‘What do you know of Ms. B?You know I have been seeing her for a month now. I think I am getting serious with her. I really like her and all. I want to know what I am getting myself into’
I am sure every one of us has faced with this sort of question. What do you know of a so and so. It is a question you would want to avoid, especially coming from your close friend.
‘Yes, I dated Ms. B best friend, Ms. T. We double dated a lot and she and some bloke really put my rear sit to good use. I still remember her moans and that got Ms. T worked up and I was grateful. I eavesdrop on her conversation with Ms. T about what she did with her bloke. Almost as good and articulate as Ananke’s blogs.But hey, that was like a million years ago when all of us were young (and there was no internet then). Why do you want to know about her past? At our age, all you find are many skeletons. We need a goddamn walk-in wardrobe’
Obviously that was not what I said.
‘Yeah I know of Ms. B from her mate I dated. Her name escapes me now. The past is the past. The stuff you find in your old closet would give Pol Pot a scare. People change. I know you have. Just get to know her and make up your own mind based on your experience. Hey, they are showing the Champions League game on the screen. You are getting the next round. I am jobless remember…’
I am taking a short break tomorrow and will come back on Sunday. Cool fresh air and a change of scenery will do me good. Have a great weekend good people.
I met a blogger today. She is beautiful. She has a face of an angel and a heart of a saint. She reminds me of a song by Isley Brothers, ‘At your best you are love’.
She listened to me rant-talk oh so intently. She does not judge. She brings with her an empty canvas. She paints your picture as she gets to know. Oh what virtue and rarity among KLites.
Last Friday, we cyclists organised a jam session at the bicycle shop. We moved half of the bicycles to make space for a makeshift stage right in the middle of the shop. Drum sets, electric/ acoustic/ bass guitars and stools just like in MTV Unplugged.
The famous bike-&-jam ol'skools, R S Murthy and Rafique Rashid led the jam session. Most of the songs belted out were sing-along songs from the 70s. Cold beer, pot-luck pasta and good music surrounded by bicycles. That was sheer indulgence.
Everyone took turn singing and jamming. A real 'muhibbah' atmosphere. Everyone sang and clapped like school kids at a camp fire. That stopped when tone-deaf roadie came in with his Jefferson Airplane rendition. Hey, not my fault they don't have a mic, equalizer and Babyface song sheet.
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Roadie versus Aliens
I have been battling these formidable opponents for the past 5 days now. I am from the generation that believe in fighting their own battles to the death. I wanted to go to Bangi and ended up in Seremban because I dont believe in asking for directions. To the death. Computer virus is no different. Seek professional help? Just like the Corleone's, we take care of own here.
Okay the situation looks bleak and morale is low. One of the anti-spybot program, my cavalry unit which carry the responsibility of flanking the enemy, was viciously killed by these aliens. Last man standing...
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Roadie Life's Lesson #838 - More dont necessarily mean good.
Leave your 'kiasu' hat at home when buying a PC. There is no need for extra bays and expansion slots for additional hard disk, DVD player, CD Burner, 5.5" floppy disk drive, VHS player, TV receiver card, internal coffee maker et c. because your thick arse only knows Microsoft Word.
The extra bays n slots will only contribute to the size and weight of the CPU. It weights almost a tonne. Sending it for repairs for things like virus attack is a logistical nightmare.
Help. I am under attack by Spybots, Adware, Malware and other vicious virus. I have already lost my Microsoft Office and email programs. These e-terrorists are wearing down my processor. I have enough time to make a cup of tea while it loads the IE browser which is the only program still running but spo okier than Linda Blair in The Exorcist movie. The browser multiplies about 10 times, loading porn and gambling sites. No I do not want to pay US39.99 to see some bestial-in-action.
It takes me forever to get here, I am writing as fast as I possibly can before this window multiplies and I am bombarded by every porn ads you can imagine.
I installed two anti spybots and adware programs but they only managed to delay the endless attacks. What did I do to deserve this slow agonizing demise? Okay so I download a few songs using Kazaa and surf to a couple of porn sites since I installed broadband. Doesnt everyone download free MP3s once in a while? And porn sites, well with 512k of bandwidth, what a guy to do! I did not turn into a hardcore porn surfer, I swear I only visited a couple.
I dont think I have any more hair to pull out. Luckily my Isley Brothers mp3s are keeping me sane. I installed Norton Anti Virus 2004 but I think those motherfuckers fried poor old Messrs Norton when he landed on the hot zone. I just don't know what to do. I am now contemplating moving to a technology free enclave and live with nature like Robinson Crusoe (including a dozen keg of Irish finest).
I will try to reply the comments in the previous post if those e-terrorists show me a little mercy.
Blogs by Dina and Shakeel inspired me to come up with my own version. They both believe in the physical sanctity of books. I don’t think they are sensationalising their love of literature. I love bicycles just as much as I love cycling. If lots of money were to fall from the sky and onto my lap, I would become a collector. That is for sure. Nothing else gives me as much pleasure.
Just like books, bicycles have soul too. It has its unique character and quirks. That you learn from the long hours you spend with her. You intimately share great pain and pleasure. It’s a relationship that sometime runs deeper than a relationship with your girlfriend. She speaks to you; gives you encouragement, gives you that little push up a climb, gets upset and refuse to perform if you don’t ride her. Love her and she will love you back.
To make a car sporty, you install a big capacity engine, state of the art go fast gadgets, and suspension. Unlike cars, bicycles are a simple mechanical machine. Frames are made by wielding the tubes together, you have a set of wheels, a chain, and two derailleurs. There is nothing much you can tinker with except for the material composition, shape, and angle of the tubes. More than a hundred years of evolution, there is nothing much you can improve even in material composition.
That is why great bicycles are truly a work of art. Master frame builders are looked upon as artist. Great bicycles have beautiful souls. I have the privilege to owned great ones in the past. All the bikes I have owned have names. Christine Lee, Zoe, Lady Day, Cinta, Maria. I am left with Maria now. I can ride a 2000 words essay on each of them. They have cost me my retirement savings. But let’s not go there.
When Zoe had a fracture on her down tube, I was gutted. I was inconsolable. I replaced her almost immediately but I lost heart. I didn’t hang out at the bike shop as often. I clocked less and less mileage. I grieved by frequenting the nightclubs which made it impossible to cycle the next day at 7am. Instead of carbo-loading (pasta) on Saturday night, I had Ramly Burger. Image of her lying in the box to be sent to Italy is still vivid in my mind.
No, you can’t borrow my bike. Do you share your woman?
‘Cycling thrives on the spectacle of super human efforts, taxing the body and mind to the limits. The endurance of the grand tours are the pinnacle of this’. Today is Stage 17 of the Vuelta a Espana. The Vuelta is the 3rd grand tour after Le Tour de France and Giro d’Italia. Cycling world in shock, my man Tyler Hamilton failed two drug tests.
Let’s leave the topic of sex & relationship and go back to basic. Let’s talk about things that matters. Real things. Let’s talk about cycling. The GP Racespeda is about two weeks away. I am in my worse physical condition ever. I am fat and I am not clocking even the minimal mileage to be considered a ‘cyclist’. Yes, I am a pariah cyclist. I keep missing training rides because of endless job interviews and meetings with various headhunters (whoring for anything that can give me a paycheck at the end of the month).
Today I reluctantly got on my bike and rode up and down Kiara Hill. I felt every ounce of the weight I’ve put on since the last race. I was sweating so much that even my gloves were soaked. If not for the pretty ladies walking up/down Kiara, I would have stopped and sat under the trees with the monkeys.
Every cyclist has been indoctrinated with this motto, “Thou shall not get off and walk”. You spend eternity in hell if you do that.
Usually I’d be pretty depressed right now. But I feel like my old self again. I climbed like I was carrying the spirits and ghosts of Kiara on my rear wheel; panting louder than the Golden Retriever I’ve just passed; heart rate showing a reading of 180bps and heading towards cardiac arrest; I actually enjoyed this minor suffering.
I am reminded of the old Grand Boucle Beroga that I tackled last year. The Old Lady demands much respect and have reduced many strong and able cycling warriors into little cry babies. Sleep late, eat meat, knockdown a couple of pints, have sex the day before and you pay tenfold to the Old Lady.
Body beautiful smug tri-athletes are brought to Beroga to humble them. They break for sure in the 3rd climb. You spinning classes ain’t gonna help you there.We usually hit the 3rd and final climb at 1pm. The sun is right on top of you. You can cook an egg on your helmet I kid you not.
I have always enjoyed the physical and mental suffering of this sport. The endorphin inducing high is better than alcohol. But I lost the liking for all that for the last 6 months. But today I kinda found it again. I am taking Maria out at 7 tmr morning. Maybe, just maybe… Theroadie (& his old Spanish bird) is making a comeback …
Comment of the week: Insecure people are annoying. But the worse are the sort that hides their lack of self-confidence under a veneer of arrogance - spg
Thank you for trying to match-make Dina Zaman and me. Really *cough* sweet *cough* of you people. The vibes felt by the mysterious Quito is really that of two good friends. Like good friends, we talk and lend support to each other. I value her friendship. I really do. Good friends are hard to come by.
What I can say for myself is that I can be a good friend to man or woman. But I truly suck at being a lover. I become selfish, self-centred and I take things for granted. I forget birthdays, I forget to call, fine dining & chocolates is a rarity, no visits to the shopping mall, and everything is prelude to sex. I fit the profile of an all round bastard.
Do not temp me with this idea because she is an attractive woman. Oh bugger it. I’ll regale her with my cycling heroics of yesteryears and make a move on her when she’s tipsy. Ah but she doesn’t drink. Hmm, I wonder how they do it in the East Coast. Hah! Just kidding. Sorry DZ.
Quote of the day: Sex is not the problem, the problem is how it's acquired, and what is expected from it. As long as it's mutual, and you dont lie to get laid (if you did, go to hell. You give sex a bad name) I cannot possibly see a problem; and the world should be a happier place. It fullfills the basic human needs of inclusion and physical desire - one of my favourite blogger, spg
I put on my Sourbob cap and wrote this entry. The old boy is back blogging. I love the guy’s dark humour.
An old friend asked me to accompany her to a wedding. I loathe wedding with a passion. When she said ‘I need a big favour’, I just knew. For her I’d even say yes to the dreaded direct selling high tea. But a Malay wedding? Oh no! I can think of hundred better things to do on a Friday or Saturday night.
You end up buying either a rice cooker, toaster or punch bowl, whatever is available down the road, to the newly weds you hardly know. When you get to the wedding venue (usually in a hotel right in the middle of the city which means you need to brave through the Friday evening traffic chaos) you hope you get to sit next to a kebaya-clad young lady. Of course that never happen, you always find yourself next to a 200-year old couple.
The bride and groom would be fashionably late, usually an hour. You embarrass your date and yourself when your stomach makes loud grumbling sound. When that stops, gastritis kicks in. When cold food is finally served you find yourself battling the geriatric next to you for the last piece of drumstick. You’ll lose for sure because the old boy is way battle hardened as he has clock more weddings than you.
Halfway through the wedding, half the crowd leaves the ballroom for a smoke like they have a 40-a-day habit. When you realised why they left its already too late. The father of the bride/groom goes up the stage and deliver a loooong speech. He’ll crack an intro joke only his immediate family understand and then proceed with going through the complete discography of the bride and groom. Their education background is a must. ‘My son-in-law read law in the University of Some-Obscure-Town-in-Ches hire…..’. Yeah but of course. His lazy arse is too dumb to get into the local Universities. I know because I am one of them.
When its finally over and you think you are home free, your date insist you join her newly smugmarried friends at Starbucks. You sit there sipping your ice blended whatever thinking of le tall cold one.
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Being a muhibbah person, I have to be fair and comment about Chinese wedding as well. I’ll make it brief. Firstly, kiss goodbye to your hard earned RM200. You think you can get away with a RM50 ‘ang pow’, think again. They will know. On the fly infra red reader or CCTV, I don’t know but they just know.
Once you get over parting with your weekly grocery money, the whole affair is not bad at all. You get free flow of beer and/or wine. Being a true Malaysian, you make sure you and your partner drink RM200 worth of booze before the food arrives. Your inebriated partner then stops you eating the sweet & sour chicken because it may not be halal. Eerrr…okay…..
Drinking with an empty stomach, you (along with your partner) will then get completely plastered when the bride and groom make their rounds to your table to ‘yam seng’ with cognac. Of course you have to down the real cognac while bride & groom drink Chinese tea disguised in cognac bottle.
You and your partner will then steal the limelight away from the unfortunate bride & groom on the dance floor by kissing and groping each other, at the same time, traumatizing the little children present. Cest la vie.
Quote of the day: Younger guys seem to date to get laid, the old guys do not. They’ve simply had too much sex for it to be a big deal, and that’s the way it should be - spg
I want to nominate this week as Le Divorce Week. Within a week, two of my friends have announced to me that their respective marriages have gone to shits. This has triggered bouts of ‘kahwinphobia’ and ‘smugmarriednitis’ among my friends. The single friends declared (in the absence of their partners) that they will not get hitched and will use the wedding money saved to splurge on a state-of-the-art home theatre instead. The married ones smugly expressed their undying love for one another and give others the it-will-never-happen-to-m e expression.
They all asked me the same question, ‘how does it feel to be out and about again’. Well, it is not the end of the world. Far from it. It’s pretty good actually.
Okay you can’t avoid little society prejudices: the look of dismay from people processing your application form (I don’t know why our marital status is relevant to credit card, club membership, passport visa right down to job application); they think you are either highly promiscuous or gay for the stronger sex; potential dates sudden change of interest upon knowing your marital status etc.
Excuse my bluntness but single-again sex is liberating. Sex never felt so good. It’s like PJ Hilton buffet spread during Ramadhan. No more weekend dinners at the out-laws (in-laws when married), you can dine at Finnie’s and watch cricket like you always wanted to. No more gastric inducing, boring, pretentious and endless Malay wedding.
So diary, its time I introduce my friends to Dr. Pathmanabalan, a numerologist and astologist, i.e., le fortune teller. He knows what to do. For a small fee of course.
Comment of the week: You are as dumb as a bucket of nails and your post are as boring as a Prairie Home Companion marathon. I am leaving now. Bye. - The blogger then announced she's quitting her blog in her follow up post.
Quote of the week: I’m never concerned with morality, but I’m always obsessed with compassion – SPG
Two blogs in a day! The things I do to satisfy FireAngel. Sigh.
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I spent my Saturday afternoon winding up other cyclists only to miss the Sunday morning 120 km ride to Kuala Selangor and back. I have not been cycling for the past month and I am getting fairer and fairer. FYI, pedalling round the house is not cycling.
My team training will start tomorrow and hopefully I will get some much needed tan. Socialising with fellow cyclists is a big no-no without a 'cyclist tan'. Nobody will take you seriously and you will be treated like an outcast. They will call you names like 'fairy', 'poser' and 'MJ' (Michael Jackson).
Joe, our trainer, will have a good time with my unfit, fat arse. He goes around on his motorbike, screaming obscenities at us. When it is over we then we give him money.
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Celebrated a friend's 30th birthday on Saturday night. Everyone came with their partners except me. There were about 9 of us. The smug-marrieds and smug-couples sat facing each other at the long table. I should have brought a date I thought. I was the odd one and sat right at the end of the table. Regret then turned to relief when the bill arrived. A whooping RM2,000. For a three star restaurant, that is quite shocking.
The government announced the 2005 Budget the day before, 20% increase in tax for cigarette and alcohol. I didnt expect it to hit dining that much, I can see road stall dining from now on. Hmm.. then again with these lot, probably not. After all of us emptied our wallets, we adjourned to Zouk (its a Singaporean discotheque in KL).
I'll download from the net the whole schematic design of whiskey moonshine operation. In Australia you can buy a kit and make your own beer. I suspect they do to save cost but because they can manipulate the alcohol content. Damn alchie-sheepshaggers. I'm soOo going there.....(mimicking a friend's Sex & The City slang)
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I was expecting a young-ish crowd @ Zouk but most of them were in their 30s. Bingo night without the bingo! No, I actually quite like the mature crowd as I am no spring chicken myself. Socialising in there was like trying to manouver through a field full of landmines. You can be doing small talk with a girl and next thing you know you get hit by a flying Ferragamo shoe courtesy of the girl's husband. (Leave the clubbing to us single people. if u must come, wear a yellow armband i.e., Livestrong or something. damn)
I then found myself next to the only single 30 something. Cyclists are sleek like that. After the usual introduction, she started talking about her kids. What actually suprise me is how genuinely interested I was listening to her story of her little ones. What is funny is that I probably would not find it interesting if there's other single women around me. I guess some people just adapt well to what's available.
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I did not drive that night. Drink and drive is a serious offence. I don't know how long I'd last in the prison cell. I can get my best friends to beat me up in the face like in the movie 25th Hour. Unlike Edward Norton, my friends would be more than happy to beat the shit out of me. *this is for the pints you owe me* BIFF* and for eyeing my girlfriends* BIFF* and my CDs you made your own* BIFF*
I multitasked by texting a numbe r I got from friendster while listening to Miss Single Mom. I jokingly asked Miss Friendster for supper at 5am. To my surprise, she agreed. She even offered to go all the way to Zouk and pick me up. I must admit that for a fleeting moment I thought i was Yusof Haslam in his prime.
It kinda hit me while walking towards her car. Oh my god. The Friendster picture I posted must be at least 4 years old. She'll get disappointed and drop me off in the middle of 'Federal' highway I thought. As I got closer to her car I saw a second person. Another woman. Together, they are able to beat me up before dropping me off in the middle of nowhere I thought. I honestly contemplated to stop and pretend to tie my shoelace and crawl behind the other parked cars. I had to scrap that idea when she waved at me.
Right now I can't remember for the life of me whether she found me revolting. Or if I my drunken babble made any sense to them. I can recall vaguely talking about scuba diving and fishes. What can i possibly say about things that does not interest me. She dropped me home after supper, so that is a positive sign. I guess.
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I am no more the league leader in our (Yahoo) EPL Fantasy Football. I am now 3rd in a league of 32. I have less bragging rights. This sucks. I should have picked Frank Lampard in my team goddamnit. It is an addictive strategy game I must say. Our league also consist of a separate knockout Cup competition. The league has a pool money of RM6,400. My name is on the knockout Cup being the previous champion. Hehe. It is played among friends and the wind-ups are unbelievably wicked. The wives and girlfriends dread the football season. Instead of wanting to see your team play, you want to watch ALL the matches.
This forwarded email could have been written by me
This was sent to me by Hafiz, a friend of mine who used to work in Leo Burnett KL, he is now directing commercials in jakarta ... he sent it to me through friendster. i am forwarding it to you because it touched me ...
Message: I just dont know how to express what just happened in Jakarta today.
I was on my way to work earlier, about 1 km away, i saw a big cloud of smoke up in the air. I asked the driver what had happened. He said...an occasional fire.
What was odd was that this cloud of smoke was white. It had to be something else. People started coming out of the offices. The roads were suddenly packed. Everyone looking towards that direction. The driver in the car turned the radio station to the local news. There it was, an announcement. "If anyone had seen anything related to the bombing in Kuningan, please inform the local police or authorities". The biggest jam in Jakarta then began! I swear, it was an experience.
This is the "best part" lah joe. I had a final pre-production meeting at Matari Advertising. It's in Kuningan, 2 roads away from the epicentre of the blast. The blast happened at 10.30am. My meeting was at 1.00pm. When i got there, my eyes just opened. The sight of ambulances and people rushing to save the injured was too much for me to digest. Every window within a 500m radius had been smashed, including the agency's building. The epicentre had been smashed completely. Whoever was there must had blown to bits and pieces. If it makes things any lighter...FCB Jakarta...No more!
When I arrived at the office in Gudang Peluru at 10.40am, no one had heard about it yet. What i had seen was just 2 mins after it had happend. We tuned in to the local TV station and there it was. The site of the blast. People in the office were all glued to the screen. You know how we neglect such occurances in M'sia, "Yeah, another bomb,here and there...". Wait till you're actually near one will you ever realise the magnitude of how a bomb can shake and stir up your day.. Every time you are in car driving around Jakarta town, the buildings are so close by. The city is so densed with MNC's and heaps of buildings, embassies, that you just dont know which one is going to blow up next to you.
How we see things is so different than those effected by such incidents. I saw a production assistant here in the office break down in tears because she couldn't help the fact that another bombing had happened. What more, she's from bali. " 3 times lucky..." she said jokingly. Next thing you knew, she couldnt hold back her tears.
I was watching the nightline news and they had the coverage of the victims families who had to go to mortuary to identify the bodies of those who died. My god, they were screaming their lungs out at the door. The police had called out the names of the deceased as a protocol to claim the victims. The moment they acknowledged, they were sent in. The screaming became so loud when the door closed. The TV station had to go in to a commercial break. They had to play bank commercial with a young girl playing the drums and hugged her mother after he so called performance. The victim was a 4 year old girl and her 30 year old mother who's head was decapitated. The grand mother and the father of the kid were the ones who had to identify them.
What was even more disturbing was the sight of an injured "Polda" security guard. He had been brought to the hospital doors on a stretcher. The camera was on him. He uttered a few words to the doctor who asked him whether he was able to respond to the medical attendants. Next thing you know, his wife had come close to him and held his hand. He uttered a few more words. He died seconds after he said what he had to say to his wife. A vail was placed over him. TVstation fades out again. All this live on national TV.
It's been 10 hours since the bombing. Everyone here is still in a state of shock. The date today is the 9th of September 2004. The Day after tommorow some people will be having vigils for the victims of 9/11. Everyone here is trying to keep their hopes high that things will be better. The insecurity, sad to say, is there.
I had a 4-hour phone conversation with a friend last night. I went to bed at 3 am. This is one of the benefits of being unemployed I suppose. Usually I am one of those practical phone users, I go straight to the point. I guess unemployment does strange things to people.
After I bored her with my cycling tales and she depressed me with her tragic love life, we found ourselves talking about our student lives in England. I had a typical one. Permanently broke, hungry and drunk. She is what we called The Bourgeoisie Students. They live a much better life than a middle income Londoner. Also known as Mat/Minah Zone 1, for the discerning.
Zone 1 covers the area of central London underground train service. You need mucho Pound Sterling to live in Zone 1. A room cost minimum 1000 quid a month. My monthly allowance was 291 quid, I probably can only afford a bedside lamp in Zone 1. During our time circa early 90s, Malaysia was on a financial high. The Malays were getting rich through privatisation and the Chinese from the stock market. There were many Malaysians in Zone 1 back then hence the moniker.
Life of a Minah Zone 1 was very good. Their free time consist of shopping and chatting in European style cafes. They love the theatre and concerts. They go dancing at french named discotheques even the locals have not heard of. You can easily spot them at Whiteley's on Saturday afternoons. There are other Malaysians there but you can tell them apart as the Zone 1ers does not carry a jacket even in the winter. They drive VWs, Mercs and Beemers; Whiteley's offer them ample parking space.
My Zone 1 friend complained to me that she often get stares from the other less fortunate Malaysians. 'They stared and looked at me as if I did something wrong. I kinda loathe them for making me feel uncomfortable'
'I am glad that we are having this conversation. You got them all wrong. They dont despise you.Most of them eat wild berries, ketchup with rice to save money so that they can do your weekly shopping at FCUK, Gap, Benetton etc. every quarterly. They aspire to be you. You should be proud'
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And every Eid Mubarrak they'd have an open house. They would cook beef & chicken rendang and invite the poorer students from other zones and from Bristol, Leicester, Birmingham etc. for the feast. The Zone 1ners would feel all good and altruistic. They would then tell their parents of their good deed. Their poorer guests would happily come thinking they are somehow part of the 'in' crowd and brag to the ones not invited. And so complete a utopian existence.
I would find myself going to one if I am not being abuse as an underpaid illegal worker in the local video shop. The Zone 1ners are bloody good cook. Anything taste better than those nasty frozen skin-&-bones-only-chi cken-wings-from-Asda. A whole sack cost 1.49, pound for pound it is cheaper than rice even. Although wings have moved up the ladder and now serve as tapas and dim sum, I shudder whenever I see it now. Again, I am digressing here.
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I told her I am no socialist or communist and therefore didn't loathe her kind. I was not envious either. I was too much of a carefree spirit and hippy-like existence to be able to fit in their prim & proper, haughty-toighty lifestyle.
Presently, some of these Zone 1ners I know lead a normal lifestyle. There is no more RM10,000 a week income from the stock market, and some has lost a considerable amount in the 1997 economic crisis. They are not poor or anything, far from it, but the economic gap between them and me are not as big.
I can't help but to feel that they missed out on the wonderful student life experience. I am not sure they got to experience the real London. London is a lot more than Piccadilly Circus, West End, Oxford St, Brompton Rd and Hyde Park. They missed out watching footie in a local pub coz they have Sky TV or they go to sit at the stadium grandstand. I dont know if my friend had any English friends or been to their parties or to their middle class homes.
One the most attractive aspect of a student life is in its social simplicity. Everyone wants to have a good time. There is not much to conform. Nobody cared what you have or what you wear. Social rewards are dependent on your wits, charm, humour and personality.
Disclaimer: there is no point to this blog or any other blogs in the past. It’s just a diary of a self-absorbing twit. My catharsis tool???!!!
The powers-that-be has pulled the plug on the Jakarta posting as there were too many complications. They have opted for a local instead. That left me high and dry. I have been compensated somewhat but its not much as it was all done within our contract i.e., compensation given based on good will. Smart bastards. I guess if you live by the sword, you can't bitch if you die by it!!!!!
So now I find myself looking for a job. I have sold my car in August and had to absorb losses in the sale (money owed more than value of the car). Since I'll be here I need to look for a car. To be on the safe side, I better get my arse employed first before I get myself Proton's finest.
A little side story
I reached my career peak winning regional awards and all couple of years ago and am still clinging on to past glory like a has-been child actor like I dunno, Punky Brewster or something. I met an old client the other day and he kept referring me as the "old blue eyed boy" of so-and-so (my ex-boss). He kept saying things in past tense. It made me feel like a retired 55 year old who is on his way to a retirement home in Nilai.
I now have to unpack things like my office clothes and books. Well it all seems depressing and I should be feeling rotten and anxious. Funnily, I am not. I feel relief and a little excited. I heard rumours my De Rosa bicicletta will be arriving to our shores soon. I have waited 6 months (and counting) for it. It is a special bike. De Rosa is a small family firm located in a suburb of Milan. It is rich with pedigree and history. The best cyclist ever Eddie Merckx or also known as God rode it to his famous victories. There are other famous italian bikes with pedigree and history too like Colnago and Pinarello but what makes De Rosa special than the rest is its reputation as a small size outfit producing low volumes of bikes and their product are referred to as "hand made by italian artisans". If it’s a car, it’s probably a Maserati.
Scusi, I have digressed quite a bit here. I guess I am excited to able to ride again. I have a long way to go to get back into shape but I am just a happy puppy to ride again which I am not able to do in Jakarta. Last night a friend asked me if I should start dating again as I am an insecure little tosser who is incapable to be alone. I don't know. In this town, people dont look too kindly on a 31ish years old unemployed man without wheels.
One thing for sure, riding a De Rosa is way better than driving an Alfa Romeo and/or so-so fornicating.
My failed abstinence to blogging is a further proof that I am so full of myself. Let’s not go there. I am here to blog about a movie. Eternal Sunshine of the spotless mind is the best movie I have seen for a long time. I am not a big fan of movies, I rather watch the repeat of the Tour de France but…
This one just blew me away. If you are going through a breakup, don’t watch this film. If you have lost a bit of faith in relationship, I recommend you do. Somehow I can just relate to this movie. The storyline is about attempts to erase someone from your mind. Although in real life it is not scientifically possible but we all do try to suppress someone from our memory sometimes.
The movie is evocative because Kate Winslet character is similar to NR. I fell in love with NR when I was 20 years old. At that age I didn’t understand a lot of the intricate feelings and emotions. I didn’t comprehend them and therefore couldn’t fully appreciate the experience. I was devastated when the relationship ended and repress a lot of the good memories I had with her. Here I am sitting here and I am not really able to remember the good times. Maybe years of alcohol consumption have stiffled my long term memory. I can’t recall the places we went and things we did. But I do kinda remember how special and good I felt being with her.
The movie caption, “You can erase someone from your mind. Getting them out of your heart is another story”, kinda proves the point. Now I wonder what become of NR. She’s probably working in a pub somewhere in Berlin. Probably overweight. She has quite a liking for german pastries back then. Probably has a kid or two. She was not a big fan of the rubber. I think its better I stick to remembering her as that 18 year old with curly blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.
Quote of the movie:- “drink up young man it will make the whole seduction part less repugnant”
The song they picked for this movie is equally brilliant. Compliments the movie really well.
Staying away from blogging is tougher than I thought. Now why this strong urge to write about my independence day misadventure, my more than platonic encounter with CP or the unexpected end to my Jakarta endeavour. Am I afer immediate gratification? Aaah.. who cares.
P/s thank you very much for your comments in the previous blogs.
Email me: pinkroadie@hotmail.com Theroadie is a 32 year old single again (and again) from Kuala Lumpur. He does not care anymore if there is no meaningful relationship in the horizon. He just wants to lose his beer gut and regain his old form and dance up the Momma Hor's Categorie that is Genting. The ole devil called Happy Hour proves to be a worthy adversary.
Theroadie is a 32 year old single again (and again) from Kuala Lumpur. He does not care anymore if there is no meaningful relationship in the horizon. He just wants to lose his beer gut and regain his old form and dance up the Momma Hor's Categorie that is Genting. The ole devil called Happy Hour proves to be a worthy adversary.