Sometimes I wonder if it’s so hard to spread universal joy and peace.  But it is, isn’t it?  Especially when you dig a little deeper and wonder about why it’s so hard for everyone to be content with being…content.

That’s the way the world works, I suppose — everyone’s selfish, even that holy fellow by the altar there.  There’s got to be some sort of a nth degree of imperfection, no?

A few days back, I was listening to Lennon on the car stereo and it hit me — spreading universal love and joy isn’t really that hard to do.  It just takes a lot of willing members to create a movement that basically will overpower all the cynical people in the world.  However, it hit me even harder when I realized that I was one of those morose, cynical souls.

Shame on me.

What spurs you on to be a better person?  There’s got to be some sort of a drive, a force, that leads you upon that path.

It’s not that hard to be nice.

I guess it’s being consistently nice that’s tricky.

I don’t like being obsessed with money; I don’t like mulling over details.  Sometimes, I don’t see the importance of money.  But one problem I used to have was the fact that I believed that I could live my life without having to be obsessed with it, or to mull over it like a hawk.  And it saddens me that after all this time, I’ve been wrong about that.

I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth; most people tend to associate my diplomat brat status with a life of glamour and high fashion, and that I’m some sort of Richie Rich who’s been hiding in rags.  I’m not.  I drive a 16 year old Proton Iswara, and although my address is regarded by some as swanky, I assure you, my house pales in comparison to most of what my friends live in.  There is no lavishness to my life.

Even my toilet’s falling apart.

I just find that money’s touchy.  I don’t expect anything to be for free — I just wish that we wouldn’t be so worked out over it.  It just seems so Chinese.  Aside from the prerequisite saving of money for our childrens’ education and our own retirement, what do we really need dosh for?  Half of me is tempted to say that we only need it to maintain our face value.  That laying a claim to a particular income bracket makes us look good and feel better.  And it might, certainly…my only hobnob with it is this: what good does it do?

Granted, everyone’s bound to disagree with me on this.  And it’s a foregone conclusion that our lives are based around our abilities to raise money to throw at our problems in order for our problems to go away.  Money fixes everything.  Money is everything.

I just wish that it wasn’t so.  I’m not a zen-loving hippie.  I just wish that we could disconnect ourselves a bit more from the eschewing problem that is the Moolah.  Disenfranchise ourselves from the establishment that wants to drive home the point that without money, you’re nothing.  You’re not.  We’re not.  I’m not.  [But maybe I'm just a little bit more with money, that's all.]

Maybe it’s the fear of being unable to secure a future via money that I hate.  Maybe we’re too obsessed with the money that comes with success that we don’t recognize how it threatens to tear us away from what we really are, or what we really want to be.  Maybe I’m worried about how money is slowly, day by day, inching to becoming the focus of my existence.

It sure is nice having money.

But I’d much rather have you.

It’s a little over 4 in the morning on a Tuesday; not exactly the best way to start the second day of the week.

I’ve got the sudden compulsion to go out and hunt down a turkey, even though I’ve never really taken a keen interest in game hunting.  Maybe it’s due to the allure of staying up way past the witching hour, although I’m not really sure precisely when the witching hour is.

I’m slowly swaying towards the idea that some form of stability is needed in my life — the Peter Pan act is getting old.  Though to be fair, a friend of mine commented earlier that I was starting to build up in no uncertain terms…and I don’t mean sideways.  I’ve retained my boyish exuberance and combined it with a form of maturity that lets me be the complete ass that I always wanted to be, as well as a respectable, though slightly off-kilter, boy-man.

I haven’t really heard any opinions or comments about the magazine.  I hope my writing’s not that shitty.

Anyway, stability.  I think I’m in a position where I’m once again able to appreciate stability in my life.  I’m not saying that my rampant toy-buying days are over; it’s just that I need to add a spoonful of sugar with the medicine.

I admire people who have the ability to keep it together — not a lot of us can.

Then again, I believe in chaos…though these days, it’s more of a measured form of chaos.

I don’t take a lot of risks.  I don’t like the idea of losing more than I’ve put in.

Don’t blame me.  It’s my inner Chink.

As far as cryptic statements go, something happened tonight that made me sit up and take notice that I still can shaken up every once in a while.  Brevity is everything; the deeper it cuts, the more you stand to lose.

I’d really love a cheeseburger right now.  It takes less effort to procure than a fucking turkey.

I need another major readjustment.

I’m a little over 2 weeks away from surviving a quarter life crisis, but to be honest with you, although my doubts have been waylaid to some strange cavern at the back of my head, I still feel as if there’s a lot of work left to do.  Life is a work in progress — there’s no running away from trying to fix it.  And of course, there’s always the issue of having to fix ourselves in the process.

I don’t think I’m a nice person.  I genuinely think that my sole purpose for living is to be a secondhand scoundrel.  I’ll never be able to take the mantle of Reggie Mantle, but I’ll always be his understudy.  This isn’t some cliched form of self-loathing; I honestly believe that I can only cause problems for those who enter into my bubble of a world.  And quite a lot of people have come in.

Of course, this could be me talking after only having four hours of sleep last night.  It depends, really.

There were a few separate, unrelated occasions these last few days where I was labelled as ‘nice’.  I despise ‘nice’.  It’s as bland as spam (although I kind of like spam).  It’s vanilla (though I really do quite fancy the flavour).  At the end of the day, all I am to people is this white-bread, comic-guzzling potential pothead who loves everyone.

Though there’s nothing wrong with that, I suppose.

It’s just that I have to try to break some preconceived notions, and I have no idea where to start.  Or if it’s even possible.

I still don’t know who I am yet.  It’s not set in stone.

I’m too much of a mix for my own good.

I don’t know where I’m going.

Oh, well.

I never really understood how holidays could recharge someone.  I still don’t.  The amount of planning that goes into creating the perfect getaway seems to outweigh the amount of fun you could possibly hope to have.

Mind you, the last proper vacation I had was back in October, and involved travelling 8 hours south with a diamond ring in an attempt to get a girl back into my life.  It was an arduous, uphill battle, for all the obvious reasons.

And no, I didn’t get the girl back.  But it wouldn’t have made a difference to me.  I was (more or less) alone, and for a long time, it felt that I was in control of things.  That one spark of feeling like you’re on top of a situation (I like being on top) can help you go a long way.

I didn’t take the ring back.  It wasn’t something that I really wanted to live with.

Holidays are stellar.  Work holidays are even better.  The three days I spent in Miri were sublime; even though Miri doesn’t exactly have beaches, it had a lot going for it — like seafood, red stormy skies and friendly, accomodating people.

It sounds strange, but I’ve found more faith in places like Temerloh and Miri than I would at home.  Maybe it’s a slightly snobby view that God is needed in faraway places more than our urban sprawls, but the heart for God is probably a lot more pure over there than it is here.  And I think I’ve seen more of God this last month more than I have in the last couple of years since leaving the fold.

It’s not like it makes me want to go back to church; I still have my Jesus issues to contend with.  Which will probably never be properly dealt with.  Maybe in due time.

But yes.  Holidays don’t really recharge people; but they serve as mighty distractions.  If only for a minute.

Thank you for coming, those of you who did. And accept my apologies. (I sense a drama queen moment breaking through.)

I’d much rather sing than play guitar. Performing live is fine as long as I’ve got someone backing me up…therefore I won’t have to worry about getting the chords right. Nay, I lack the dexterity to properly pull off a C#m sus 7 B7 C7 Asus Asus7 C#m simultaneous wank without choking finger-wise. Although I do attribute it to a lack of practice (and a high aptitude for ruining things by default), I strongly believe that I’m an adequately capable vocalist…once you take the guitar away from me. I’d much rather record six-part harmonies and let somebody else worry about the musicianship while I just idly sing away, engage in banter and enact peculiar noises on stage.

Everybody’s happy in the end. And the fat Chink frontman has his moments in the much-needed spotlight.

Regardless of it all, it was a great lesson to learn. And good fun. Plus, I’ve figured out what the stronger songs are, thanks to some constructive input; and I can safely say that I can make a living out of covering Britney.

This will not be the end of me. Nay!

Here’s a list of immediate pipe dreams:

1. Start a podcast where all I do is bitch about things.
2. Start a novelty music act.
3. Do a 180 and only record music.
4. Try to start a band full of competent musicians where all I have to do is sing and play the tambourine.
5. Try to start a band full of inept musicians where all I have to do is sing and play the tambourine and be singled out as the special one.
6. Add an additional sixth chord to any future songs to create the illusion of depth.
7. Solely record vocals and bribe a particular someone to add the finishing touches (I’m looking at you, you Tagalog Tiger).

Anyway, thank you for coming. You know who you are. It must’ve been the strangest, most painful RM 12 you’d ever spent, but it meant a lot. Especially since you came early.

Punctuality is still alive in our tardy Malaysiana.

Oh well.

I am still the loveable attention whore you knew me as. And now, it seems that I’ve been given a mission by the gods. Zounds!

It was fun sitting on a stool. Now, please excuse me; I’ve got a date with Armitage Shanks to make one.

It’s understood that there isn’t any equality in this country amongst the races, and that the underlying foundations of the Social Contract in the Constitution stated that affirmative action would be taken to allow the Bumiputeras to advance themselves at a level that was found to be on par with the other two dominating races. It was also understood, and accepted, that this would also be a permanent arrangement of sorts in order to grant citizenship rights to the two main factions that had somehow found their way into the country: the Chinese and the Indians. It was also stated that Islam would be the official religion of the nation, but that the country would not be an Islamic state. This was drafted out, agreed upon and accepted for the better part of the last four decades.

When you compare the Malaysia of today to the Malaysia of yore, things are (obviously) better today. Critique it as you will, but widespread education is provided for the children. The Klang Valley’s development has branched out into its surrounding satellite cities, and in turn, development has taken a regional stance; the Government has taken measures to ensure that development is spread out throughout the regions, and eventually positive changes will also be heralded in East Malaysia. The fact that we’re blessed with relative safety and security and a lack of rampant extremism (when compared to the world around us) should already make us realize that things aren’t too shabby.

But it’s in the intricacies of the execution in which we see the cracks. The dubious allocation of funds in general. The Government’s adversity to investigating problems proactively as opposed to offering solutions only when the issues arise. An incredibly opaque (I’d dare to call it solidly blocked) view on transparency, a factor that this current administration ran on without exhaustion in the beginning.

To an extent, all these problems pale in comparison to the fact that we’re all racial bigots in this country. All of us. I heartily believe that we’re all headed toward a general direction of tolerance, as opposed to a state of understanding. And there’s a genuine world of difference between the two. We can be showered with propaganda, telling us that it’s alright, but it’s not. And we know it. There’s a climate of fear, paranoia and distrust; it’s never been more evident than during these last few years.

We’re also guilty of being nonchalant to the troubles around us. Ignorance does bring bliss. To an extent. But to pilfer from the Manics, if you tolerate this, then your children will be next.

I just wish that we could all pry ourselves from all the arguments over who has the true rights to live on this land and transcend that line of thought to pull ourselves together and make a better
future for everyone.

Am I a patriot for saying that we’re all fucked if we continue in this direction? Yes. I’m as much as a patriot as every one of you to your respective nations.

It’s just so strange; the values and ideals that founded this country in the very beginning have been bastardized and muddled during the last 50 years. The next 50 will probably be just as chaotic and confusing…only that there’d be more of the sour than the sweet.

Bangsa Malaysia. T’was a great idea. Where the fuck did it go?

I don’t like this aging business. I don’t want to be like a fine wine. My youth isn’t wasted enough for me to complain about the concept of it being wasted on the young. I just want to lay in my bed, with one pillow between my thighs and one under my head, idly dreaming about the nonsense that people dream about.

I don’t care about the commitments I have to keep, the responsibilities I have to assume, the bricks I have to lay or the lies I have to tell. All I want is to find a clear valley with emerald grass that isn’t too long, sunflowers growing all over it, with an azure sky overhead, puffy white clouds overcast and a golden sun suspended in stillness. I would then dig a hole and take a crap over some poor hare’s subterranean lodging.

The last two weeks have been fabulous. The last month before that was extraordinary. The previous 23 years were excelsior.

As I scratch my way through an itchy scalp, without any sleep other than a light nap in the afternoon and without any sustenance other than a cup of very thin coffee, thinking of the words that can articulate the way I feel right now, I’ve come to the conclusion that I shouldn’t really bother. Because I don’t know what I’m feeling, and because I can’t be arsed to find out why I can’t put my knobby fingers on it.

The aforementioned knobby fingers could very well have picked up a pulse aeons ago. But there wasn’t a pulse; however, despite the lack of a proof of life, the fingers kept searching until time stood still and Rasputin took out his thwang and whipped me with a great fury from on high.

And with that, I found myself back where I’d started. Staring down at my feet, with my hands rolled into balls of fists, ready to take on the day. And that’s where I’m going to stand. Because I was given a pair of feet from a higher power that saw it fit to endow me with such a gift. And with this gift, I shall run.

Or at least stumble on to the next day.

There’s no fruit more forbidden than the fruit at your feet.

And with that, all you’ll be left with is:

Because there’s nothing more divine-like than being alone and sucking it in.