If you weren’t there that night, you wouldn’t have felt as bad about the polar bears as I did. Ignore my rambling; it’s the only safety mechanism I have against nerves.

Egads.

Everything went wrong until 3:08.

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.

Yes. Join in the fun. It’ll be a blast, I swear. And at the very least, there’s a very good chance that the four other acts will elevate the viewing experience.

The harder I try to extract myself from the monotony that life has become, the deeper I get into it.

I’m in desperate need of some stimulation. Motivation. A good reason to shake my money maker.

I’ve uploaded two new songs…both lack the Vienna Boys Choir and that operatic vibe that I love. Not that I love the Boys Choir. I really don’t.

Anyway, suffice to say, I might have to change the titles because most people associate them with other songs. And I’ve never felt so much pleasure from having a repetitive one-line chorus before.

Bring on the dancing girls!

(It’s going to be hard to please the hip, youth-grasping bistro-going crowd.)

Needed: a guitar guru who’s able to make a miracle worker out of me by September 25th. It’s preferable if the aforementioned guru is willing to back me up and save me the trouble of playing the guitar myself. Payment will be made in beer, or pornography; whichever option’s the most suitable. It’d also be wonderful if the guru could sing harmonies. And play a wide range of obscure 60s torch songs that could be credited to me. Oh, it’d also help if the guru could play the bass as well. Or knew a willing, kind soul who plays the bass. Just in case.

Needed: a totally untested bedroom DJ who’s willing to spin beats for me on the same night. It’d help if he believes that he’s the second coming of Geoff Barrow, Robert Del Naja and Grant Marshall combined. Payment will be made in weed, or pornography; I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. It’d also be wonderful if the aforementioned DJ could also play the congas, bongos (for stage versatility) or has a shaker.

Needed: a mad hatter who can make a nice fedora for me. Payment will be made in Brand’s Essence of Chicken, or pornography. Mayhaps the headgear can distract everybody from the fact that I have ladylike fingers.

Needed: an estrogen brigade comprising of friends, school mates, college buddies and random readers of this blog. This is an appeal to your hearts. Payment will be made through your entertainment and amusement, at my expense.

Friday, 28th of September at JamAsia (I was looking at the wrong calendar the first time round). Please don’t cross me off, Mr. Delphie. It should be an interesting 15 minutes, to say the least.

I’m praying to be hit by the Lord’s stick for inspiration. Or some initiative.

(Seriously, does anybody know any overzealous bedroom DJs?)

My father’s back. He’s twisted his right hand, and he did so two weeks ago, from this thumb to around that immediate area; apparently he was pressing down on it when it happened, ala push ups. Which got me thinking. And it should also get you thinking.

It’s not disgusting if you consider the fact that your father could be having the same problem; it’s just that he’s not as willing as mine. My father has probably been inspired to a new performance peak, since his wallaby was stuffed in the marsupial’s pouch for so long.

*On a different note, FileDen’s giving me problems, so I’ll most likely upload the stuff tomorrow, if anyone was eagerly anticipating another grand unveiling. Though I have to say that these two new songs aren’t really as memorable as I’d like them to be. More exposition on them tomorrow, I suppose.

I’ve added a new song to the playlist; I’d like to think of it as an ode to when you’re 16 years old and totally unable to convince your flame of your intentions. You’d be more than happy to give her the world, but the best you can do (for then) is to leave a sweet message in her inbox.

A bit of useless trivia: the beeping means something, although it’s not Morse code. I’m texting “is it alright to start” in the beginning and “it’s okay to leave” at the end.

Not that anyone could tell.

Unless I told you.

Which I did.

Hooha.

If I sound more off than usual, it’s because there was a small fishbone lodged in my throat for the better part of the day on Friday, and I can still feel the sore, even though the bone’s more than gone. I’m also shrivelled (except where it matters most) from the air-conditioning.

N-joy!