - that would be a horribly racist statement to make, even if the author himself is Malay. I am sure other cultures have varying degrees of ignorance in certain areas as well. The Hutu tribes of Central Africa, for example, are not well-versed in igloo construction. And ketupat-weaving, probably.

One thing many Malay people do not know is that the word they use to refer to fasting, 'puasa', is a loan word from the Sanskrit 'upavasa', which means 'an abstinence from sensual or corporeal indulgence'.

"You know what a lot of Malay people don't know?" Cik Petom was asking her family as they sat around the dining table, preparing to break fast. "That I invented the word 'puasa'."

"Wow!" her son, Dumbass, said, duly impressed. "I thought Zubir Said invented it?"

"No, son," the boy's father, Pak Pandir, corrected him. "Zubir Said invented the Shuffle, which is a kind of dance that gay people and accountants perform at night clubs."

As you can tell, Cik Petom and her family were the kind of Singaporeans whose ignorance can only be matched by their ability to draw pride from achievements that were not their own. They were the kind who would interrupt an acceptance speech by Taylor Swift and say that they had the best damn video of all time.

What you might not be able to tell about Cik Petom and her family is the secret they keep in their closet. This was literal - it wasn't that Pak Pandir was dying to bust his feather boa out for a Cher concert, or that Cik Petom too strongly related to an Icelandic prime minister whose time had finally come, and might take offence at such an obscure reference to lesbianism. No, the secret in their closet was -

The radio played the azan, and Cik Petom and her family began to gobble their food.

"What about him?" Cik Petom asked her husband, gesturing towards the closet.

"A boy like him? Of course he doesn't fast! He's not strong like our Dumbass."

"Fasting is difficult, but I am the only 9-year-old who can do it," Dumbass proudly proclaimed as he heartily assaulted a large whole chicken with his teeth. Laid out in front of him were two plates of ketupat, two bowls of rendang, five plates of serondeng and thirty sticks of satay babat. A full tub of ice-cream awaited him in the refrigerator. It was his first meal, in half an hour.

The secret, the boy in the closet was Harris bin Potter.

The year was 2009. It was a simpler time, where nobody had to visit those damn voting booths twice in the same year - no offence to those who voted thrice in 1966. It was a simpler time for Harris bin Potter, too, for he had not yet known of his magical heritage, and had yet to enroll in the marvellous magical academy, Hog-Tak-Halal-What. For those same reasons, it was a darker, gloomier time for him as well.

Contrary to what Cik Petom believed, Harris was fasting, and right now, after 14 hours of abstaining from food and water, he desperately wanted to have something to eat. Expecting the worst of chastisements from his relatives but too hungry to care, he came out of the closet (hee hee).

"What the Joo Chiat Complex are you doing out here, boy?" roared Pak Pandir.

"I would like to break my fast," Harris said defiantly.

"And I would like to break your face," Pak Pandir told him. "Either you get back into the closet or you get out of my house!"

Angrily, Harris chose the latter and stormed out of the flat. At the void deck, he spotted a tall Chinese man studying a box of dates closely.

"Hey," Harris said to the man. "I need to break my fast. Can I have a date?"

The man smiled sheepishly. "Look, kid, I am very flattered. But I don't play for the rainbow team."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"I don't play backgammon?"

"Well, neither do I. Capteh is more my thing."

"No I mean I am not a backdoor bandit. I am not a sausage jockey. No chi chi man." The man studied Harris' confused expression before realising the 11-year-old boy was not coming on to him. "Oh my God, you're just a hungry kid! I am so sorry. Here, have my phoenix dactylifer."

"We normal people call them dates," Harris said, as he accepted the two dates, or as per its binomial nomenclature for my scientist friends, phoenix dactylifera, and quickly ate them. "I am Harris. Harris bin Potter. Thank you so much, I was really starving."

"No problem. I am Eel. Sane Eel."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sane Eel," Sane Eel repeated. "I am an analrapist suffering from arrested development."

Harris felt his butt involuntarily clench. "But...you just said that you weren't -"

"Oh, I should elaborate. I am a combination of an analyst and a therapist - an analrapist. You've never heard of an analrapist? There are a lot of analrapists in Port Manteau." Sane Eel studied Harris closely. "You're an orphan?"

"How did you know?" Harris asked, his face impassive.

"I picked it off your aura. You see, Harris, I am also a medium."

"Actually, I think you're a large. You're quite tall."

"No, kid. I mean I can communicate with the dead - I can help you speak to your parents. It's three more days to Hari Raya. I imagine you would really want to speak to them, especially now."

Harris thought about it, and the medium analrapist randomly carrying a box of dates around was right. He had only seen pictures of his parents, smiling at him from old photographs. He imagined what life would be like if they were still alive and hadn't died from food poisoning like his aunt and uncle told him. Without his realising it, Harris had began to tear, both from the gaping hole in his heart his parents would fill with love, and from the prospect of communicating with his Mama and Ayah.

"Take my hand," he said kindly. Harris placed his hand in Sane Eel's, and the medium closed his eyes for a long, long while.

When Sane Eel opened his eyes, it was glazed, and when he spoke, it was a voice that Harris had never heard before. Nevertheless, it was a voice heavy with a paternal love and affection. "Harris, I am so sorry we had to leave you in this world alone. Your mother and I love you so much," the voice said. "I don't have much time here, but there's something important I need to tell you."

"What is it, father?"

"Seriously Black is innocent!"

"Who is seriously black? Thats racist, father! Is it Wesley Snipes?"

"No, Seriously Black is - "

With a sudden jerk, Sane Eel snapped back to himself. He looked kindly at Harris, whose eyes were red and swollen from that brief exchange with his father. "I hope that helped make things easier for you," he said in his usual voice.

For the first time in the whole of Ramadhan, Harris managed a smile. It did make things easier. The mystery of this person named Seriously Black, whoever he was, can be resolved later. As he made his way back to Cik Petom's apartment, where he knew he would be punished for walking out the way he did, there was a warm sensation in his heart. It was a silent, bittersweet joy which, although it came from beyond the grave, allowed Harris to finally know what it was like to be loved.

Three days later, he had the best Hari Raya of his life thus far.

Horas Non Numero Nisi Serenas (Part 1 of 2)

2011-08-24T20:56:00.000+08:00

In ancient Rome, a common inscription on sundials reads, "horas non numero nisi serenas." I do not count the hours unless they are sunny. The demon counting down my dark sunless hours awaits me outside.

I write this story for many reasons. One is so that you, dear reader, dear friend, dear brother or sister, would find it and never make the same mistakes I did. I am sure that by the time you read this, I will be forever lost. But for as long as your soul is yours, do not give in to the temptations I gave in to. Do not go down the paths I did. I am a weak, stupid man. I believed that my transgressions would go on unpunished. Now I know that you can never escape your sins, a lesson I learnt much too late.

Another reason why I am writing this story is so that I can distract myself from looking out the window. But it's pointless. It knows I'm here; it has stood there for days just staring back at me with those godless red eyes. Those nightmarish eyes, shining like hellfire out of grotesque, desolate sockets. I do not know what it is, but I know it has been following me for two days, and that it is not human. So please listen, for I fear I do not have much time.

My name is Suffian. I come from a country in South-East Asia called Singapore. I am in Denver on a cocaine-cloud whim to trace the path of Jack Kerouac in his transAmerican pilgrimages to the Basilica of Our Lady of Heroin, the Cocaine Gurdwara, to the Jazz Holy of Holies. His legacy was On The Road. My legacy is this; pieces of parchment, filled with overdue laments and a desperate warning, lost in an old, squalid hotel room made less lonely by an empty bottle of the Jack I was not looking for.

My journey began at New York City, but my sins did not. There, in the concrete madness of the Big Apple, where millions of many different kinds of people are squeezed into the pressure cooker that is the city that never sleeps, I was small, wide-eyed, lost - innocent.

I spent my first night in America roaming the streets of New York, cold and alone, passing old hobos leering at the bulge in my pants. I inhaled the air of dead leaves and wet grass at Central Park, stood alone in the middle of Time Square at three in the morning.

Jet lag got the better of me the next day. One moment the bus was dipping into Holland Tunnel, the next, I had a bleary-eyed, heavy-lidded trudge through Union Station in Chicago. That night, I visited The Joynt, a jazz club in North Dearborn. In between, I caught dragons drunk and made them walk straight white lines.

The next day we reached Davenport, Iowa, and I witnessed, for the first time, the Mississippi River. As a Singaporean boy, you only read about the great river in Mark Twain novels, or you hear it mentioned in American films. It was a plot tool, a mere background. But when its vast expanse filled my vision that day, I was awed by its delectable curves, the muskegs that hide its soul away and fade out for willow-lined banks too heavily invested in the nuances of the river. 'Mississippi' was no longer a spelling problem, it was an elegant word in the Ojibwe language that meant 'Great River', and indeed, the Great River lived up to its implied majesty.

That was perhaps my last good memory as a free human being.

2011-08-16T01:40:00.001+08:00

Illustrations by Polish artist Grzegorz Kmin/Aspius. 21st century persuasions masterfully combine with gothic sensibilities, in an exploration of the mad fragility of the human condition.

Guts by Chuck Palahniuk

2011-08-09T22:45:00.002+08:00

Before we start, a short note.

(This entry is not suitable for kids or anyone who is easily offended by graphic depictions of sexuality and violence. Also, if you just ate, you might want to give this one a pass.)

It is National Day today and I am afraid I have a social responsibility to be socially irresponsible with my sharings tonight.

Tonight, we look at transgressive fiction, a branch of postmodern fiction that provides shelter to the cocaine-cloud street saints of the Beat movement in the 21st century. It is the haven for the Marquis de Sade’s sexual extravagance, with extra space for the perversions that accompanies the age of internet porn. It is Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment overdosing on the liberal fucks of 21st century linguistics.

Transgressive fiction is the realm of the taboo, of the things society dare not speak of. It is not Star Wars or The Land Before Time. Its intention is neither to entertain nor inspire. It seeks to discomfort the reader, while allowing the writer some platform to sneak in social commentary.

In today’s literary world, transgressive fiction is most commonly associated with Chuck Palahniuk. Some self-professed Chuck Palahniuk fans I have met only know of Fight Club, which is equivalent to being an Obama fan and only knowing that he advocates Change. Palahniuk’s works are seat-edge rides to the edge of human psychology, and it is unfortunate that not all of them have been made into movies starring Brad Pitt.

Okay now that we have set the background, I present to you Guts, a short story by Chuck Palahniuk. Before you click the link below, you may want to hold on to something. Things are going to get pretty sick from here on out.

http://chuckpalahniuk.net/features/shorts/guts

Harris bin Potter and The Stoned Philosopher

2011-08-07T23:09:00.003+08:00

Chapter 2: The Sorting Songkok, Part 2

The first years lined up in front of the Great Hall, staring at the songkok that would somehow be part of their sorting ceremony. Before their very eyes, the songkok twitched. A rip at the front opened wide like a mouth - and the songkok began to sing.

Oh you may not think that I am jambu
But do not judge on what you see
Besides, I’m just a freaking songkok
How jambu can I be?
I am not some random ethnic headgear
You should know this from the start
For I am the Sorting Songkok
Of Hog-Tak-Halal-What
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be
One of four houses named for
The founders of this academy.
You might belong in Fandi Ahmad,
If you possess charm and will
When it comes to void deck soccer
They rule with unerring skill.
You might belong in Sheikh Haikel
Where they are really cool
These groovy Sheikh Haikels
Are the best musicians in school.
Or yet Anwar Ibrahim
Where the clever get it on
Here the term ’smart mat’
Is not an oxymoron.
Last and certainly least
Is George W. Bush
I will be honest - if you go there,
You probably are a douche
So put me on, little one
Do not be afraid!
I promise I will not swallow
When you give me head.

The whole Hall burst into applause as the songkok finished its song - even from the neon pink of the George W. Bush table. Professor McGonnacall stopped it dead when she said aloud, "Welcome to the sorting ceremony. First-years, when I call your name, you are to sit on the stool, and place the songkok on your head. Once you are sorted, you are to sit with your respective new houses."

"I'm going to be in Bush," Harris heard the arrogant drawl he has grown to associate only with Donnie Darko Malfoy. Harris turned to see him announce his Bushy conviction to anybody who would listen to him, which was quite a few people. "Five generations of Malfoys have been in Bush. There is so much Bush in my family that we sometimes forget about Dick." Malfoy paused to clear his throat. "My cousin Dick - he went for a Brazilian." Malfoy cleared his throat yet again, giving the scene all the gravitas of a Strepsils commercial. "-a Brazilian exchange program, so he's the only one not in George W. Bush."

"Ahmad Santiago!" Professor McGogopowerrangers called.

A short, fat boy made his way to the stool, and nervously placed the Sorting Songkok on his head. "Mmm, mmm," The Sorting Songkok said. "I could do with some Maggi Goreng as well. Fine…Sheikh Haikel!"

The cool blues of Sheikh Haikel erupted into celebrations. They got onto their feet, cheering. Potpourri and blue banners exploded into the air. One Sheikh Haikel boy took out his boombox and it blasted out some celebratory, beat-manic hip-hop by Malaysian masters Too Phat. Two Bboys (or if you're too Queen Astrid Park to hit the streets, two breakdancers) among their ranks got onto the table, drifting into a fluid apache step before flipping themselves mad for a sweet one-hand planche.

"Are they going to do that for every person that joins them?" Harris asked Ron.

Before Ron could answer, Professor McGotothemall called for Howe Ahmed Yomudder.

"How about our famous Harris bin Potter?" came yet another Malfoy drawl, as the tall Howe Ahmed proceeded to get sorted. "You know, Harris, I think we would make a great team in George W. Bush. Imagine me and you in the void deck quidditch team!"

Harris was beginning to really not like Donnie Darko Malfoy. "I don't want to imagine that, Malfoy," he said. "Besides, I'm a Fandi Ahmad man."

There was a an impassioned "Yeah! Yeah!" from Ron and Herr-My-Knee behind him. Malfoy turned sharply to Harris' friends. "Red hair, pasar malam clothes. You're an Izfarq aren't you? I've had the displeasure of meeting your dad, Wadyoda Nidstudu." With an obnoxious lift of his nose, Donnie Darko Malfoy added, "Your dad calls my dad 'boss'."

Ron was too angered for a retort - for him, it was the time and place to punch a bastard in the nose. Harris saw this and quickly took a step between Malfoy and Ron. "Blond hair, dead animals for clothes. You're Lady Gaga aren't you? I've had the pleasure of meeting your mom." With another step towards Malfoy, Harris added, "Your mom calls me daddy."

There was the feisty "Oh no he didn't!" of an impending Yo Momma battle, but Professor McGottabeagolfball killed it when she shouted, "Donnie Darko Malfoy!"

As he walked towards the stool, Malfoy glared at Harris. "This isn't over, Harris bin Potter!" The Songkok had barely touched Malfoy's head when it shouted, "George W. Bush!" Loud cheers erupted from the neon pink end of the Great Hall.

A few students later, Professor McGongongcha cried, "Ali Evadass Iz - Is that really your name?"

"Yes, but you can call me Ron." Ron headed to the stool and placed The Sorting Songkok on his head.

"Ugh, you don't need a house. You need shampoo!" muttered The Sorting Songkok. "Hmm… On to business. Right, right. FANDI AHMAD!"

The table marked by the golden motifs of Fandi Ahmad burst with activity as its occupants cheered. A few people did somersaults. Some of them blew kisses to the sky. A few footballs started flying around. Happily, Ron vacated the stool and joined a pair of redhead twins, whom Harris surmised must be his brothers, at the Fandi Ahmad table.

Later, Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut was also sorted into Fandi Ahmad, more for will, Harris was sure, than for charm. Even so, it made Harris want to be part of Fandi Ahmad even more. He guessed being a member of Anwar Ibrahim or Sheikh Haikel would not be so bad - anything but George W. Bush.

Eventually, the old witch called, "Harris bin Potter!" This caused the entire Great Hall to explode into excited whispers. "Silence please!" commanded Professor McDonalddoll.

The entire Great Hall seemed to draw a collective breath of anticipation as Harris placed the Songkok on his head. "Mmm, mmm, what do we have here?" said the Songkok. "I see vestiges of the great George W. Bush in this one."

"Sweet mother of satay, please no," Harris pleaded.

"Mother of satay? Really? But why not, young one? Mmm, Fandi Ahmad appeals more to you? I see it all in your head, Harris bin Potter. Your parents were both members of Fandi Ahmad, if I recall correctly. And of course I recall correctly, I am THE Sorting Songkok."

"Please Fandi Ahmad, please Fandi Ahmad." Harris was practically begging under his breath.

The Sorting Songkok was still in the midst of an unnecessary monologue. "I wonder if anybody has noticed the inherent sexism in this system - there is no Sorting Tudung. So anyway, Harris, dear boy. I SHALL PUT YOU IN -"

Harris took in a deep breath.

The students in the Great Hall, as one, took in a deep breath.

The staff seated behind Harris took in a deep breath.

A girl in a skirt on the roof, peeping at proceedings, took in a deep breath.

I cannot explain the biology behind it, but The Sorting Songkok, too, took in a deep breath. "- FANDI AHMAD!" A deafening roar of cheers filled the Great Hall, originating from the Fandi Ahmad table. Its members were going insane dancing and punching the air. "We have Harris bin Potter! We have Harris bin Potter!" they yelled. More footballs started bouncing off the table, into the air - one of them flew to the George W. Bush table and smacked Donnie Darko Malfoy in his nose.

Harris, in the meantime, breathed a sigh of relief and started to make his way towards the welcoming arms of his fellow Fandi Ahmads.

Suddenly, he did not feel like a stranger in a new world.

Harris bin Potter and The Stoned Philosopher

2011-08-05T01:11:00.007+08:00

Chapter 2: The Sorting Songkok, Part 1
When Harris finally reached the grand castle, he was greeted by the great Doubledoor. One might think that this is a reference to a wise, powerful wizard with a long white beard and says, "Alas!" like it's not the 21st century. One would be mistaken - Doubledoor is really just a big two-door system that makes up the entrance to the school.

Harris knocked.

"You're doing it wrong," said a voice behind him. Harris turned to see a tall, skinny Malay boy with a shock of curly red hair. "It is engraved here above the door: Giveth unto the portal two sharp raps, and it will unravel to a realm of unending, glorious sorcery…siol."

Harris knocked again, twice.

"Alamak, you bloody bodoh sial bro," the boy said. "Here, let me." The boy places one hand on the door, and takes a deep breath.

"I like big butts and I cannot lie," he starts reciting rapidly, rhythmically and indeed, sharply. "All you other brothers can't deny. When a girl walks in with an itty-bitty waist and a round thing in your face, you get SPRUNG!"

Harris stared at the boy, and then at the unmoving door. He wanted to say, "Well that's…good to know?" He also wanted to clarify what getting sprung entailed, but then the newcomer took another deep breath.

"To the window, to the wall," the boy recited rapidly again, but to a different rhythm. "To the sweat drip down my balls, to all these bitches crawl, to all skeet skeet motherfucker, all skeet skeet goddam." Harris felt like a little john being at the receiving end of such…poetry.

With the creaks of unseen mechanism, the doors slid aside to reveal a Great Hall. Everybody knows how great a hall truly is when it begins with capitals. This one was a vast, vast Hall, lit by magnificent chandeliers hanging from a high, ornate ceiling that could, at will, turn transparent to show the sky above. Girls wearing skirts would do well not to walk on the roof.

The Great Hall had four long tables with accompanying benches, and currently, they were occupied by students in brown baju kurung, the traditional costume of Malays - or in this case, the official school uniform of Hog-Tak-Halal-What. A fifth long table in front seated the school staff - including, Harris noticed happily, the Hygiene Officer Hamid.

The moment Harris walked in, the nebulous buzz of chatter ceased. They were replaced by anxious whispers, most of which Harris caught anyway.

"Is that…?"

"No way!"

"It's Harris bin Potter! It's the boy who tak mati siol!"

"Do you think I can teach Snooki to weave a ketupat?"

"Ki mak, Harris bin Potter dok!"

The whispers were cut by an old witch, who said loudly, "First-years, this way please!"

--------------------

Harris and the curly-haired boy who liked big butts followed her as she ushered them into an adjoining room filled with other eleven-year-olds also not in their baju kurung.

"I'm Ali," the curly-haired redhead boy said to Harris, as they took seats behind a mane of bushy hair that they hoped was attached to a girl. "Ali Evadass Izfarq. But you can call me Ron."

"All He Ever Does - I mean, Ali Evadass - I mean, Ron? Why?"

"When I was younger, there was an elderly Hainanese lady who gave me Math tuition. And every time I showed her my work, she would say that everything was incorrect. But I was sure I did it right, and I insisted. And she would always shout back, 'No, I correct! YOU is ron!' And I believed her."

Harris stared at his acquaintance. For somebody who knew how to open Doubledoor, he sure was pretty stupid.

The bushy-haired girl seated in front of them turned around to face them after Ron recited his story. "You know, for somebody who knew how to open Doubledoor, you sure are pretty stupid," she said.

Ron whatever-ed her, but she seemed keen to make friends with the two boys. "My name's Minah," the girl said, shaking hands with both of them, and they exchanged introductions. She then pressed on, "I'm trying to find myself a new name, and I was wondering if you two can help me." The two boys looked at each other uncertainly. It was hardly the kind of thing you asked two eleven-year-olds you just met.

"What's wrong with Minah?" asked Ron, who had changed his own name from Ali to Ron at an error in pronunciation.

"Well, I am an ambitious girl whose life will take her beyond our land," she announced, not sounding like an eleven-year-old at all. "I fear my flagrantly Malay name would be detrimental to my progress in a future career. I think I should change my name to a less Malay one."

"You know, a lot of Malay people won't be too happy hearing what you just said," Harris pointed out. "Especially Malay feminists." Yes, they exist. And they wear tudungs, too.

"How about Siti?" Ron suggested.

Minah smacked him across his head. "Less Malay!"

After several minutes of brainstorming, in which Ron suggested 'Bedah', 'Nurul', 'Babyrina' and 'Papa Jahat', while Harris suggested 'Emma Watson', Minah exclaimed, "I should take something from the Ancient Runic language!"

Minah extracted her Ancient Runes textbook - Ancient Runes, Sial! by Wan Prataplis - and started poring through its pages excitedly. Ancient Runes was Minah's favorite subject, and you may wonder how that came to be, since classes have yet to start for the first-years. Well, I wonder the same thing.

"I want a name," Minah said, impassioned, "that says I am an intelligent, confident, talented young woman."

"Justin Bieber!" offered Ron. Minah smacked him again.

"Well, why not have exactly that in Ancient Runes - Intelligent, Confident, Talented Girl?" Harris took Ancient Runes Sial! from her hands, and started flipping through the pages. "We'll take each word in Ancient Runes, and combine them to make your very own brand new Ancient Runic name!"

"That's a great idea, Harris!"

"Now, what's the Ancient Runic word for intelligent," Harris thought aloud as he flipped through the pages. "There we go - Herr! Confident is…Aku! As for talented it's…Punya! And finally the Ancient Runic word for girl is…Lutut! Combine them and you get -"

"Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut!" cried the girl formally known as Minah, rising to her feet. "Listen, my friends," she said in a voice that lived up to the 'Aku' aspect of her new name."Henceforth, I shall be known as Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut, or 'Girl of Intelligence, Confidence and Talent', in the archaic language of Ancient Runes."

Ron cleared his throat. "You know, in the less archaic language of Malay, Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut translates to Herr-My-Knee," he pointed out for no particular reason.

--------------------

The old witch from before reappeared a few moments later. "Allow me to introduce myself," she said in a voice so regal that whoever plays her in the movie should have played a Queen in an earlier film. Except Kirsten Dunst, because she was a crap Marie Antoinette. Also, except Kumar, because we do not mean that kind of Queen. "I am Professor McGongongall", she continued her introduction.

"Sorry?" asked a blond, arrogant-looking student who Harris would later identify as Donnie Darko Malfoy. His friends called him Double-D Malfoy, a name that gave Harris cringe-worthy mental images of anthropomorphized rabbits with large hooters. Sometimes, these images would morph into anthropomorphized owls with large hooters and this would amuse him for a while. Rarely, the anthropomorphized owls go on to morph into anthropomorphized hammers with large knockers and that would be the signal that Harris had taken the joke too far.

"My name," the old witch repeated, "is Professor McGungantroll."

"But you just said..."

"MY NAME," the old witch said again, "is Professor McGoingoinggone. Now, more pressing issues are at hand. You are all to proceed back into the Great Hall to get sorted."

Ron gasped - where he came from, one was told one would get sorted the same way the Italian mafia tells one that one would swim with the fishes. But of course, it was not to be the same thing.

Not long later, Harris found himself back in the Great Hall. This time, there was a stool in the front of the hall. On it sat a solitary black songkok. Maybe they had to try and pull out a kampong chicken from it, Harris thought. Or a rabbit. Yeah, maybe a rabbit.

The Only People For Me Are The Mad Ones

2011-05-08T20:16:00.000+08:00

It's time to leave the nest.

I'm not the most independent person around. I'm not strong - headstrong, strong-willed, physically imposing, and all that strength-related doowop of jazz.

But you know what, I think I was meant to live my life on the road.

Hola

2011-03-21T20:14:00.001+08:00

Hello, I need you so bad right now. I just want to fuck you, hard, senseless, feeling the tip of my dick reach the ends of your sex, deep, deep inside you, to know that I’m inside you, to feel your hot, heavy breaths on me. I know how you’ll involuntarily scream my name when I start fucking you harder, as though it was always at the tip of your tongue, but you’re looking for that push, that slide of my hard, rigid dick against your tender wetness for it to come out. I can remember how warm it feels being inside you, your weight on me, nothing like the weight that just left my shoulders. I can remember how you’ll arch your back, pushing against me, bucking against my groin because you want it hard, fast, wild as you feel yourself closer and closer to cumming. And then you’d come on my dick, drenching me, making me inexplicably addicted to your body. Addicted to you. Come back to me, and the night will forever know our love.

"Oh hey! Fancy seeing you online."
"Work? Work's fine."

Zapadeedumdum Shoobaloo

2011-03-15T18:36:00.002+08:00

This is the story of a boy.

Most sentences that begin with ‘This is the story of a boy’ go on with a ‘who’, followed by further elaboration of how he is a boy worth reading about. For example:

This is the story of a boy who has a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead given to him by an evil wizard whose very name people fear to speak.

Or:

This is the story of a boy who hides away from bullies in the attic of his school, and finds himself in a fantastical quest to save the Childlike Empress with the aid of a very fucking huge dog. It is well worth noting that this dog can fly. And speak. In the language of yobs, this dog can be aptly described as ‘full of schizer’.

Well, this is the story of a boy. If indeed an elaboration is in order, then you might want to wait awhile. There are stories here that need time to come to you, like a very shy little girl tentatively approaching what seems to be her grandmother, but with larger eyes, ears and teeth. The tale of this boy needs to be coaxed out, to be told that it’s healthy to share itself for the consumption of any number of greedily inquiring minds and eyes.

Maybe it’s alright to reveal his name. It would be a good start. After all, stories are just choppy courts for a name to preside over some complicated dealings with existentialism.

The boy’s name is Zapadeedumdum Shoobaloo.

Je Suis Içi!

2011-02-08T22:14:00.002+08:00

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J’ai Retournée

2011-01-26T15:30:00.000+08:00

I’ve been on blogging hiatus for several reasons:

I had squirrels in my pants.
I had to sit down, and contemplate the presence of squirrels in my pants, and wonder how in fuck they got there in the first place.
I had to get the squirrels out of my pants.
I've been busy with work.

But now, like my title says pretentiously in French, I have returned, and, if you care to listen, I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. On a more regular basis.

Strange, But False!: The Devil's Water

2010-11-19T12:08:00.002+08:00

Do you know that...

1) The devil's water is actually pretty sweet?
2) You do have to drink it right now.
3) You cannot dip your feet into it too often.

Moustaches

2010-11-04T17:39:00.001+08:00

“It was the moustache that told me everything.”

Involuntarily, I flinched. It was a very common human error, to see the gun only for the trigger. To directly relate cause to effect without considering framing/circumstances, cause of cause, cause of cause of cause, indirect persuasion, human mood and the other mechanisms that allows squeezing a trigger to release a bullet.

What my friend Jimmy should have said was, “It was the moustache, above the full, pouty lips, and those breasts that told me everything.”

It told Jimmy that Sarah was Groucho Marx. For Halloween, no less.

2010-10-28T21:00:00.003+08:00

"Si nous faisons la guerre contre la guerre, nous obtiendrons pas la paix."

Love Is Something You Find To Add To Your Collection

2010-10-04T19:15:00.001+08:00

Nike Cup Final

2010-07-09T17:13:00.001+08:00

It was like something out of a football commercial.

You see an urban landscape – dull, concrete gray, listless, but it promised more. It was the perfect foil for something to happen – something magical, spectacular. Two teams of five boys, one team in red, the other in blue, step into the rectangular court, as a solitary ball rests stationary in its middle. The rock soundtrack in the background turns up the tempo.

A player in red kicks off. A cheeky backheel finds a teammate. With a deft flick, the latter evades one tackle. An elegant, Zidane-worthy 360-degree spin allows him to evade another. Free of his markers, the player unselfishly releases his Captain down the right wing with an intelligent through ball. The Captain releases a powerful shot…

Goal!

You half-expect this sequence to cut to the logo of the brand behind the commercial, but all that fills your vision next are scenes of celebration and dejection (for those in blue). Further behind, a large statue of global football’s biggest superstar Cristiano Ronaldo looks down at proceedings, while a black Nike-themed stage, backed by a graffiti mural designed by street artists from Skope, stands in stylish contrast to the historic Kallang Stadium that looms large in the background.

No, this is no televsion commercial. This is the very real, very exhilarating finals of the Nike Cup 2010.

A very bad statue of Cristiano Ronaldo. With cameltoe. Eww.

(From L-R) Samad, Ramly, Albert, Gilberto Nagini and Ali.

And their friends, Osman, Sidek and Stan Jallalabad. I really have no idea who they are.

As the kids played, Tabular rocked with Muse's Starlight, and Kings of Leon's Use Somebody and Sex on Fire.

And after that, The Great Spy Experiment took to the stage.

This shot's for Zat. She's 6 years old.

Ada proves what we all have known for a long while: she can't play soccer.

While I assure TLFC that I haven't lost my touch.

The best striker to ever play for Singapore, and Fandi Ahmad.

Later, Fandi put to good use what I taught him in an exhibition game. Indra Sahdan, Aide Iskandar, David Lee and Fazrul Nawwaz were also in attendance.

Harris Bin Potter And The Stoned Philosopher

2010-07-01T12:07:00.001+08:00

Chapter 1:
The Boy Who Tak Mati Siol!

Harris bin Potter is not your average boy.

For one, he is an orphan. His parents, Pakcik and Makcik Potter, had died of very bad food poisoning when he was only a year old. At least, that was what his aunt, Cik Petom, told him.

"It was very bad satay from Johor," she had told Harris. "I've tried the satay from that stall before. Tak sedap lah! Tastes like pantat!"

When Harris heard this speech, he wondered two things: one, how Cik Petom even knew how pantat tasted like, and two, why she didn't drop dead when she too had eaten that infernal satay from Johor.

Indeed, Harris hated the nasi lemak out of his aunt, and not without reason.

Since the unfortunate death of his parents, Harris had been under the care of his Uncle Pandir and his Aunt Petom. In actuality, 'under the care' is a grossly inaccurate statement. Harris was more often than not under their only son, Dumbass. Literally.

And this was a particularly unpleasant situation because: one, nobody likes to be sat on, and two, because Dumbass weighed a hundred kilos.

And when Dumbass was not sitting on him, Harris was badly mistreated by his aunt and uncle. They would talk rudely to him, not let him watch television and make him do all the house chores. For a boy of eleven years, in an age of Playstation 3 and where TV no longer had Aksi Mat Yoyo, this was a foul, miserable existence.

One reason why his relatives abuse him is perhaps because Harris had special abilities. No, it wasn't that he was particularly good at sepak takraw, or could preside over a void deck soccer match, or could play the guitar particularly well.

What made Harris really special was that he was a wizard.

He wasn't exactly a full-fledged one yet, but he was learning to be one at Hog-Tak-Halal-What School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a secret school of magic situated in The PIE. Since this story is written from a Singaporean perspective, most people assume that the school is somewhere along the famed Pan-Island Expressway. The school is however, located on a real pie, called The PIE - block letters to highlight its significance as a locale. Where The PIE is, only witches and wizards would know. How a grand castle could stand erect (hee hee) on a squishy pie (hee hee), only witches and wizards would know. How nobody ever noticed a bloomin' castle in Singapore, again, only witches and wizards would know.

--------------------------------------------

Harris' first day there was literally the most magical experience in his life, hitherto. The school had sent their janitor, the half-giant Hamid, to retrieve Harris from the residence of his Uncle Pandir's.

The above-mentioned retrieval had been a fiasco. Even that notion would be debated as an understatement in some quarters. Uncle Pandir, an air-conditioning technician (a cruder term for his job would be 'air-con repairer'), had mocked Hamid's lowly and common-grade occupation as a school janitor. Hamid furiously corrected Uncle Pandir, saying that he is a 'Hygiene Officer In A Magical School' and that his duties included 'carefully arranging the magic brooms in the right closets'.

Uncle Pandir remained lost in thought for a good two minutes before saying, "I carefully arranged my magic broom in your mother's closet last night."

Hamid had roared loudly at the insult to his mother, while Aunt shrieked even louder at the thought of her husband cheating on her with a half-giant's mother.

Hamid then withdrew a singular satay stick, pointed it at Dumbass, and waved it as he exclaimed, "Mangkuk, siol!" Harris could only watch, half in awe and half in delighted amusement, as Dumbass shrunk, and transformed into a singular brown porcelain bowl.

With that, Hamid grabbed Harris, and fled.

Harris was still laughing as Hamid reached the outskirts of the HDB estate.

"Don't worry," Hamid said. "He'll be back to normal in..." Hamid paused, and was obviously counting in his head. The half-giant finally held up two fingers - "In three minutes."

"I'm not worried about that la," Harris said, smiling. He was exhilarated at finally being away from his Uncle Pandir, his Aunt Petom and his dumbass cousin Dumbass. "Where are we going from here?"

"I'm going to send you back to where you truly belong - the world of magic. And your first stop, Hog-Tak-Halal-What."

"Hamid, I know it's tak halal. Hogs, boars - pigs. All tak halal."

"No, Harris. It's a school. Hog-Tak-Halal-What School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Well, it's a stupid name for a school," Harris muttered under his breath.

Hamid continued, "I took the liberty of getting you your school essentials. It will be waiting for you in school. I studied there too, Harris. You'd love it there."

Harris held on to Hamid as he magically teleported them away from Tampines, where his relatives had stayed, with his (Hamid's) magical satay stick. Magical teleportation was an uncomfortable experience, and Harris closed his eyes as he braced himself for the trip.

When he opened his eyes again, he was on a winding dirt path that cut into a forest and led to a grand stone castle.

Harris gazed, open-mouthed in awe, at the majestic castle. It rose high above the trees, reaching for the clouds but failing. Still, it was probably higher than Bukit Timah.

"Welcome to The PIE," Hamid said grandly. "And before you, is the magnificent Hog-Tak-Halal-What School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harris stepped toward it, but his feet sank into brown, soft, squishy soil.

"It's a mudPIE," Hamid told Harris a few seconds too late.

------------------------------------------

Before Harris went further, Hamid stopped him again. "I'm guessing your aunt and uncle didn't tell you, Harris. Your parents were murdered by a dark and powerful wizard."

"So he was the one who made the satay? Damn that bastard from Johor!"

"No! No! There was no satay from Johor involved. This wizard personally killed your parents!" Hamid looked kindly into Harris' face. Right now, it was a face that wore a pained expression.

"What was his name?" The words came out slowly from Harris, through a veil of controlled rage.

"Oldermat," Hamid replied.

"Which mat? Who's he older than?"

"No, that's his name. Oldermat. Thing is, on the night he tried to kill your parents, he also tried to kill you. But he failed. He failed, Harris! Like a Mat trying to do advanced Mathematics, he failed. And people say he's now dead, thanks to you."

Harris only stared wordlessly as he tried to digest all of this.

"You're the boy who tak mati, siol!"

Everyone Gather On Your Soul

2010-06-25T15:30:00.002+08:00

Seamlessly Torn

2010-06-15T17:53:00.004+08:00

The reason why I am silent or use scrypted words
Is the gulf between
Who I am the second before she speaks
And who I will be three heartbeats after seeing you

It is the difference
Between skin and rain
Between life and light
Between like and fall
Between chance and Chancery
Between angels and barbers

It is the essence
Between page twenty-eight of
The Book of Eternal Slum
And page 14 of Ber

The reason why I am silent or use worded scrypts
Is the gulf between
The ghost of Venus in her
And the ghost of ghosts you're not

2010-05-07T18:48:00.001+08:00

You know you've lost your mind when you open your eyes and you cannot see your friends, you open your mouth, but the words you want to say remain in your head, and you open your heart only so you can see for yourself the darkness that pours from it.

Malheureux Aussi/The Quixotic Quatrain

2010-04-20T08:28:00.006+08:00

Yesterday, I closed
a chapter in my life after a month's manic mulling,
only to find that it
has been open for far too long as it is.

Malheureux

2010-04-11T19:13:00.003+08:00

Je mélange l'eau avec poulet aujhourd'hui. Et voila, le pap!

Je Me Creusais Mon Grave

2010-04-04T16:19:00.002+08:00

Promise to Crystle:

If I do not text Crystle by Saturday, the 10th of April, I will have to buy her 2 rounds of drinks.

Tabula Rasa

2010-03-31T18:10:00.002+08:00

I had a dream last night.

The world was ending in a frenzy of people unmoved. They stand there, too fearful to move under a sky of pure white, above a ground that did not know who or what it was anymore..

I seemed to be the only one moving, moving between maniacally stationary bodies, looking for people I knew. I found the five purest knights sitting calmly on a bench. I looked up at them in all the love and adoration I've had for them in the eternity of almost 10 years. They looked down on me, upset and disappointed at the life I've made for myself. My stomach lurched, my mouth dried, and something got stuck in my throat and decided it liked it there.

Two technicoloured beacons shot from the sky, and all of humanity jumped to avoid it. I dropped the book I had in my hand, and the beacons turned towards me, and I immediately dropped to the ground, in a fetal position. I didn't dare to look at the beacons - they were like the eyes of a mentor whose teachings I had discarded for navigating through minds like Hers and to shine a dark black light in my head.

I had sins, but not today. Today, I had fetid, naked darkness.

I do not know what my dream meant, but there was a presence in it I have never felt before. One that convinced me with my eyes that the dream was real.

Quarter of a Month

2010-03-16T01:41:00.002+08:00

Has sex lost its sanctity?
When did it become caustic for me to adulate you?
Or postured when I touch your skin -
A soupçon of ardor, does it reach your bones?
When did my body become a pied-à-terre
for the bleating consequences and muted rhapsodies
that colour our own Decauxes?
Does it mean nothing for me to sigh,
as your eyes flutter, urgent wings of a butterfly
dancing upon the soft undulations of your visage?
Is all this gone forever, pushed through grills
like words of ancient wisdom in our year of the bored.

We are tethered to bittersweet memories untold,
inclined to believe they are stuck to the soles
of our shoes, dragged for the ride until we want to pick at them again,
but dragged through Apathy's bitter war with Cupid.
It picks an arrow here, a point-55 there
And its bitter blood taint our tears;
That trickle unevenly down my cheeks, out
from reddened eyes that have seen too little of your face.

A Day In The Life Of A Misplaced French Dessert

2010-03-12T23:50:00.002+08:00

Interlude to whisper time
Solitude of iced chatter
The strips of glazed phlegm
On mama's burnt soufflé
Ornaments, upon kitchen's copper, this
Cord ends where unrivalled breaths from
You and I and we dine
Because singing was so three days ago
Forks and Dos and spoons and Res
Sprinkled from papa's cheroots
That smoked my brains
And smocked my yet conceived daughters
In the tiara of angry mob, that throng
As the television dies;

So we all sit and our prayers stuff our noses
And our stomachs sing sans soufflé,
Burnt or not or out
"We thank you for our health, and we thank you for today."

In The Arms Of Sleep

2010-01-20T11:00:00.002+08:00

Sleep will not come to this tired body now
Peace will not come to this lonely heart
There are some things I'll live without
But I want you to know that I need you right now
I need you tonite
I steal a kiss from her sleeping shadow moves
Cause I'll always miss her wherever she goes
And I'll always need her more than she could ever need me
I need someone to ease my mind
But sometimes a someone is so hard to find
And I'll do anything to keep her here tonite
And I'll say anything to make her feel alright
And I'll be anything to keep her here tonite
Cause I want you to stay, with me
I need you tonite
She comes to me like an angel out of time
As I play the part of a saint on my knees
There are some things I'll live without
But I want you to know that I need you right now
Suffer my desire
Suffer my desire
Suffer my desire for you

The Ministry Off Education

2010-01-17T23:14:00.001+08:00

The gutter, the gun and The Holey Post
Tell you where to think, what to thank, and when, why.
You’ve got to fight for your right to fight for your right
When It’s signed away the back of your head,
The tips of your fingers

The student sat in gaschamber class
Droning, staccato and manic

Wondered if black widows
Are received by the Death of spiders
Or does Grim, contoured by man,
A shaming stranger shape to her for
An intimate occasion –
Into the afters

The mentor and the student wander
Narrow faceless corridor, endless walls
“Look, a door!” the mentor pointed out.
“Ooh where does it go?”
“It stays where it is, I believe.”

Yours Truthfully

2009-12-26T17:48:00.004+08:00

You know what typo error I think is the funniest?

When you mean 'HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH' but you end up saying 'GAGAGAGAGAGAG'. Because you want to laugh but you end up repeating such a coarse syllable that ends in a choke - 'GAG'. It's interesting how when you repeat 'HA', there is mirth, but when you repeat 'GA', there is unsavoury stupidity. No, no, I have a point to all this.

Dearest.

"Ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ch-ch-chi-chi-chitect," stammered Dumbass like a complete dumbass. Dumbass was a freshman in St. Jude's, and was one of the school's richest kids. Chauffeured to school, gold-framed lunchbox - still carries a lunchbox - flat,oily, preened hair that gives the face a come-hither-and-smack-my-shitface quality. Of course, his name isn't Dumbass. It's Jonathan Earl The Third. His dad's an investor who has donated generously to the board of directors and - "m-m-m-my m-m-mom's an-an-an ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ch-ch-chi-chi-chitect," he finished. Took me quite a bit of effort to not laugh.

The dark, chlorinated broom cabinet fell silent.

There was a low, snarling voice to my left, and I knew Brandon was going to have something to say. And so did I. But as you know, I have to say the right thing at the right time. All the time.

I did something horrible today.

"Your mother," began the low, snarling, voice. "Is not Theresa Watten-Earl -"

"Thursday, 13th August," interjected a gravelly, throat-block voice. Brandon was not able to hide his voice too well now, and was forced to choose his words properly. "Where were you?" He has a point. Really. You'll see.

"Th-th-th-th-that's ya-ya-ya-yesterday," stammered Dumbass.

There was this boy, and I didn't like him. At all. But he's yours.

Answer the question. Truthfully. I willed him as though I had some hitherto unknown psychic ability. Didn't work of course.

Truthfully, yours.

"I was in school," he said too fast with too little stammer, revealing more than he wanted to.

On Tioman

2009-11-04T23:48:00.003+08:00

Okay so maybe sometimes I'm not the smartest guy around

suff says:
fucking beautiful place

Crystle says:
i wanna ride a donkey there
okay thts so random

suff says:
HAHHAAHAHAHAH
are you thinking of those explorers who discover beautiful beaches in mexico
and they usually go around in donkeys

Crystle says:
hahahahaha
no!!!
i rode a donkey there e other time la!
HAHAHA

suff says:
to tioman?!

Crystle says:
omg
not TO tioman!
IN tioman!
hahahahahahahahhahahah
WTF SUFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

suff says:
OH
HAHAHAAHAHAHAHA

Crystle says:
RIDE A DONKEY TO TIOMAN?!?!?!?!?!?!??!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA

suff says:
yeah its a separate island
but i thought
hahaahahah
HAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA

Je Te Veux

2009-10-29T12:38:00.004+08:00

Cela se sent tres mal, cela se sent tres raison
Je rentre chez toi tard dans la nuit, pour toi
Mais ma cherie,
Où vous-êtes maintenant?

Harris Bin Potter teaser trailer SIAL

2009-10-17T20:36:00.002+08:00

Stuck

2009-10-15T03:12:00.003+08:00

2009-10-14T16:40:00.002+08:00

We are the youth, we'll take your fascism away

Tales From The Jansen Park Cemetery: Charms Harms Arms

2009-09-09T16:42:00.002+08:00

There is a tombstone in Jansen Park Cemetery that presides over an old, unkempt grave partially hidden in weeds. The tombstone reads: Colin Herbert Aston 17 March 1884 - 19 April 1911. 6 feet under the tombstone, in the dull oak coffin, Colin's skeleton lay incomplete: the bones of his forearms were missing.

This is his story.

Colin was the town's Casanova, a rich, handsome, young man who was the apple of every lady's eye, and the envy of every man in New Montevideo. At 20, he had inherited his father's successful textiles business. While he was rather inept at tailoring or weaving, Colin was a shrewd judge of character and had used this talent to employ and retain the right people to keep Aston's Textiles Company the clothing juggernaut it was at that time. It was a quality he had learnt from his father - and as his youth blossomed, he used it on his premier pursuit - women. He knew what would excite them, what would make their hearts go a-flutter and anything else that was needed to bed them.

And after that, he would gently sever ties with them.

It was spring 1911, April showering New Montevideo with colours that brought the town to life. Garden flowers bestowed the eyes with bright reds and blues along with yellow daffodils, as the grass they grow with paint a fresh green backdrop that paid homage to the beauty of Mother Nature. The denizens of New Montevideo flocked to Jansen Park - they wanted to bathe themselves in spring's wondrous, coloured glory.

It was early afternoon as Colin jauntily walked into Jansen Park. Its large wrought iron gates were sisters to the gate that could be found half a mile into the park - the gates of Jansen Park Cemetary.

Jansen Park was crowded then, and Colin realised that though his pickings were hardly slim (and as he thought this, he passed by a rather rotund woman and sniggered to himself) the sheer number of human bodies that thronged the public green was not conducive for romancing.

With a sigh, Colin buried his hands deep inside the pockets of his coat, and trudged away from the crowd.

He passed by one of his employees, who took off his hat cheerfully at Colin, adding a, "Blessed day, Mister Colin!" Colin forced a smile and grunted a perfunctory reply.

Subconsciously, his feet took him towards the Jansen Park Cemetery gates, and as the darker, deadened air drew him closer, the noises from the townsfolk less than half a mile behind him faded away, muffled and forgotten.

He slumped into the bench by the cemetery's gates, amorous and alone.

A flicker of movement flashed at the corner of his eyes. He turned, and there, sitting two benches from him, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She was an Asian lady - you would see her kind every now and then, mostly stowaways in ships from the Orient. But this, Colin thought, this was a fine specimen!

She was fair, and her supple skin contrasted beautifully with her jet black hair. Her eyes were almost feline - and window to the soul my dirty breeches, Colin thought, as her eyes seemed to hide her person, shrouding her enigmatically. The young man stared harder into the lady's eyes. They were grey.

She was wearing a white dress that did not do justice to her body - it did not hug any of her curves, or exhibit any amount of tantalizing skin other than her head.

And then she was smiling at him, full, luscious lips parting sensually to give a peek of beautiful white teeth. Then she stood, and walked towards him. Colin, usually suave and calm, heard his thoughts stutter, felt his brain work faster than it ever had, and saw a slight tremor in his hands that he could not control.

She stopped before him, standing over him as he sat helplessly on the bench. They stared at one another, blue eyes yearning for the grey.

Then, wordlessly, she swept away, into the open gates of Jansen Park Cemetery.

It took a while before Colin's mind returned to his head, and with a mad rush, he followed the mysterious oriental lady.

Colin rushed up the hill, sprinted between two angel oak trees, down a short slope, past a few old benches, past the crypt, past the clearing, into the plot of land that housed the oldest dead - the burial grounds of the first immigrants to New Montevideo. The lady was standing there, next to an ancient tombstone that had already crumbled in half.

"Hey," Colin said. "You gave me quite an exercise there." He allowed himself a smile at being able to calm his previously-convulsing brain.

The lady stood there, motionless. Her beautiful face was impassive, unreadable.

The sun, that had shone so benevolently at Jansen Park, was anonymous here, shut away from this part of the cemetery by gnarled, ancient elder trees.

The full luscious lips twitched, then parted to form a smile. Colin felt his insides churn with lust.

The lady raised her hand, and Colin could only stare stupidly at it. Then she pulled her dress up quickly, and tossed it away.

It all happened in a blur, and within that blur, Colin felt intense stirrings in his trousers. And within that split second after that blur, Colin realised she was naked, and his brain immediately took in her large, pert breasts.

Then something glinted in the shade.

And Colin saw a blur that was metallic but began with the lady's hands.

And the blur flashed and careened.

Then Colin felt a sharp pain in his arms. He held up his hands, and only saw two bleeding stumps at his elbow, fountains of blood jetting violently.

He yelled, but the sound got caught in his throat; then forced back down into the depths of his being by an unknown, sinister force.

He was helpless as he stumbled backwards, and his eyes registered the woman, standing there beautifully naked, her hands clutching a long sword embellished with his blood.

"Good morrow, Colin," she said as he lost consciousness....

"Aren't you a handsome man."

I've Got A Little To Give But It Is Not Enough

2009-08-29T16:36:00.002+08:00

Le Football

2009-08-27T01:50:00.004+08:00

I know I'm not the best player around, but these pictures remind me of me at my happiest: no concern about the world outside, my brain working at breakneck speed, my feet pounding the ground in sprints. That glorious feeling of scoring. I miss that feeling.

And even if I'm losing, or tired beyond belief, soccer always holds that promise of renewed life and vigour, just beyond the peripheral. And the journey to get there, draining as it is, is the most magical experience I have ever had.

Cheers, to soccer.

Still Unbridled

2009-08-13T01:33:00.002+08:00

I used to have better things to do
Than to bother about examinations
Hey you, hey you
I'm still unbridled

My age of vice

Smooth Smoky Shuffles

2009-08-05T00:36:00.005+08:00

I smelled of sex and cigarettes. Her sex, my cigarettes.

They were Virginia slims, each drag a smooth, smoky shuffle into indifference.

The events that transpired mere ten minutes ago still pounded heavily in my head, providing a potent raison d'être for the slims.

The sex was as good as casual sex could be. There was a frantic intimacy to it which I found erotically compelling.

Her kisses were slow, yet her heavy breathing betrayed her exterior calm. I inhaled those hot breaths as I kissed her - it was as though I was breathing her in. Our tongues crept out with immaculate synchronization. She tasted salty, human.

Our clothes came off with surprising ease, considering the urgent rush that coursed through the both of us.

She pushed me onto the couch, and knelt in front of me and took my member between her tender, luscious lips. I had pulled at her hair, her submissiveness fueling my sexually charged ego. Simply with her lips and her tongue, she brought me to the edge of orgasm.

We didn't make love after that - we couldn't. We fucked. I pinned her against walls, pulled on her hair, gave it to her hard and fast. To me, she was this fragile doll so beautiful in all her make-up and sculpted body. And I wanted to defile her as much as I could on this night.

Then, when I came, torrents shooting onto her stomach, the magic disappeared. There was a disagreeable, smothering silence after; you could almost hear the pop of a bubble bursting.

"There's somewhere I have to be," I told her as I got off her and started pulling on my sweater.

"Where?" she inquired, a rude, intrusive step into my personal space.

I looked down on her, lying naked on her bed. "Work," I verbalised.

"It's 2 a.m." Flat.

"You don't know my work."

She threw me a dirty look. It was dirty with contempt. "I don't know you."

"Fuck off," I said just audibly, as I walked off.

-----------------------------------------------------

I stepped out into the night, leaving behind the nameless, faceless apartment I was in.

The scent of the city's night greeted me. It was an interesting mix of vehicles and industry and all the traces of four million people packed into limited square kilometres. This aroma piqued, without being pervasive.

A cool breeze rushed by, but I felt its gentle caress as though in slow motion. I took a deep breath, as though I could keep the breeze inside me, and with it I could let go of my inhibitions and float away to my whims and wanders.

But I was still here, and work beckoned.

I extracted a cigarette and lit it.

Then I took several smooth, smoky shuffles into indifference.

Tales From The Jansen Park Cemetery: Maybe I Just Want To Fly

2009-08-03T20:03:00.003+08:00

It was a walk out in the graveyard.

Up the slope on that weathered path. Past JAMES DAVID SLOAN 11 MARCH 1974 - 31 OCTOBER 2001 "MAYBE I JUST WANT TO FLY". Past that broken headstone that could only read MARY-JANE CHASE DRA-, the rest of her name, her birthday and her death lost to the ages. Then the path meanders, weaving past the two wizened oak trees, gnarled in the night's incapacitating darkness. My heart was beating hard, an intimate, excited presence in my chest.

It was a walk out in the graveyard - familiar sensations on a familiar night.

The door to the crypt was ajar, and that well-acquainted, dull joy crept into my being.

I stepped into my destination, and was immediately greeted by a hulking, dark figure sprawled on the floor. By moonlight, I discerned the visage of Crankwood, eyes unfocused and jaw slackened. He grunted a hello that told me that, unlike me, his journey was incomplete.

I snapped my glowstick alight, and stepped over Crankwood, deeper into the crypt.

By the wall to my right, I made out three figures huddled together. They turned toward me, their faces eerie in the sickly green light.

I did not fear, for these were familiar faces.

There was Alientorque, his skinny, pallid hands clutching his personal goblet.

With a hand around Alientorque's bony shoulders, Hotwired smiled at me. It was an unfocused smile that made him look absolutely crazed.

Accompanying the two of them was Cityagent, still sober, standing upright. His straight hands held his full goblet close to his waist.

"Artdirector!" a low voice called from further inside the crypt. I walked past the three, as Cityagent took a gulp of Liquid from his goblet.

I wasn't surprised to hear my Name called, given the occasion. As I walked towards the voice of my summoner, I withdrew my own goblet from inside my jacket, its obsidian blackness lost inside the gloom of the crypt.

Moments later, the glow of my lightstick fell upon the handsome features of Armand. As soon as it did, I replaced it in my jacket.

"Hello Armand," I greeted our Giver.

"Bonjour mon ami," replied the Frenchman. I could hear Liquid being poured into my goblet. "Le poudre?"

The powder. Something so insignificant in the daily clockwork of life, yet something so powerfully influential in its slow trudge towards twilight. "Yes please."

I heard and felt the faint fizz that effervesced in my goblet.

"Monsieur's room is behind me."

"Merci, Armand." He could not possibly see my smile in this dark, but I consciously gave him one anyway.

I felt my way past Armand, groping in the dark with my left hand until I could feel the rusty door handle. I pushed it, opened the portal, went through it, and closed it behind me. I retrieved my glowstick and threw it on the floor.

My private domain came alive with light. The walls were lined with human skeletons, desecrated remains from my first days here. From my jacket's breast pocket, I withdrew my M:Robe, and stuffed my earphones into my ears.

I drank from my goblet.

And then I pressed play.

My M:Robe blasted Ibi Dreams Of Pavement. Broken Social Scene.

One of the skeletons came alive, and told me of winding avenues whose bricked road led to a man named Muriel.

I felt a sensation much like a bullet lodged into my back. But there was none.

Red triangles invaded my vision and blurred.

One of the triangles became maroon squiggles. The difference was subtle, and I could not spot it.

A rapid percussion beat crept into my head.

I vomited.

And then I flew.

A man saw Gaza turn into light, and I was there, I was there.

I found myself the next morning outside the rusty gates of Jansen Park Cemetery. The padlock on the gates were heavily cobwebbed.

My 23rd Birthday Wish

2009-07-23T23:28:00.003+08:00

As I turn 23, I wish for peace in this world.

I wish that people would learn to get along. I wish for those in Africa - man, woman and child alike - to stop bearing arms. I wish for them to stop being killed. I wish for them to stop killing. I wish for a more permanent resolution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I wish that tensions in South-East Asia would quell, so I do not have to constantly worry about the safety of friends and family.

I wish for a calmer heart, a clearer mind, a fiercer intellect. I wish to purge myself of all the sorrow and anger that have churned so relentlessly within my being.

I also wish to convey my love to my friends, and my family. I wish to convey my complete admiration and adoration for all of them. My world is a better place because of them. I can accomplish so much because of their inspiration and support.

And they are my people, as much as I am theirs.

23 Things I Don't Mind Getting For My Birthday HAHA I'M SO NOT SHAMELESS

2009-07-18T23:11:00.003+08:00

Hahahaha I'm not hinting anything okay. Really. This is just stuff I'd definitely like, even if it's for future birthdays.

23. An Oasis poster/calendar
22. Chocolates. No fruits/liquor in it though.
21. Anything Manchester United-related.
20. BAILEY'S. Hahahahaha.
19. A good book. Stuff by Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams, H P Lovecraft, Christian Jacq, Frank Herbert are safe bets.
18. Anything related to any one of these bands: Oasis (as you can infer from no. 23), Smashing Pumpkins, Manic Street Preachers, Blur, The Great Spy Experiment
17. Anything related to Eric Cantona
16. Earphones/Headphones
15. Novelty items of a sexual nature. Love the Oral Me badge, Zat!
14. Satays. Mutton satay's my favourite. Hint hint.
13. These fruit: Strawberries, durians, mangoes or oranges. Hahaha okay I know it's weird to get someone fruits for their birthday but I would adore you for that.
12. Soccer socks.
11. Cigars
10. Shoelaces
9. I don't mind getting.....DRUNK!!
8. Any Mac-compatible RPG/Strategy/Simulation games.
7. Nice-ass clothes. I'm a top size Medium/US32, pants size 32 waist and shoes US size 11. For those with cash, my favourite brands are Zara, Calvin Klein and Calvin Klein Jeans. Just saying.
6. A session of soccer
5. Random going out to town just to make a lot of noise
4. Scarves. I love scarves.
3. Green. Heh heh high 5 Paul.
2. Random note/letter saying how much you love me
1. Hugs (from guys. It can be a cool, non-gay hip-hop one I don't mind) and kisses (from the ladies)

23 Man-Crushes I Have/Had

2009-07-18T01:24:00.005+08:00

23. Brandon Boyd
22. Dave Chappelle
21. Barrack Obama
20. Michael Emerson
19. David Duchovny
18. Lance Reddick
17. James Dean Bradfield
16. Matthew Fox
15. Andre Benjamin/Andre 3000
14. Cristiano Ronaldo
13. Jim Carrey
12. Eagle-Eye Cherry
11. Billy Corgan
10. Christian Bale
9. Ewan McGregor
8. Thierry Henry
7. Chris Rock
6. Ryan Giggs
5. Sam Neill
4. Clive Owen
3. Bebeto/Jose Roberto Gama de Oliveira
2. Liam Gallagher
1. Eric Cantona

23 Songs I MUST Listen To On My Birthday

2009-07-09T21:43:00.004+08:00

23. Oh Mandy - The Spinto Band
22. Starlight - Muse
21. Sunday Morning (Questlove Remix) - Maroon 5
20. Save Tonight - Eagle-Eye Cherry
19. All Of This - Blink 182
18. Your Love Alone Is Not Enough - Manic Street Preachers
17. Here Comes The Sun - The Beatles
16. 1979 - Smashing Pumpkins
15. Millenium - Robbie Williams
14. Teen Love - Peter, Bjorn And John
13. Dani California - Red Hot Chilli Peppers
12. The Sweetest Thing - U2
11. Inner Smile - Texas
10. You Only Live Once - The Strokes
9. We Danced Together - The Rakes
8. Sad Song - Oasis
7. Class 'A' Love Affair - The Great Spy Experiment
6. Rock Is Dead - Marilyn Manson
5. Show Me Your Soul - P. Diddy, Lenny Kravitz, Pharrell Williams, Loon
4. Brain - N.E.R.D.
3. Cheated Hearts - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
2. Dakota - Stereophonics
1. Wonderwall - Oasis

23 Of The Best Lines Ever

2009-07-05T20:41:00.005+08:00

23. "It's a struggle, living like a good boy ought to" - The Scissor Sisters

22. "Chuck Norris can set fire to an ant with a magnifying glass. At night. Nasruddin can set fire to a magnifying glass with an ant. At night. In water." - suffian.blogspot.com

21. "I met my maker I made him cry." - Oasis

20. "Je connais ce sentiment de solitude et d'isolement." - Laurent Voulzy

19. "The mystery of life isn't a problem to solve, but a reality to experience." - Frank Herbert in Dune

18. "I am the eggman, they are the eggman, I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob." - The Beatles

17. "They hate you if you're clever, and they despise a fool." - John Lennon

16. "Americans want grungy people, stabbing themselves in the head on stage. They get a bright bunch like us, with deodorant on, they don't get it." - Liam Gallagher

15. "Buck Nasty is nominated for getting his best friend's girlfriend pregnant, then tricking his best friend into raising the little motherfucker." - from Dave Chappelle's Chappelle's Show.

14. "You are the girl that I've been thinking of...ever since I was a little girl." - The Black Kids

13. "Tender is the night, lying by your side." - Damon Albarn

12. "I wouldn't cancel afternoon school to bury that little shit." - Rowan Atkinson

11. (on Kelly Osbourne) "I like the song the girl sings, "Papa Don't Preach". I got a song for you too, Bitch. It's called, "Daughter Don't Sing." - Dave Chappelle as Silky Johnston in Chappelle's Show.

10. "I'm into the girls fancying me and stuff, mad for it. Get a bit worried if boys started fancying me, definitely. I've got nothing against gays . . . as long as they don't pinch me on the bum or whatever." - Liam Gallagher

9. "I think they should change the name of that show from Desperate Housewives...to Ungrateful Bitches!" - Chris Rock

8. "Your mama's so mama she opened a shop." - suffian.blogspot.com

7. "I didn't go to university. Didn't even finish A-levels. But I have sympathy for those who did." - Terry Pratchett

6. "In DOTA, if you kill 9 people in a row, you're BEYOND GODLIKE! If you kill 17 people in a row, you're NASRUDDIN!" - suffian.blogspot.com

5. "Let's dance to Joy Division, and celebrate the irony; everything is going wrong, but we're so happy." - The Wombats

4."Pissed off? If I was that close to a horses' weiner, I'd be more worried about getting pissed on." - Ahchoo, played by Dave Chapelle, in Robin Hood: Men In Tights.

3. "Holy Premature Ejaculation!" - Jackoff from Sex Trek: Where No Man Has Cum Before

2. "The difference is.. You can take part in a 100m race but not in a 100m ethnicity." - Aizat, about the difference between race and ethnicity.

1. "Sick lady (suffering from heart attack): Help me!... Call me an ambulance!
Son: Okay, mama...You're an ambulance" - Cast of Goodness Gracious Me

23 Movies I Don't Mind Watching Again And Again And Again And Again

2009-07-04T22:28:00.003+08:00

23. Love Actually
22. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (the first live-action movie)
21. Transformers 2
20. Clerks
19. Southland Tales
18. 28 Days Later
17. Dawn Of The Dead (the 2005 version)
16. Donnie Darko
15. Day Of The Dead (the 2008 version)
14. 28 Weeks Later
13. Star Wars: A New Hope
12. Lord Of The Rings: The Return Of The King
11. Madagascar
10. Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle
9. Land Of The Dead
8. Chasing Amy
7. Dogma
6. Transformers
5. Zack And Miri Make A Porno
4. Zoolander
3. Clerks 2
2. Robin Hood: Men In Tights
1. Star Wars: Return Of The Jedi

23 People Whose Faces I Wanna Smack

2009-07-03T00:46:00.003+08:00

23. George W Bush
22. Macaulay Culkin
21. Eminem
20. Lil' Wayne
19. Rude Aunty At Old Canteen 1 Drink Stall
18. Lady Gaga
17. Smeagol
16. Jessica Simpson
15. Paris Hilton
14. Sanjaya
13. Tina Fey
12. Dexter from Dexter's Laboratory
11. Random people on facebook who say on the message boards they can't go for an event because they're overseas. We already got it when you RSVPed not attending. Who the fuck asked for your whereabouts. Nobody's gonna give a fuck when they're partying. Okay moving on.
10. Nicklas Bendtner
9. Hayden Christensen as Anakin Skywalker
8. Hillary Duff
7. Miley Cyrus
6. The Jonas Brothers.
5. Jabba The Hutt
4. Marin Hinkle as Judith in Two And A Half Men
3. Dee Dee from Dexter's Laboratory
2. Imelda Staunton when she portrayed Dolores Umbridge
1. Didier Drogba

23 Celebrities I Fucking Adore

2009-07-02T12:00:00.004+08:00

23. Kal Penn
22. Kofi Annan
21. Zack De La Rocha
20. Laura Prepon (I think she's weirdly fucking hot)
19. Kevin Smith
18. Saiful from Great Spy Experiment
17. Ryan Giggs
16. Robbie Williams
15. Cristiano Ronaldo (dropped down the list thanks to that move to Real)
14. Fernando Torres
13. Ryan Stiles
12. Mahatma Gandhi
11. Anita Roddick (fucking brilliant activist who is also CEO of The Body Shop)
10. Christopher Walken
9. Pablo Neruda
8. Robert Smith (lead singer of The Cure)
7. Chris Rock
6. Natalie Imbruglia
5. Emma Watson
4. Thierry Henry
3. Liam Gallagher (hero-worshipped the bastard since I was 11)
2. Eric Cantona
1. PAUL TWOHILL! No really, cos he's one of my best friends. And I'm always proud of him. Next bag on you Paul thanks.

My 23-Day Countdown To My 23rd Birthday

2009-07-01T23:23:00.002+08:00

In 23 days, I'm turning 23.

So in countdown to that, I'm churning out lists of 23 random things everyday until the 24th of July.

Kinda like a reminder to myself of who I am.

A Year Ago...

2009-06-30T02:25:00.014+08:00

Earlier tonight, I was at my cousin's place at Yishun and she was discussing the issue of divorcing her husband. And it made me realise that hell, last year they were so happy. They were a really loving couple during family gatherings. And now, 365 days on, it all goes to hell.

It made me reflect on my own life. This time last year, I had a girlfriend. This time last year, I felt way less troubled.

Since it's June, this time last year I would be fresh from the best overseas trip ever: off to KL with the SJIMV, Faliq, Irwan, Sam, Faizal, Ben and Joses.

I couldn't choose a better bunch of people to go on a holiday with. These are the guys I play soccer with, my best friends. With them, I'm happier, more carefree, more expressive. It's not always a good thing, but being with them makes my day.

We stayed at semi-dingy, 2-star Agora Hotel. Which was fine for us guys. Especially because it was at the heart of Jalan Bukit Bintang. This was me, Joses and Nazir at the lobby.

This was me, Nas and Faliq at the lobby.

That's me walking its non-too-glitzy corridors.

At KL, we did a shitload of guy stuff. Like randomly looking cool.

We ate at Baskin Robbins in a manly manner. Randomly looked around us in a manly manner also.

Breakfasted at KFC. Nazir eats coleslaw, weird dude. Honestly, who the fuck eats coleslaw? Okay moving on.

But the highlight of my trip was not the trip to KL Zouk, or the Ramly burgers or the Baskin Robbins caramel swirls. It was actually just walking around and talking with these guys:

Waking up with them (that sounded gay, but it's not), having breakfast with them, talking with them till late at night.

And that, my friends, makes one of the best memories of my life. And it happened only a year ago.

I Put My Banana In Your Split

2009-06-29T03:34:00.004+08:00

HAHAHA HEE HEE. Just a song I wrote when I was bored and in himbo mode.

(Opening spoken word)
Yo fuck 2 become 1 by the Spice Girls.
Fuck that motherfucking bag of British bullshit
You wanna sing about sex, yo you gotta keep it real
So listen as I sing about putting my banana in your split

(chorus)
I put my banana in your split,
My Osama in your cave
My Obama in your white house
My surfboard breaks your wave
And when my Osama wants to shoot his AK-47...
He'll uh....
Well... he'll uh.......
Bitch, I'll cum on your titties, fuck this euphemism

(verse)
Let me take you out to dinner baby,
Some place nice and slick
I'll insist on paying for it
But later, you'd better suck my dick

No no don't give me that bullshit
About doing it because I love your company and that I care
I just want to put my banana in your split, bitch
I hope you forgot your underwear

But of course I won't let you know
That I'm in this just for sex
I'll talk about intelligent stuff
And I'll actually use my hairwax

(chorus)
Because I'll put my banana in your split
My tool in your box
My car in your garage
My feet in your socks
I don't even know what that last one really meant
But I don't really care
I just wanna fuck you silly
With my big fat....willy.

(verse)
So after dinner we go for a walk
And I ask you back to my place
I'll be like, "Oh wanna see my comic collection?"
But I really wanna see a collection of my cum on your face.

We're making small talk at my place
Because you don't wanna feel like a ho
You wanna make me earn your body
Oh come on girl, whatchoo frontin' for?

But after awhile we got it on, and I got my freak juice flowin'
I make you do nasty shit, I ask you, "WHO'S YOUR D-A-D-D-Y!?"
"Oh, Benjamin Tan. Nice man, married my mom
2 years before I was born," you reply.

I push it aside and I then requested,
"Say my name, bitch! If you please."
"Oh Robert!" you yell. "Robert! Oh Robert baby!"
.....Robert is not my name.

(chorus)
But I still put my banana in your split
My iron in your maiden
My iPod in your iPod dock
Drill you like Bruce Willis' machine in Armageddon
Yes I'll cum in your mouth
Cos that's just how I roll
I won't wear a condom
Cos it just makes my dick feel cold
You start complaining, talking about respect and shit
Shut up, bitch, I put my banana in your split

I Need To Stop

2009-06-29T00:52:00.002+08:00

Vaishakenamanamana And The Cupcake of Dhoom

2009-06-26T11:31:00.003+08:00

Many thanks to my good friend Doralin for helping in the conception of this story

It is 10:21 am in Mumbai.

The Sun was starting to impose itself on the day, and it burned down on Dei, Building Da Building. As its name suggests, Dei, Building Da Building is... well, a building. Numerous offices are housed in it, including Papa's Papadum, an international papadum conglomerate, and the Indian Privateers, Mercenaries and Agents Network (better known as IPMAN) headquarters (better known as HQ).

In the IPMAN's director's office, their head honcho and their best agent were conversing.

"I have a huge mission for you," said the director. He was a stout, thickly-bearded man. His name struck terror in his enemies. It was Arghabubu, or Bubu to his friends. "A very huge mission," Bubu emphasised.

"HAH!" came the cocky reply. Cocky replies were the trademark of Vaishakenamanamana - IPMAN's best agent, a tall, skinny mass of street smarts, arrogance and all-round cool, along with a thick moustache that curls at one side. It was like a very deformed Nike Swoosh, but not. So no legal trademark issues there. As if to prove his cockiness beyond any doubt, Vaishakenamanamana proudly proclaimed, "Dei Bubu, I already have a very huge mission in my pants da!"

Bubu ignored this comment and pressed on. "The Cupcake of Dhoom was stolen!" Bubu had said this with much gesticulation and dramatic effect.

Obviously, this was done to evoke some sort of dramatic, surprised response from Vaishakenamanamana, but he stood there, unblinking. "You know if it's just a cupcake, you can always get a new one. I know of a lot of bakeries in our district - "

"NO! NO! NO!" Bubu interjected. "You pandi! It's not just any cupcake! It's the Cupcake of Dhoom!"

That was when Bubu broke into song and dance.

"The Cupcake of Dhoom is not just any cupcake," Bubu sang. "It's not something your average Indian baker can bake." He did an intricate dance move that mimicked putting bread into an oven. Then he started shaking his hand, as though he accidentally touched the metal grill of an oven. "The Cupcake of Dhoom gives great power to he who owns it." At that moment, several female back-up dancers appear out of nowhere, making the director's office awfully crowded. They stomp towards Bubu, looking incensed. Bubu quickly sang, "Or she who owns it, to be politically correct and non-sexist."

The back-up dancers dispersed, and Bubu was free to sing to Vaishakenamanamana again. "Oh Vaishakenamanamana, listen to me," Bubu sang with pleading voice and eyes. "If he who has it consumes it, tomorrow afternoon at three; Then the world will be in a situation worse than Pooja's Chapati." This was indeed a bad situation. Pooja's Chapati was a restaurant that was dank, run-down, unlit (they were unable to pay 4 months' worth of utilities bills) and infested with vermin. Its chapatis had a flavour and look that was in sync with the general theme of the restaurant.

"And the person who has it is..." Bubu made a dramatic dance move that exuded a dark, sinister element. "Uner Arinum!"

Vaishakenamanamana held back a yawn. "You couldn't have just talked this out with me?" And after a pause, "So where can I find Uner Arinum?"

And Bubu told him.

-----------------------------------------------------------

It was 30 minutes to three in the afternoon the following day. I could have said it was 2:30 pm, but that wouldn't be staying true to the long-winded Bollywood nature of this text now would it?

Look.

Vaishakenamanamana was hurtling towards a door that led into the interior of a warehouse. He found himself in a wide storage room. In the middle of it, he saw Uner Arinum.

Uner Arinum was a criminal mastermind unrivaled in all of Mumbai an in parts of New Delhi. She - yes Uner Arinum was a woman! Who said Indian women couldn't be criminal masterminds? Sexists, all of you!

I digress.

Uner Arinum was a tall, thin woman with piercing eyes, clad in a purple saree. She was famous for The Indian Job, a heist similar to The Italian Job. Only, instead of being set in Italy, it was set in Calcutta. And instead of millions of dollars being stolen, millions of muruku were stolen.

When Vaishakenamanamana barged into the warehouse, she was sitting, staring intently at the cupcake she would consume in half an hour.

"Ah, Vaishakenamanamana," she said, rising from her seat. "I was wondering when you'd drop in."

"Ah, Uner Arinum," Vaishakenamanamana said, matching his nemesis' tone. "I was wondering when you'd get plastic surgery." Indeed, Uner Arinum had a face only a blind mother would love.

"Mock me all you want, Agent Vaishakenamanamana - God your name is a mouthful - but you can't stop me once I eat the sacred Cupcake of Dhoom!" As the sareed woman said this, she held the Cupcake of Dhoom aloft, her expression haughty, as though she was carrying a cupcake of immense power.

"The only thing you'll be eating is my crap!" exclaimed Vaishakenamanamana.

The IPMAN agent then started dancing, accompanying it with a song of deep and subtle meaning.

Vaishakenamanamana put his fingers together, and brought his hand up towards his mouth - the Indian gesture for eating.

"Hey you," he sang. "Eat my crap."

He then swiftly leapt towards Uner Arinum and grabbed the Cupcake of Dhoom. Doing so, the Cupcake fell to his lap. He gestured to the cupcake and sang, "Cos I got the cupcake here on my lap."

He repeated his first dance move. "So eat my crap," he repeated in sing-song.

Suddenly, a large group of Indian women in sarees appeared behind him, mimicking the eating gesture/dance move. "So eat his crap," they chorused.

Feeling indignant about being told to eat someone else's crap, Uner Arinum tried her best to come up with a comeback, but it wouldn't come. She moved her feet as though to begin a dance, but she accidentally stepped on her saree and fell forward.

"Argh, fuckface murtabak!" she cursed as she planted her face into the floor. The poor Indian criminal mastermind (not so) subsequently fainted.

-----------------------------------------------

"Vaishakenamanamana, I want to congratulate you on a job brilliantly done," said Arghabubu to his best agent when the latter got back to HQ.

"It was nothing," came the trademark cocky reply. "I turned Uner Arinum upside down. All in a day's work."

"Not really," Arghabubu corrected the younger man. "You still have to write the report. That is part of your day's work."

"Dei! Fuck da!"

That Strut

2009-06-25T15:13:00.001+08:00

You know what I would really love to do one day?

Play fabulous, fast-paced, fluid street soccer to the triumphant trumpets of Grover Washington Junior's Soulful Strut.

Bros Over Dose

2009-06-17T18:05:00.001+08:00

Of Plankton

2009-06-16T18:51:00.004+08:00

You know what I think about sometimes? Plankton.

And consequentially, the entire food chain in the ocean.

Plankton's one of the lowest life forms in water. So it gets eaten by small fish. Those cute, minute ones.

Then, the cute, minute ones get eaten by medium-sized fish.

And those fishes get eaten by bigger ones.

Which, in turn, get eaten by bigger ones. And the process continues.

So it's all a hierarchy of size. Big fish eat small fish eat smaller fish. I have stunning mental visuals of that game, Feeding Frenzy.

But if that was truly the case, it hardly leaves space for taste preferential, moods, non-natural disposition, and even dumb luck.

It's all cold, systematic. Calculated.

Hello! I've Waited For You, Everlong

2009-06-11T11:06:00.004+08:00

And for the first time,
I feel like I'm reborn in my mind -
Recast as child and mystic sage.

"I love you," he said nervously.
Elle sourit. "Jusqu'à la fin."

Milk. No, Not The Gay Politician.

2009-06-08T22:08:00.003+08:00

One episode in any TV show that I can relate to on so many levels: Milk, from How I Met Your Mother. Season 1, Episode 21.

And the best part? It leads on to Season 1, Episode 22: Come On!

Sad Song

2009-06-05T18:13:00.004+08:00

Sing a sad song, in a lonely place

Last night, I had the most depressing and the most beautiful moment of my week almost simultaneously.

Like every night, I helped my grandma up the stairs, to her bedroom. As she lied on her bed, she told me how tired she was, how her head hurts. In that pained, almost sorrowful voice, she told me she was so worried about her health. I didn't know what to say.

I just teared. In the dark, I doubt she could see anything. Eventually, I told her everything will be fine, and that I was always here for her.

Then I patted her till she fell asleep. Her eyes closed and her breathing became steady. Everything was peaceful, and it was so beautiful.

I Miss Days Like These

2009-05-19T22:56:00.001+08:00

Last Night After The Sun Went Down

2009-05-17T14:05:00.004+08:00

I used to be a little boy, so old in my shoes.

Early twilight at Marina Barrage. 2 a.m.

We're sitting right at the top of the main building, staring down at port-side Singapore. Me and the guys. Like it always has been. Like it will always be. Breaking down our past. Living our present. Discerning our future.

Just 5 guys, hanging out as we have for 8 years now. We started in secondary school - naive, child-like individuals. And each of us, in our own little ways, are still stuck in those days.

We're talking about girls, and how we're miserable failures with them. We laugh at it. We're not quite different now as compared to our SJI days.

Nazir retains that witty, gentlemanly charm he had. And weirdly, 'British' is not the term for Nazir's style. For someone from a Convention, he's very unconventional. Tall, thin, wearing a hairband to hold back hair he's not bothering to keep in check. For now.

Mus still has the standards he had then. The deeper meaning of one's possessions, class, sophistication. And then the conflict between his disenchantment and his idealism. Tonight, he's in his Armani Exchange jacket. Jeans from the same brand. Black hi-cuts. Dark, brooding - he wore it.

Nas is feisty, sometimes bordering on cynicism. He's his mother's son, that dude. But these days he displays a gentler side. An anguished side, sometimes. Those uneven steps into adulthood. Nas has good posture - it was a random observation I made sometime ago. Nice square shoulders. Good tone. You hardly notice it, and we know why.

Aizat has always been interesting. Disciplined. Deadpan humour. Good in Maths. Tennis whiz. Slightly drained. Giving. Never awed by his roles in life. I think he's going to be the all-rounded family man. The grey hoodie he had on hid his good physique.

And looking at all of them, it really hit me how we're still the same person. But we've grown up so much. These guys deserve the best in life.

A few people have commented how I'm so different from my best friends. But I don't think we're such a close group because we're so similar anyway. They're my balance. Before recent developments, I've gone through 2 months without really spending time with them.

And hey no surprise, they were miserable 2 months.

Never Judge A Facebook By Its Cover

2009-05-17T10:45:00.000+08:00

We're surrounded by people. All sorts of them.

As most of you would have figured out by now, some of these people aren't that bright. Problem with that is, when they look at you, and realise how different and expansive you are compared to them, they try to limit the person that you are.

So they classify you. "Hey you, you're goth." "Hey you, you're a Home Club kid." "Hey you, you're Bangla." "Hey you, you're a failure." And then they give you a set list of characteristics that define your classification.

It's their way of giving you a place in that small, limited brain of theirs. Because your persona running free in their minds will cause them to inadvertently implode from a dearth of experiences and ideas.

We are faceted, intelligent humans. And we should never let any amount of deficient judgement govern that.

Dorment ce soir.

Where Home Really Is

2009-05-13T01:51:00.002+08:00

It sucks not knowing where home really is

The explosions in the sky do not mirror the flares in my mind
Nor troubles that droop my shoulders and lid my eyes
I want that hopeful song I hear in my last days as a child

I close my eyes as, I lie upon the grass
Cushioned in muted thoughts, of calm
That calm before the storm
It's quiet,
And quieter still
And stiller than the quietest air

It's quiet still.

And then I have to go home.
Hence my soul is quiet, dead as the air
Hence my heart beats, in sounds that pierce
And rule the empty air
Hence my mind hushed itself
Hence my feet pound the floor; punctuations
That go nowhere

I hate being where nobody likes my pretty songs.

I scream, I'm in bloom
I'm in bloom. Who's loss is it
When I'm absent.
And where I'm going,
I'll bring with me all my pretty songs

Hee Hee Guilty Indulgence

2009-05-07T23:28:00.004+08:00

Okay I do not advocate or condone wishlists, but I'm having this horrible streak of materialism, so I'm gonna make myself one. Only I'm gonna call it my Acquire List so it'll sound more dignified. And I plan to get all these by year's end. But it's back to bigger, more important things once this streak is over and done with.

No people, this is not one big hint of a blog entry. It's just a self-reminder :)

Suff's Acquire List

1. Lost DVD Box sets. ALL 5 (so far) freakin' seasons. Lost is fucking awesome.
2. New handphone/ New battery for my handphone.
3. Soccer socks.
4. Slim cut Zara jeans.
5. Slim cut Topman jeans.
6. Ramly burger.
7. Football Manager 2009
8. Fred Perry shoes.
9. Good headphones.
10.Calvin Klein sneakers.
11.The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman
12.American Gods by Neil Gaiman
13.Calvin Klein underwear
14.Diablo 3
15.A nice slim tie. Black. With damn shiok designs.

Where Is My Mind?

2009-05-06T03:19:00.004+08:00

Depuis dernier mois.
J'ai oublié...

C'est dormir. Il est beau, tranquil.
Mais il vole votre raison.

Je suis seul, et coeur toi est désert.

Au bout de mon chambre, il y a une fenêtre,
Oú
Je regardais la monde. Il a froid.

The Deli 'Dramus

2009-04-30T10:57:00.002+08:00

Inspired by Nighthawks by Edward Hopper

1929 and it was a time of great despondency
Phillies the deli was almost empty
Usual fare for most commercial entities
Of the time

The lone man looked on as the faceless people
Went on with their lives
The soda jerker one of very few still in employment
The couple one of very few with money to expend in delis
The mask of contentment etched languidly upon their faces.

And he proclaimed,
“80 years from now, life will come full circle
The world will be in straits direr than this
In our own motherland, proud institutions will fall
You will not feel the pain, as you don’t now
But your progeny will suffer.

80 years from now, life will come full circle
But instead of Phillies, the deli will be ‘Donald’s.”

Thoughts On Xu

2009-04-17T20:00:00.003+08:00

They spoke in hushed voices.

"He doesn't have to know yet," I managed to discern one of the voices. It was a distinctly male voice, and his urgent words came out in short, sharp, raspy barks. I could imagine a drill sergeant.

"Three people have died," the other voice - another male one - said, the significance of what he said straining a voice that was trying to keep itself down. "Countless more are still endangered. He needs to know!" This was the voice of a diplomat put into a very sticky situation.

One of them was turning on a tap. It squeaked before the torrent of water gushed through it. To human eyes, the water flow was ordinary.

Then, there was the sound of water, pouring out a tap, whose flow was interrupted by a pair of hands being washed.

"What if," said the diplomat-voiced one after awhile, "we tell Xu instead."

My heart nearly dropped. They know about Xu. These aren't your run-of-the-mill company executives.

"Yes, yes...That's a good idea." Previously-barking voice was now slowed, tentative - calmer.

From behind the door in the corner cubicle, I could not help but be impressed. Xu would contain the situation well. He wasn't the best frontman in their organization, but behind the scenes, he kept the well-oiled machine well-oiled. Sad thing was, nobody gave him more than a passing glance, let alone even know he exists.

It wasn't a surprise, anyway. Nobody gives a potted cactus more than a passing glance, let alone give them existentialist consideration.

A Class 'A' Love Affair

2009-04-14T23:22:00.003+08:00

Close my eyes, but I can't escape this feeling

Come In, Come Out, Come In, Come Out Tonight

2009-04-04T15:11:00.001+08:00

I'm gonna watch Oasis (live - again), and I'm feeling supersonic.

Give me gin and tonic.

2009-03-31T16:46:00.002+08:00

Everyone I know has got a reason to say,
"Put the past away."

Ownt.

2009-03-29T14:03:00.002+08:00

Thank you Chin Whee, Brandon and Marvin for what has been the perfect holiday, and get-away.

Here's to future Tioman trips.

Not quite to Genting though. Damn Space Shot. And Stupid Swing Thingy That Goes Round In Circles.

A Cage, A Cage! Pittance For A Cage!

2009-03-10T21:02:00.005+08:00

And I'll set it aside, just for the scent of another day.

Jim ran.

Muscular exertion. Perspiration flooding out in beads. The park and the cloudy, starless night as frames.

Jim had been running for half an hour, but he didn't pant. No, he was not going to give in to that mark of human fatigue. Sure, he was perspiring buckets. Sure, his muscles ached for respite. But this was his last stand.

Now, he was all controlled breathing and wandering mind.

Indeed, he was not going to let his mind get comfortable with the notion that he was tired.

For years in his life, he had let his mind get comfortable with too many undesirable things. He had allowed his mind to accept his solitude. When Diane left him, he allowed his emotions to settle within the soft, tender, broken recesses of his mind. From there, he felt that pathetic pang of dejection. He eventually let it fester. From there, he felt that daunting mass of loneliness bear upon his soul. He eventually let it fester. The result of all this was a man broken, ashamed, and believing that he was undeserving of another human being.

Jim took a bend that led him deeper into the heart of the park. His muscles screamed for oxygen, but he kept his breathing controlled. His chest felt like it was about to explode.

His mind tried wandering beyond Diane. Beyond his first heartbreak. And he couldn't. The heartbreak was when his heart came alive with anguish. It was when his life began.

His eye registered the centre of the park - the destination of this crazy impulsive run. The heart of the park was a quaint, deep brown oak gazebo designed by French carpenter Jacques Sabin in the early 20th century. The Frenchman carved upon its domed roof his own imagined story of genesis - how an evil deity created this world with fire and brimstone and filled it with humans. The first humans were destructive, fearful people - the little playthings of the evil deity. His nemesis, a goodly deity, depicted by Sabin by a glowing ouroboro, pitied these humans, and gave them hope by teaching them to build, to nurture - to love. And from there, the world became this stage for the crazy struggle for balance between destruction and growth.

And from that gazebo, sprawled this small park nestled in the outskirts of a sprawling industrial estate. And on a tarmac trail leading to the heart of the park, Jim ran, fighting the human impulse to pant. He didn't want to exhale that one heavy breath that would show his human limitations.

His destination was so near. 20 metres, that was the distance Jim had to cover without panting. Without giving in. He held his breath - it was the only way he wouldn't pant.

Two strides - 18 metres more. The strides were heavy, and took its toll on his calves, his lungs and his oxygen-starved brain.

He found himself executing 5 more strides - each one painful and bringing tears to his eyes. The tears trickled down his red cheeks. They parted beads of perspiration on his cheeks, but was eventually lost among them.

Antoher stride.

His legs landed shakily. He was making pitiful, suppressed wimpers through his clenched mouth.

Then, another stride.

Jim's head throbbed madly, as though an over-powered jackhammer was let loose in his brain.

And then, Jim fell, 10 metres from Sabin's gazebo. As he did so, he let out one heavy, horribly pent-up breath.

Pathetically, he wimpered. Then, pathetically, he cried into the black, black tarmac trail.

To Barbarous License

2009-02-24T03:59:00.003+08:00

It's 4:01 ante-meridien.

I'm reading the raw, unabridged, non-prose version of Shakespeare's Henry V. In 5 hours, I have my Communication Issues paper in school. Somewhere outside my window, a car was driving in to the smaller lanes that flank my block.

So far, Henry V is a majestic piece of moving oratory and high-handed political manipulation. My main source of tension in the story is how the so-far righteous, goodly King Henry remains a 'mirror of all Christian kings' in a court so tainted by corruption, betrayal and vested interests.

The real source of tension in the story itself - the one an audience watching a visual/live-action adaptation of the text ought to feel - is England gearing for war with France.

Which hails the notion that life meticulously chooses what it moves in parallel with.

When I Read This In 10 Years, I WIll Still Know Who I'm Writing About

2009-02-19T02:43:00.002+08:00

Perhaps the worst kind of beauty is the kind where you have come to know and care about, the flaws which you find beautiful and endearing. Because that's the kind of beauty that touches your insides, the kind you want to protect - and yet, oh the irony, you want that beauty to protect you too.

Sunset Musings

2009-02-09T00:32:00.003+08:00

She left with the sunlight
I cried to the moonlight
This crazy bitch has stole my mind

I drove in silence down what could just be the quietest road in Singapore. My mind wandered as I did, wondering what would change, what would have to end. What would heal eventually.

But nothing is permanent.

Like the beautiful, beautiful sunset.

Drained

2009-01-28T00:04:00.004+08:00

So don't go away, say that you'll stay
Forever and a day, in the time of my life
Because I need more time, yes I need more time
Just to make things right

2 Years Without Chris

2009-01-26T18:55:00.002+08:00

Exactly 2 years ago, my close friend Christopher ended his life.

I have mourned him so many times since. Sometimes, in life, there are things you just don't recover from. Because the loss is so tremendous that even while you spend your days happy and laughing, it comes back, haunting you with sentiments that weigh heavy in its finality. In the way that you know it wouldn't be back for a long, long time.

I've lost something big in my life 2 years ago. The pain has since subsided, but the memories weigh heavy in my mind.

I still love you Chris, and I always will.

A Thousand Words

2009-01-21T22:14:00.004+08:00

I must confess
I didn't sleep well last night
What with whirlpool cogitations
And poignant stirs
Slumber eludes me
Blunts that fresh, beautiful smell
Of the glories of mourning

I have never felt so lost before. Like my life needs so much fixing. The imagery that delivers my life are, for the better part of it, morose. Scrambled magazines strewn across my room. Unused pens and empty notebooks by my pillow. Blue aliens getting off my planet.

I listen to nostalgic songs that trigger more innocent times. Like, you only tell me you love me when you're drunk.

Burn my brain out just for a little more. And with these ardent flames, we bring the darkest simplicities alight.

Little Red Riding Tudung

2009-01-07T20:06:00.009+08:00

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived in a void deck in Geylang. Whenever she went out, the little girl wore a red tudung, so everyone in the village called her Little Red Riding Tudung, or Siti, for short.

One morning, Little Red Riding Tudung asked her mother if she could go to visit her Nenek (grandmother) as it had been awhile since they'd seen each other.

"Baik siol! You haven't seen Nenek since Hari Raya," her mother said. So they packed a nice basket for Little Red Riding Tudung to take to her grandmother. It had a lot of things that Nenek would love: ketupat, satay, and sambal.

When the basket was ready, Siti put on her red tudung and kissed her mother goodbye.

"Remember, go straight to Nenek's house," her mother cautioned. "Don't gelek along the way and please don't stop to listen to the guitars! The void decks are dangerous."

"Don't worry, ibu," said Little Red Riding Tudung, "I know silat."

"Little Red Riding Tudung Binte Songkok! You promise me you'll go straight to Nenek's house! Or I swear to durian I will make you do Maths!"

Little Red Riding Tudung was alarmed at this threat. She gripped her baju kurung at the horror of what her mother said. "Fine, ibu. I promise."

But when Little Red Riding Tudung noticed some handsome mats in the void deck, she forgot her promise to her mother.

One of the mats stopped playing his guitar to look at Little Red Riding Tudung. He then made a weird kissing sound with his lips. "Eh you jambu sial!" he said.

Little Red Riding Tudung was very flattered by this, and asked the mat for his name.

"My name is very long siol. But I made it shorter. To Robert," he replied with a void deck accent.

Little Red Riding Tudung was intrigued. She had never met a void deck mat named Robert! "Oh what's your full name? I really want to know," she said sweetly.

"Jamal Samsuddin Bin Ali," the boy replied sheepishly.

"And you shortened it to...?"

"Robert."

"..........."

"Jamal Samsuddin bin Ali.... shortened to Robert," Jamal Samsuddin bin Ali shortened to Robert said patiently.

Little Red Riding Tudung finally nodded vigorously after a long while and said, "Oh yes, I see the link. Very creative sial you!"

Little Red Riding Tudung and Robert continued conversing from there, talking about libraries, outside jail and other places they were unfamiliar with.

She was enjoying the company at the void deck so much, that she didn't notice a dark shadow approaching out of the pillar behind her...

Suddenly, the wolf appeared beside her.

"What are you doing out here, little girl?" the wolf asked in a voice as friendly as he could muster.

"I'm on my way to see my Nenek who lives a few blocks away," Little Red Riding Tudung replied, turning away from Robert. "I brought her the best ketupat in Singapore, Terengganu and Eastern Java sial!"

"Sounds delicious!" exclaimed the wolf. Then he added in an undertone, "Just like you... Heh heh heh."

"What?"

"Oh nothing, nothing."

Little Red Riding Tudung suddenly realized how late she was and quickly excused herself, rushing down the path to Nenek's house.

The wolf, in the meantime, took a shortcut.

A little out of breath from running, the wolf arrived at Nenek's and knocked lightly at the door.

"Oh thank goodness dear! Come in, come in! I was worried sick that something had happened to you in the void deck. I haven't been this worried since that time you passed Maths!" said Nenek thinking that the knock was Little Red Riding Tudung, better known as Siti for some illogical reason.

The wolf let himself in. Poor Nenek did not have time to say another word, before the wolf gobbled her up!

"Mmm sedap siol!" it enthused.

The wolf then poked through Nenek's wardrobe to find a baju kurung that he liked. Yes, the wolf was metrosexual and was cool with wearing women's clothes because it was not insecure about its masculinity. The wolf added a frilly sleeping cap, and for good measure, dabbed some of Nenek's perfume behind his pointy ears. It was Chanel Nº5, from the nearest pasar malam.

A few minutes later, Red Riding Tudung knocked on the door. The wolf jumped into bed and pulled the covers over his nose. "Who is it?" he called in a high, makcik voice.

"It's me, Little Red Riding Tudung." Little Red Riding Tudung added, "I brought your favourite ketupat, Nenek! And I also brought....the sambal!"

"Oh how lovely! Do come in, my dear," croaked the wolf.

When Little Red Riding Tudung entered the little cottage, she could scarcely recognize her Nenek.

"Nenek! Your voice sounds so odd, sial. Did you eat something that was not halal?" she asked.

"I had some nasi babi," the wolf confessed untruthfully and sadly, adding an 'oink' at the end to prove the point. "At least it was airpork! Flown from Australia."

"But Nenek! Your ears... Besar siol!," said Little Red Riding Tudung as she edged closer to the bed.

"So I can listen to dangdut better la," replied the wolf.

"But Nenek! Your eyes... Besar siol!," said Little Red Riding Tudung.

"So I can read Berita Harian better la," replied the wolf.

"But Nenek! Your teeth...Besar siol!," said Little Red Riding Tudung her voice quivering slightly.

"So I can eat satay better la," replied the wolf.

"Huh what?"

"I mean... So I can eat you better la," roared the wolf and he leapt out of the bed and stood menacingly in front of Little Red Riding Tudung.

"Huh what?"

"So I..can...eat...YOU..better!"

"Oh!" said Little Red Riding Tudung. "HAHAHAHA I thought you said so you can eat ME better! HAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHAHA!"

The wolf allowed a good minute for this to sink in. After a minute, Little Red Riding Tudung's realised what the wolf meant and shouted , "ALAMAK! You want to eat me sial! AAAARRRGGGGHHHHHHHH, sial!" After a good two minutes of screaming, she stopped, and said, "Oh! No wonder you leapt out of the bed and stood menacingly in front of Little Red Riding Tudung, a.k.a me!"

Almost too late, Little Red Riding Tudung realized that the person in the bed was not her Nenek, but a hungry wolf.

She ran across the room and through the door, shouting, "Help! Wolf, sial!" as loudly as she could.

A Chinaman who was counting money nearby heard her cry and ran towards the flat as fast as he could.

Seeing the situation, he turned to the wolf and shouted, "ONE PLUS ONE IS TWO! Just like the number of minutes you have left to live!"

The wolf, who was part-Mat on his father's second cousin's side, was disgusted to hear such accurate Mathematics. The Math hurt his head horribly.

The Chinaman pressed his advantage. "THE SQUARE ROOT OF NINE IS THREE! Just like your IQ!" The wolf howled in pain.

"EIGHTEEN MINUS FOURTEEN IS FOUR! JUST LIKE THE NUMBER OF WIVES YOU HAVE!!" The wolf finally crumpled to the floor, with a terrifying cry of pain, defeated.

The Chinaman made the wolf spit out the poor Nenek who was a bit frazzled by the whole experience, but still in one piece.

"Oh Nenek, I was so scared!" sobbed Little Red Riding Tudung, "I'll never talk to Mats or gelek in the void deck again."

"There, there, child. You've learned an important lesson. Thank ketupat you shouted loud enough for this kind Chinaman to hear you!"

The Chinaman knocked out the wolf and carried him deep into the void deck where he wouldn't bother people any longer.

Little Red Riding Tudung and Nenek had a nice lunch of ketupat, satay and sambal and had a long chat, incapable of seeing the incredulity of a wolf appearing out of a pillar under a void deck.

Invisible

2009-01-06T22:17:00.005+08:00

Je suis dans l'anxiété,
Depuis cette nuit merveilleuse
Quand je vous ai faits rire,
Et je vous ai faits sourire votre beau sourire
Quand vous avez été près à côté de moi
Quand j'ai marché vous à la maison
Et comme nous avons rasé au revoir,
Vous m'avez embrassé sur ma joue.

Je ne veux pas avoir l'air d'un imbécile,
Et j'essaie de le recevoir de mon esprit
Mais je ne peux pas.
Parce que je n'ai jamais passé une telle nuit
Avec quelqu'un aussi joli que vous.

Je suis dans l'anxiété parce que je ne peux pas vous oublier
Vous êtes dans ma tête tout le temps
Et je veux si mal vous voir, vous parler

Vous ne le savez pas probablement
Mais je n'ai jamais rencontré de personne qui m'a déplacé plus
Depuis que je vous ai rencontrés.

24 Things I Wanna Do Before I Snuff It

2009-01-05T21:21:00.005+08:00

1. Write my own book.
2. Write my own hit TV sitcom.
3. Play soccer in a stadium. With a fair number of spectators.
4. Go backpacking with my best friends.
5. Go to Mecca.
6. Start my very own menswear pret-à-porter label.
7. Bring peace to Africa.
8. Raise living standards in third world countries.
9. Fight for children's rights.
10. Live in Paris.
11. Live in London.
12. Live in New York.
13. Holiday in Geneva.
14. Holiday in Egypt.
15. Catch Muse live.
16. Catch The Cure live.
17. Catch Smashing Pumpkins live.
18. Catch Great Spy Experiment live.
19. Get a degree.
20. Open an orphanage.
21. Be a good Muslim dude.
22. Own a cool-ass car.
23. See the Alps.
24. Marry someone I genuinely love and adore, have my own family, and be a loyal, loving husband and father. No, seriously.

The Top 7 Songs Of 2008

2008-12-24T00:22:00.006+08:00

2008 is drawing to a rather climatic end as the flurry of manic activity threatens to distract me from the important things in life. I'm putting it as vaguely as possible just for content and dramatic effect; I'm not really overly distracted. Except from homework. But that's a given.

Okay on to the entry. 2008 was a fantastic year for music - every year has been fantastic, truthfully, ever since The Beatles became a band. But if I were to say that year in, year out it would be very boring now, wouldn't it? Okay straight to point. Here are the top 7 songs released in 2008 (to me).

Chasing Pavements - Adele

This song has been Grammy-nominated for Record of the Year, Song of the Year, and Best Female Pop Vocal but my friends at TOWNs have categorised it as "another one of Suff's merepek songs". I think they're grossly mistaken, as this song features so many winning elements: brilliant, moving lyrics, Adele's black-girl-powerful-soul voice (she's white though), a ceremoniously charming melody and a thought-provoking music video, which I have put below, thanks to Youtube.

I'm Outta Time - Oasis

Oasis is my favourite fucking band of all time. This year, they released Dig Out Your Soul with comparatively subdued marketing and promotion (though they had very awesome promotion methods in the UK - spraypainting "vandalism" that promote the album on random walls). Which is a pity, because it a seriously awesome album that harks back to the glories of Definitely Maybe and (What's The Story) Morning Glory? This song, I'm Outta Time, is a very personal tribute by Liam to John Lennon - his hero, idol and role model. The video, lyrics and song arrangements combined for an Oasis anthem that will reverberate across arenas the world over. Sally can wait some more.

Diamond Hoo Ha Man - Supergrass

Okay this choice could be borne out of nostalgia - ever since Supergrass released Alright and Pumping On Your Stereo 13 years ago, I've been expecting them to follow through with something almost similar in standard and verve. But then they underwent that weird depression all British bands seem to go through in which they release weirdly morbid, depressing tracks (see Travis when they released Re-Offender, Blur with 13 and Radiohead after OK Computer, to name a few). But Diamond Hoo Ha (the album) heralds a return to old form, and the first single (Diamond Hoo Ha Man) has all the elements of the old Supergrass sound - upbeat tempos, catchy clapping solos and anthemic lyrics that would greatly appeal to young indie afficianados in Britain and the world over.

Dawn Of The Dead - Does It Offend You, Yeah?

Does It Offend You, Yeah?, at first listen, might seem like yet another English dance punk band in the mould of Justice or Simian Mobile Disco or Digitalism............. And unfortunately, they do sound like another British dance punk clone. Only one song of theirs, to me, could make it into the top 7 of 2008, copycats that they are. That song happens to be their solitary foray into melodic indie rock. And it's called Dawn Of The Dead. Oh and yes, that's how it appeals greatly to me - the music vid is an homage to George Romero's zombie classic.

Can't Say Goodbye - Snoop Dogg and Charlie Wilson

Cordozar Calvin Broadus, Jr. (a.k.a Snoop Dogg) released Ego Trippin' this year, and the only hype that came from there was Sexual Eruption/Sensual Seduction. Now that weird, sexual song does not do justice to a man who has come so far in the business. Though I must add that a lot of people don't do justice to the song on dance floors. Okay digression aside, I say the nicest song to come out from Snoop D-O-double G's latest album is the song he has yet to release as a single - Can't Say Goodbye, which beautifully samples the piano piece in That's Just The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby. Snoop and Uncle Charlie did perform the song on American Idol, though...

Great DJ - The Ting Tings

The Ting Tings burst into 2008 with riotous indie dance masterpiece, That's Not My Name. But I think the song from their 2008 album, We Started Nothing, that truly established Katie White and Jules De Martino's status as talented indie dance tunemakers would be Great DJ. Catchy, addictive and not as irritatingly-commercially-overplayed as That's Not My Name, Great DJ would be THE dance track of the year for indie boys and girls, ah ah ah ah ah ah-ah-ah-ah.

Lost! - Coldplay

Arguably the best track to come out of 2008 would be Lost! by Coldplay. I've been a rather subdued fan of Coldplay after Parachutes. I found that nothing Chris Martin wrote could instigate such emotion in me since Yellow. I've enjoyed Don't Panic and Shiver, but after that, I found his songs mellow clones of one another. With the release of Viva La Vida, I expected another Fix You clone with self-indulgent piano pieces and falsettos. And I was severely, and very pleasantly, disappointed. Viva La Vida had some of the most beautiful soundscapes I have heard in mainstream alternative music, and the epitome of that would be Lost!

Of course, this list is heavily biased and is based solely on my personal opinion and preference (I can hear Grace screaming for The Killers in the background). But these 7 songs have undoubtedly moved me in 2008, and left me in awe of the genius and talent of the above-mentioned musicians.

5 Things To Dare Aidil (my baby brother) To Do

2008-12-22T16:17:00.007+08:00

1. Play Apek Makan Telur (this damn retarded game we created) with a real-life Apek.

2. Play Apek Makan Telur with a real-life telur.

3. Throw a real-life telur at a real-life apek.

4. Throw a real-life apek at a real-life telur.

5. Brush his teeth.

I've Done This Before

2008-12-16T00:10:00.003+08:00

And I will do it again

Come on and kill me baby,
While you smile like a friend.

Dimanche, by Suffian Hakim

2008-11-15T18:42:00.010+08:00

"Here I am and I want to take a hit
Of your scent
Because it bit
So deep into my soul"

Mademoiselle, voulez-vous allons avec moi?
Nous chercherons mon coeur,
Il va loin, dans la forneau de la musique et angoisse.
Dans la monde du rêve à tort,
Mais il y a mon coeur, c'est ennuis.

Il y a mon coeur, c'est vous.

Vous avez les yeux jolie.
J'ai peur.

And The Satay Goes To...

2008-11-03T01:03:00.006+08:00

By the time you're 21, you should have a rough idea of what you would look for in a significant other. For us at TOWNS (us bloggers from theonewithnosatay), that idea is really damn rough. Mainly because we haven't had enough girlfriends to really pick out our preferred character traits in a girl. In the case of Nas, he has absolutely no idea what he looks for in a girl. As long as she's hello and alive he's happy. But for those of us who have a clearer picture of what we look for in a partner, I shall present it here.

At the risk of being dating service ads...

Aizat's dream girl must...
- be sporty
- be feisty
- be down-to-earth
- have a decent sense of fashion.

So tennis girls who shop at Zara but who never forget your roots, you're perfect for Aizat. Whether Aizat is suitable for you or not we shall see.

But moving on...

Nazir's dream girl is an overused condom. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Inside joke. Nazir's dream girl is...
- DEMURE
- witty
- left-handed

Those of you who know Nazir and think he's really dreamy, but find yourself mired in right-handedness, CHOP OFF YOUR RIGHT HAND NOW. And then act shy about it, but when the right time arises, crack a sarcastic comment about it (like, "Oh that was HANDY" or something).

Perfect way to land the dude, trust me.

As for me, my dream girl must...
- have a sense of humour
- be intelligent
- be confident
- have a TREMENDOUS sense of fun

Hahaha so yes if you're all that, then hello! Oh but if you smoke, then eat my shorts.

A few hundred years from now, when we finally get ourselves a girlfriend, we'll revisit this post and see if she somehow fits the criteria (small as it is) that we set aside today.

Hari Raya. In Pictures. And Rather Few Words. Because I'm Lazy.

2008-10-23T16:15:00.017+08:00

The month of Syawal is coming to a close, and my Hari Raya outings are grinding to a halt. I didn't get to see everybody I wanted to, especially my cousins Athia and Dhania (who are busy with Fencing and exams in Malaysia), but it was quite good, all in all.

Naturally the first few days brought fun times with the family.

Oh that old lady in the middle? That's my grandma, the grand matriarch of my family. I love her so very much, she's the most important thing in the world to me. And Hari Raya would mean nothing without her.

Okay moving on. The second weekend of Eid, I had my must-have Hari Raya outing with my very very beloved friends from SAJC. So as usual we started at Baba's house, and as usual, I woke up late, so I met them at my place instead of Baba's.

And as usual, I can't do my kain samping for all the nuts in the world, so as usual, Aizat and Halim did it for me. My personal samping servants. :D

And as usual, we have our yearly brotherly love photo. Only this year it looks dangerously more like Elton John-David Furnish love. And, I tried to give a model-ish look.

You might realise that there are a lot of 'as usual's but I think that's what makes it wonderful. That we've started this tradition as friends and no matter where we go when we grow up, every Islamic year, we have this established brand of beautiful familiarity to look forward to.

Okay after my house we made the gruelling 3-minute drive to Aizat's house. And the cool thing about Aizat's house is that not only is there kuih, there's also like a whole big-tupperware of the most brilliant chocolates known to Man. Therefore my rather non-glam expressions.

One of the nicest places ever to camwhore in Singapore is inside Aizat's room, because he has this cool-ass big mirror-cum-cupboard thing, so we went to Jamaica with the camera.

And again, I gave another model-esque thingy here. I think I gave one in every house. I'm not sure....

After Aizat's house, it was off to Bukit Batok for Amy's house.

On the day of this outing, it was a few days before Amy's birthday, so we celebrated her birthday at her place, along with her family. This was the very delicious cake that I wanted to just swim in...

The last destination for that day was Halim's. Halim's place always meant good food, and retardedness.

It started out fine. They were playing Pendekar Bujang Lapok (this classic Malay comedy), so we crashed and watched the show. Irwan...was....watching his songkok.

Then for some obscure reason, Aizat threw his body on top of mine (not in an Elton John-David Furnish way; more in a Kurt Angle kind way), and Halim lent his body to flatten me under the weight of two fully-grown men. I was happily enjoying the movie la, when they had to do that.

And for an even more obscure reason, in the aftermath of that prata-izing bout of weird Hari Raya pseudo-wrestling, Aizat decided he wanted to do sit-ups (WTF?).

Haha I must say though, that this is a typical Hari Raya for me. There's also the Hari Raya outing with my SJI friends but because SOME PEOPLE ARE SLOW IN UPLOADING THE DAMN PHOTOS, I can't blog about it. Ketupats, those people.

But when I do get them, it's another story for another entry. So for now, Cheerio!

And Selamat Last Few Days Of Hari Raya!

Arissa Sarjono

2008-10-20T14:23:00.009+08:00

Dearest Arissa,

This is your cousin Suffian typing out a letter to you that you wouldn't understand for a good...say, 6 years (probably earlier, considering the genius genes you might inherit from me). One and a half weeks ago, you were born into this world, to parents who would dote on you endlessly. And it's not just your parents who'll do the doting. As the newest addition to our family, you'll be doted upon by your uncles, your aunts, your grandma (who's really amazing, fyi) and your cousins.

You also have a cousin Aidil who I doubt will dote upon you, because he dotes on Ben 10. But that's another story for another time.

And you'll be doted upon by me.

Just so you know, I'm the coolest cousin you have. Really. We may be 22 years apart in physical age, but in mental age, the age gap is almost negligible. Most of my friends will attest to that.

Nevertheless, I am going to look out for you. And I'm going to love you so very much.

This is my promise to you.

And as I watch you grow into an intelligent, confident, beautiful young lady, you can always count on me should you need a protector, a friend or an elder-brother-type-cousin.

With love from every fibre of my being,
Your Cousin Suffian

Literature With A Singaporean Flavour!

2008-10-08T16:38:00.004+08:00

Okay so I was really bored in the vast nothingness of time that occurs after Hari Raya, and I decided to rewrite a few popular works of fiction from the Western world and give it a Singaporean spin.

So watch this space, people for...

Sweet Valley ITE, where we see the world through the fake-contact lens-blue eyes of twins Aminah And Sa'adiah.

The Hadi Mirza Boys, the adventures of Hadi and Mirza - two singers who also happen to be quite good at solving mysteries.

And many others, all straight from my very Singaporean pilot pen!

15 Things I Will Never Do (Off The Top Of My Head Right Now)

2008-10-06T02:08:00.003+08:00

I'm sure there are more than 15 things I will never do, but right now I find these 15 most distasteful, and most unfortunately at the forefront of my mind. Why am I thinking of 15 things I will never do? Well, I was bored.

Okay so I will never, ever for the life of me...

15. Go naked go-karting.
14. Eat cigarette ash.
13. Say 'vaginal sores' more than twice consecutively. (Second time allowed in case person I'm speaking to did not hear me first time. If said person does not hear me the second time round, I will say 'Get your ears checked' rather than 'vaginal sores'.)
12. Wear faded oversized briefs.
11. Flash someone without AT LEAST trimming my pubes prior.
10. Scratch my ass and then eat my food.
09. Get fat.
08. Masturbate in public.
07. Read Sweet Valley High/University/Community College.
06. Pass off a strand of my pubic hair as a birthday present (just that one time Mus it'll never happen again).
05. Watch pterodactyl porn.
04. Name my son Yvonne.
03. Get turned on by a cow urinating.
02. Make love to a raccoon.
01. Go to a Halloween party dressed up as the pink ranger.

Tanpa Ku Sedari, Air Mata Ku Mengalir

2008-09-30T00:06:00.002+08:00

I know what most of my friends who read this will think. That I've been working at AMP for too long and I'm starting to use Malay comfortably in my communications. Wrong. As my friends messrs Aizat, Nasruddin, Nazir and Mustakjm will tell you, I still hardly use Malay and they are not comfortable those few times that I do.

But the title perfectly captures what Ramadhan and the subsequent Eid means to me - a Singaporean in a world so secular that I, a Muslim, might feel awkward in a country more steeped in Islam.

Ramadhan has always been there, lurking in the over-1400 years of the Islamic calendar, celebrated and revered when it comes, but seemingly distant during other months.

And then when it arrives, everything seems to fall into place. The prayers, the discipline of the body and soul, the emotions that nurture and bridge, the oneness of community.

So when Ramadhan touched me, my tears flowed without me realising it.

I'm sure some of you might think, "Hell, this is not Suffian."

But I assure you I'm still the same person. I would tell you a dirty joke if it wouldn't spoil the mood and theme of this entry.

I'm still the same person, but I've never been more inspired.

Spaghetti

2008-09-19T21:37:00.002+08:00

I first ate spaghetti 14 years ago, when I was 8.

I was in Chicago (in Illinois in the United States of America) with my grandpa, my uncle and my uncle's colleague and we were looking for a nice place to eat. I was in the mood for pizza, so I suggested an Italian restaurant.

Eventually, we found one. I forgot the name of the street we were at, and I forgot the name of the restaurant we ended up in. But when they told me that their pizza oven was not working, my uncle suggested I try spaghetti bolognaise. And I did.

It was heaven in my mouth.

My taste buds were immensely enlightened by one of the greatest gifts of the kitchen - a madly delicious orgy of rich, springy pasta coupled with sweet-tangy tomato sauce, succulent minced beef and topped with generous amounts of tasty Parmesan cheese.

When I got back to Singapore, it was near the Muslim fasting month of Ramadhan. I asked my mom to make me spaghetti to break fast with, and my love affair with that lovely, lovely Italian dish continued.

Unknowingly, I had started a family tradition. Every fasting month, my mom or my maid would prepare spaghetti for us to break fast with. And when I ate it, my mouth would register pasta, tomato sauce, meat balls and Parmesan cheese, but my mind will register a cold Chicago night, when an 8-year-old boy discovered, in a random American Italian restaurant, one of the best things to ever happen to his stomach.

The SJI Mats Motivational Posters

2008-08-28T15:52:00.003+08:00

I'm at a point in my life where I have a lot of picking-myself-up to do. So, with a declaration that makes absolutely no sense, I shall design my own SJI Mat-themed motivational posters. Just for the heck of it. Inside jokes abound people, so don't expect to understand much. But to the SJI Mats and our humble associates, enjoy.

Damn it I should be a motivational poster designer.

Fast Times With S77

2008-08-17T19:33:00.005+08:00

After a long hiatus, I realised I'm ready to hang out with my friends again. For the past month, I have been the social equivalent of a Modest Mouse song - rarely heard and full of stubborn, shameless angst.

So last Friday, I met my SAJC classmates, namely Nicolle, Krystyn, Raphael, Mars, Mira, Caleb, Lanxi and Ronald.

Okay we had ayam penyet at Lucky Plaza, then we chilled at Mezebar at Meritus Mandarin then we headed to Sentosa. Details are confidential, since the attendees of this outing are highly important people (we have managers and chambermaids, mind you!) so I shall not elaborate further. What I'll do instead is to put up pictures taken from a horrible 2-megapixel phone.

Totally gonna look back on that night and think, those were good times.

Night Vision Binoculars, And Other Songs I'm Currently In Love With

2008-08-13T12:21:00.002+08:00

Every now and then, I reach a musical zenith - a time where I get exceedingly high and inspired by music.

Usually I feel this when I watch live performances. I felt it a few months back when I watched Broken Social Scene. I felt it when I watched Linkin Park last year. When I watched Oasis two years ago, I reached like, the zenith of the zenith of musical high. Dorky, but true.

Recently, my musical zenith was attained by the simple act of listening to a few very, very, very beautiful songs.

And here they are...

This is Walk You Home (Night Vision Binoculars) by Passenger. I got it from my IndieFeed podcast subscription. The thing about IndieFeed is that sometimes it really champions the scum of indie. But this week's podcast did things the right way. A beautiful song about a very sad but romantic stalker. Okay maybe that sounds a tad creepy, but it's a nice song. Nice song. That's all you need to know. Nice song.

Don't Fight It by The Panics is a song my dear friend Therese Heng introduced to me. I was hooked to it instantly. Don't Fight It is one of those songs whose meaning is so vague but somehow immensely moving. Like Majulah Singapura.

Mother Of Pearl by Roxy Music is one of my biggest guilty pleasures for now. It's a song I'll never admit to liking, but can't help but like. It has a very dramatically 70s-rock opening worth its weight in cheese, and the guy's voice goes damn retarded. And he's the kind of flamboyant which you grudgingly admit to. Oh, and the video is quite funny. But the song grows on you after awhile. You'll see what I mean.

Then finally is the song I liked when I was in J1, forgot about, and then re-listened to a few days back. It's called Seed Version 2.0 by The Roots and it's rock, funk and hip hop in one very sumptuous rojak of cool-ass music.

I've been musical-zenith-high for 3 days now. Cheerio!

Living Alone

2008-08-09T21:23:00.002+08:00

So my parents went off to Indonesia for an amazingly awesome anniversary holiday, taking my little brother Aidil along. My brother Syahmi went off on an impulsive, romantic getaway to Vietnam to see Rosa, the love of his life. And my brother Shahrul - well, he's in Pulau Tekong doing his national service.

So for the entire week, I had the whole house to myself. I know for a fact that I hate living alone - the lack of noise or person(s) to talk to is slow, metaphorically-awkward murder.

But I tried to make it work. I did all the fun things one would do if one were to live alone. I walked around the house naked. I cooked naked, just to live life on a very dangerous, flammable edge. I did cartwheels around my living room naked. I blasted music - my head throbs to the drumbeat of Starlight by Muse involuntarily now. I played soccer with myself at home, and because of that, I have to come up with a good explanation for my mom as to why one of her vases is broken.

But they didn't work. Silence is deafening, and it greatly perturbs me. I don't know why. Might be one of them weird psychological, Freudian things.

Not only that, things screw up when I live alone. I've burnt a lot of my food (as in overcooked) due to multi-tasking overkill. I have an iron-shaped hole one of my shirts (left the iron there because the food was burning). I flooded the kitchen because I drained the washing machine and forgot to put the drainage hose into the toilet.

I guess there comes a time where a guy realises the full impact of that statement "no man is an island". And this week was mine.

I can't live alone. And even if I could somehow find a way to juggle all my chores, I still wouldn't want to do it. The lack of company is something I cannot live with on a permanent basis.

Sure, I can be independent. Washing my own clothes. Doing my own dishes. Cooking my own food. Shopping for my own groceries. But I don't think I want to.

After this week, I realised that when I grow up, I'm going to have a noisy, happy home. And I'd always joke and play around with my wife and kids. And my kids will never have to come home to an empty home. Not for prolonged periods of time, at least.

My family would never know that bleeding, heavy silence that pervaded my house this week.

So when they got back this afternoon, it was noisy again.

And I was very, very happy.

Happy Anniversary To My Parents!

2008-08-05T12:21:00.002+08:00

My parents are going for an anniversary holiday to some place in Indonesia. They're bringing Aidil along.

Cool thing about it? I have the entire house to myself for the whole week.

Bad thing about it? I have the entire house to myself for the whole week.

Safe journey guys!

Talk Tonight

2008-08-03T21:05:00.003+08:00

So today I listened to you talk about your life and it hit me how wonderfully, beautifully lovely you are.

Don't Fight It If You Don't Know What It Is

2008-08-02T01:48:00.004+08:00

So every night I sit on this ledge that overlooks the entire Bukit Panjang. I take in the lights, the meandering Bukit Panjang Road that would eventually branch off to the BKE or the PIE - one towards Johor, further from the heart of Singapore, and the other towards town.

That road that exits into the PIE would eventually lead to SJI, where I grew up as a happy boy.

From this ledge, I could also see the outskirts of Bukit Panjang, into Petir Road where lived until I was 12.

From this ledge I could see my life.

Sometimes I take with me chocolates.

Sometimes I bring up an ice-cream cone and finish it through my musings.

Sometimes I bring with me music.

Songs I could push myself off with.

And I wouldn't fight it if I don't know what it is.

Bad Typo

2008-07-31T12:54:00.001+08:00

You know what I think is the most embarassing typo to make?

When you wanna go 'Hahahahaha' but instead, you go 'Gagagagagaga'. It's bad enough as a typo, imagine it spoken.

It could either be spoken as 'ga ga ga' which makes you sound like a baby, or it could be spoken as 'gag gag gag gag a' which makes you sound like you're gagging, after which you say, "a."