My exciting report

If getting posted to infantry and the sort was hell in its assorted nine levels, then being a clerk would be seemingly torment-less limbo, sullenly beckoning you to the pits of mental deterioration. Vocational responsibility is admittedly limited and unworthy of reasonable mention, normal walking strides threaten to turn into what resembles lethargic sweeping of the floor and conversations verges on dronning, glass-eyed interaction. If the omnipresent condescendence doesn't hold you by the throat in a silent death grip, boredom will gracefully sweep in and knock your head clear off your shoulders.

All it grants is a whole lot of free time to daydream and make frequent trips to the canteen with. I swear sometimes our minds just float away as we sit staring at the cubicle walls when we could be healthily interacting with each other. Oh and the copious amounts of leisure time does wonders for the politics in the office, its one gripe away from being an episode of Dilbert.

The character archetypes sprinkled around range from the harmlessly annoying to the dangerous Janus-like hemorrhoid. Enough about that, this Pes E byatch has brought home the bacon. Zai, behold....

Kate Bush – Hounds of Love

A piece of sci-fi narrative kicks the song off, warily leading us to back-up-vocals-falsettos alternating between “doo doo doos” and “ooh ooh oohs”, then lyrical references to a great deal of horror “coming thru the trees!” cruxify the listener in unexplainable suspense as fear and/or apprehension is presented in vague personification as a pursuer of doom. All this while, the synth beats penetrates you and steals your soul away as you lay inert in your own little dream world of maimed foxes and glass slippers lying at the bottom of a lake.


The Verve – The Drugs Don’t Work

The resignation of the first verses sets the mood , what with the eternal bodily struggle against time getting ‘em old folks down. When you close your eyes, you find yourself beach-strolling wearily, toes licked by the backwash surf of bereavement, ever desperate and bothered by a determined willingness to jump in to chase a belief that may not be true. A romanticized notion of death and the destinations it promises. Oh the consolatory balladry of the measured proximity to a lost loved one you would newly acquire once you depart the now-withered, near-expiry,drug-desensitised flesh vessel. Hey, whats the harm in trusting this own little leap of faith.


Postal Service – Nothing Better

A confrontation has never sounded this good, Electronic beats rhythm-ise the heated conversation between a conflicting couple as a frantic boyfriend hits a wall consecutively in his repeated bids to halt the imminent departure of his preferred bride-to-be for “better company”. The catchy, light electronic tune captures the “idealistic future” painted desperately in his promises for a renewed chance yet also does not betray the tender rejection she sentences him with. Its the brink of a break up and the song actually makes it beautiful.


The Strokes – Reptilia

A common argument in justifying their distancing from a refreshing genre entry, following the saturation of the market with Radiohead-esque bands is that there is no technical complexity in their playing, hence the unwillingness to support a more-pop, catchy, marketable tune. This song picks up that elitist rationale, stuffs it into a brown grocery bag and stomps it flat until the juices of defeat stain the pavement. Then we dance trance-like to this super-song.

New Order – Bizarre Love Triangle

Sample lyric:“Everytime I see you falling, I get down on my knees and pray..” Synth-pop cool enough to quote, also, irrisistably charming, the acoustic cover by Frente stole even the hearts of Simple-Plan-loving teenagers everywhere..

The Shins - Kissing The Lipless

The conscious struggle to shed the weight of a past relationship turns into a pretty, verbal probe of the possibility that it can be mended. Past regrets hit hard, current situation obstructs, and general unwillingness to let go makes it all infinitely haunting. In a place where “grass grows on the corners of her bed sheets”, where “tinsel crowns” frame her “ailing heart and criminal eyes”, he reluctantly leaves, sadly knowing he had a big hand in her testing her “mettle, of doe's skin and petals, while kissing the lipless, who bleed all the sweetness away...” Once you recover from being slack-jawed by the brilliance of the lyrics, you will hit repeat.

Mocca - What If

A whole collection of deeply-thought through “what ifs” does its job in teasing our otherwise lukewarm imaginations.
“What if I give you my smile?
Are you gonna stay for a while?
What if I put you in my dreams tonight?
Are you gonna stay until it's bright?”
None of the screaming cacophonies, none of the noisome sounds that drown us on radio nowadays, its all mellow and probably very girlish pink.But I'm not complaining though.

Death From Above 1979 – Turn It Out

Nothing to do with horror-ful retro science fiction, this very male way of meeting relationship problems(by running away) is actually made cool and terribly, terribly fierce.
“Be there for you someday soon.... I know you have so much to say to me, But i'm on the move!” Roar! Oh and bonus points on the merit of the absolutely cool pick for a name.

Mando Diao - Sheepdog

Powerful, pacy and a rockstar way of ensuring unrequited love, a winning formula. This lyrical shunning of a seratonin-charged female groupie(or what comes close) can be forgiven ultimately because as good-looking, young scandinavian rockstars who get all the sex they want, its standard fare and the song is undeniably good.

Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah - In This Home on Ice

“Confusion becomes a philosophy” as we mull over a creeping distrust of “the rust thats on TV”, while a “ravaged cabbage” pretties up “the dark red skies”, above a “startled crowd” who ,fueled by a “fattened cow”,are probably confusedly-intent on lynch-mobbing “unknown enemies”. Such pretty imagery, all to be “just taken in slow, in this home on ice”.

Franz Ferdinand - Fabulously Lazy

“What a singer,
What a dancer,
What a sinner”
What a song... It had me floored at the chorus, and by the end of the song, it had bitch-slapped me to non-consciousness with its utter awesomeness. A splash of beatles brings about the dash of nostalgia while the sheer ingenuity of the whole just brings you impulsively shuffling your feet to the beat, retro riffs, vocals and all.

The Go! Team - LadyFlash

We grinned as we skip-rope, chanting you-go-girl cheers, our hairs bobbing and our hearts racing. That was the story of my childhood. Where adults were relegated to spectators as we make them envy us with our corridor neverland, collectively shouting “2-4-6-8-10!”. The Go team just reminds me of that, even if my childhood was actually spent in the bamboo forests of the Tokugawa era, hunting down traitorous emissaries then cutting them down with the fury and force of my No-Dachi Sword, stylishly.

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

ok that "mixed tape" was for the giggly co-editors of prosaic, zainal should be posting his too, that is if he can overcome his dry spell in performing arts as the enigmatic Zai Kuning. Oh, and hello Hakim!

Ruth’s Story

Dried blood stained my wrists, tears left that sticky sensation on my cheeks and my throat was parched as I woke up from my failed suicide attempt. The lacerations were mostly superficial, I know it was more, a cry of attention than a genuine try at my own euthanasia. Everybody was crowding around me as I came to, concerned with my own state of health. My mother cried as she hugged me, my aunt reprimanded me for trying to take my own life, she was stopped soon enough by my uncle who got into a quarrel with her for not consoling me instead. Bah.. they did not understand my anger, I hated everyone, I hated my parents, I hated my siblings, I hated everybody in school, I only liked Avril Lavigne and her music, oh and Adam Lazarra from Taking Back Sunday.

I was kept in a ward for observation, the doctor’s diagnosis revealed “stress” and “depression” after a quick psychiatric evaluation. The time alone allowed me quiet moments to write some goth poetry.

<>A razor is unlike a scythe
Turning into my crimson reaper
A midnight soiree
A morning release
Remnants of last night’s disease
Nobody loves me anymore, Nobody… Nobody…

That was my ode to self-mutilation, it belonged to my personal diary where I scribbled paragraphs of angst and hatred. I was discharged the next day as I had to grudgingly make my way to school. Nobody knew where I had been the past few days, they thought I was down with chicken pox, obviously covered up by my mother. A classmate, Joshua, said hi cheerfully to me, unaware that I found him disgusting. He was such a poser, he yearned for acceptance by the more popular crowd in school and everybody knew of the torch he held for Farah, that bitch. She thinks she’s “more Avril Lavigne” than me, she’s such a goth poser and what I would give to drag her face a few hundred metres in gravel until is is cut up beyond recognition. Everybody hates me, I am so misunderstood.

The fluidity of our choreographed synchronization translated itself into poetry, the thickness of the make-up on our faces concealed the unbottled passion we had for this art form and the hugging contours of the traditional dress we had on promised a thousand pairs of male eyes on us. I had my eye on this particular alpha male who fronted the school’s dikir barat squad as the swoonsome “juara”. To those in the dark, being a juara in dikir is equivalent to being the lead singer in an amateur rock band, in terms of chick appeal, maybe even more they say. Never mind the fact that ostensibly, they were there to promote their race’s traditions and culture, and that truthfully, it was all about the sex. Ohhhh… I knew.. as did the numerous other female groupies who flood the halls in the annual Mega Perdana, otherwise known as the Champions League of Dikir Barat.

Anyway, we finished our piece and left the stage beaming in pride, both of our performance and the newly acquired attention from the Dikir Boys. We were the guest performers at the preliminary rounds of the Mega Perdana competition and boy did we grab that opportunity by the hairy bean-bag.

“Siti Farah isn’t it?”, he enquired confidently in his handsome grin. I deliberately paused to tease him with a little anxiety before answering, armed with a pout I had practiced in front of the mirror for hours at a time in the run up to this day. I had it all planned out. “It’s Nur Farah actually”, I replied, ending it with a girlish giggle, absolutely convinced that the pout absolutely melted his heart and stored itself in my dresser drawer. We then looked at each other in a way that Harry and Sally would have been envious of.

I bagged it, his number and very soon, bragging rights to a desirable male escort. Fuck. Now I’m hungry and with nary a cent in my purse, “I better call Joshua”, I thought… “Oh, and better make it expensive, teehee..”

Meal’s covered, now there is the sliver of guilt to deal with (years of exploiting him led to the current desensitized state). I was well aware of his feelings, so blatant, the gleam of delight in his eyes everytime I raised his hopes. Like I said, I’m a little dim, but not overly so. I knew the sweet little guy was in love, he wouldn’t have spent that much money and time on me, but… he just wasn’t as good-looking as that Juara I just hooked up with.. or any other guy that I hook up with anyways.. Mmmm.. I stopped myself just before drool dribbled down the side of my half-opened mouth and renderd me flushed with embarrassment. I quickly slurped in the offending glob of enzymic fluid and looked around to make sure nobody had witnessed that terribly inglorious moment. Then I called Joshua. Toodley doo..

A Teenage Adventure!

It was surreal that someone from the “in” crowd found me cool enough to acknowledge my presence in the visible, stratified school social structure that I was currently trapped in. “So, what kind of music do you listen to Joshua?”, was the next line that followed the greeting pleasantries. My fading glee was quickly replaced with clammy anxiety. The ice-breaker, the measure of compatibility, the thousand and one psychological analysis teenagers come up with according to the varied replies, alas, the polite but disappointed dragged “okaaaayyyy” response that usually ended the conversation instantly when I gave my honest answer. “Errr… The Mr Bean opening theme?”, I quipped jokingly, stalling for time to recall the in-trend bands of the given time. “Haw Haw… Cmon seriously muddafucker!”, he persisted as my mind raced to come up with something credible to quote.
“It definitely has to be The Killers, especially their latest single, Mr Brightside”, I tried my luck, getting ready to wince at the impact of realization that I made a wrong move.
“Awesome dude! I thought you would say something gay like Simple Plan!” I hid a sigh of relief and smiled politely, feeling guilty partly because I lied and mostly due to the truth that Simple Plan was indeed on repeat in my discman. Additionally, I condemned the use of homosexual references to depict something as inferior, but I continued to talk to him anyway. Hey, I’m a teenager.

The polyphonic tunes of my favorite pop-punk band alerted me to a call coming through. It was the one love of my life whom I cherished as much as my naïve, teenage heart can. The only trouble was, she does not know of it, 2 years as “best friends”, superficially platonic on my part, purely so on hers. I am her sugar daddy minus the groping benefits, I am her unwilling emotional crutch in all the past relationships, feeding on scraps of cuddles and hugs, I am her biggest and longest serving secret admirer, heck, I am her “Platomon”. A term I had coined myself to add a certain amount of humor to the pathetic romantic plight I am perennially in. Platonic Pokemon in full, lending to it the suggestion of caged pet enslaved by its own over-reliance on its owner for food, unable to escape even if there was a chance to do so. Now, substitute food with emotional fulfillment, however warped and one-sided and the clear mental picture of the relationship is projected.

Lengthy shit, Well, she called to say that she felt like some Billy Bomber’s, so I happily obliged, strangely, influenced by some muddled emotional impulse, a mix between happiness and the hammering on my conscience of the unhealthy covert obsession I had on this single girl. But-oh-how beautiful she was. Damn. There goes at least, 30 dollars in American-sized western food.

With every reason to be depressed, I moped around before deciding on some Neopets to cheer myself up with. I was in my element, for a few hours at least, invincible and a multi-millionaire, I’d be able to get Neo-hos anytime I wished to. Unfortunately, I’m just making things up, what the fuck are “Neo-hos” anyway? I laughed at the absurdity of my self-sought consolation to the bleak scenario I was in. Then I moped again.

The next morning saw the usual early train commuters witnessing my listless trudge to school. “I’m sorry, I can’t be perfect…”, the lyrics or my heart, I couldn’t tell, sang to the uncaring world, in the best-sounding nasal voice ever. Sparked perhaps by the presence of a guy in my school who would come close to being called a “jock”, to quote American media, in the same cabin. He looked like what I would want to be, good-looking, athletic build, healthy tan, great hair… I trail off here to consciously dream of the stuff I would do if I were him. I stopped to hold back a hopeless tear, Curse genes and their physical pre-sets.

(to be continued)

fuck it.

why radio why

she was born into hands of sand
with melody in her ears
her heartstrings played an infinite sonnet of sadness
her porcelain eyes cried tears of emerald
a china doll with cigarettes glued to her fingers
how long must her melancholy linger
in her scent,her touch
lost in the ashes of time
they'll blown away by the whistling summer wind

why radio why
she would cry
why radio why
if she could die
in peace
knowing her voice would forever be obscure
from her peer's piercing and prying eyes
she wouldnt have to ask
why radio why

she cleansed herself by showering in her sins
a needle and a syringe kisses her flawless skin
a tidal wave of euphoria floods her braincells
and through her heart-shaped lens,the world is nothing but a jailcell
for an angel with wings of dove,pure,white and clean
how long must her misery stain
her heart,her face
as they age along with the ashes of time
they'll be blown away by the whistling summer wind

Facing the prospect of doomsayers plaguing us with their grim rhetoric post-9/11 and 50 "shot nine times" Cent smothering us with his gangsta rap, neoprints are just the saving grace of this forsaken world, that is if you believe the staunch believers in impending armageddon.

For the uninitiated, neoprints are the cool japanese imports ushering tweenagers into brightly colored booths along with their parents' milk money in ransom. It involves the user(s) to pose in a glorified and modified intant-photo booth, select from a collection of motifs to frame the picture in, and mayve even include cute inserted text if a need arises, and we all know that is necessary, really.

What is dispensed from the intant photo session are the pictures of them on cards/stickers and everything generations of monks in tantric meditation couldnt hope to achieve, nirvana, albeit momentary.

The neoprint machine deserves its place alongside the light bulb and the telephone in the gallery of mankind's most brilliant inventions. Friendships need the machine's endorsement to persist and relationships are doomed without its rendering the sweet memory in glossy, sticker-stasis.

Today's generation relies heavily on the card/sticker factory as it is prescribed like novocaine to ease pain and suffering where crumbling relationships desperate to avoid break up hastily scramble into one because in truth, it is probably the best adhesive for any form of relationship whatsoever.

Neoprint fans now have a choice between cards or stickers ranging between 4 to 8 dollars for a set. At the height of its popularity(1998-2002), "I spent about twenty dollars a month on the neoprints!" boasted ZainalAbidin, 19, a tortured teenager in the midst of negotiating for an increase in pocket money. "But now, the rage is Lovegety cards", he continued helpfully. "In fact, I do not consider a friendship sealed until the 2 or more of us get into one of 'em and immortalise the sweet sweet smiles", Khairul Azmi, 18 interrupted with a tone of importance in his voice befitting of the subject we were conversing on.



In a highly scientific experiment to test the significant spiritual and emotional boost the 5-10 minute session is said to bring about, a test subject is instructed to sit through the greatly raved about procedure and end result. Here are the before and after pictures.


BEFORE

Watch out! Pimply and angry, he mouths off punkish slogans denouncing the utilitarian oppression and exploitation of the lower classes.


AFTER

here he has realised his folly, abandoned all attachments to any teenage subculture and is now leading a very rewarding, pious lifestyle.


MAKE NEOPRINTS YOUR WAY OF LIFE RIGHT NOW.

The most exciting photo album in the history of the internet!!!

now available for lots of clicking fun



click on mr hamtaro. i dare you.

--> hate todays music lesson.. <--

today music suxs big tyme man!Ms Wang bought us to the hall to play games instead of staying in class and hear those boring music every week.


we played dog and bone game.whuteva the game is called.each group must have only 8 persons but dere were 12 persons in our group so Ms Wang asked mailin and tham yun to move to the other group den mailin was lyke shouting "teacher dun want lah!"

Ms Wang told us dat either 2 of us have to go to the other group but no one wanted.the fun part was everyone shouting "michelle,gwen!!go ah to the other group.fer whut in our group sey!"and guess whut?!michelle was damn angry cuz we didnt want her in our group at all.it was the second tyme she's being hurt by us.ok we admit we were mean towards her.well,who cares anyways.



so whut she chairman?!big deal?!wanna act big infront of the whole class.wah piang eh!the game started and we were screaming loudly.Ms Wang told us dat we can still touch the other rival even though the rival get the stick.den tham yun and michelle were against each other.michelle got the stick and tried running away but tham yun managed to touch michelle.

she got damn angry and throw the stick on the floor.den she cried till the bell rings.it was long seeing her crying.the rules are already lyke dat whut den why she wanna still get so angry sia.it wasen't our fault at all.she cant blame us sey.


the bell rang and Mr Raj came.he called our class to gather in the hall cuz he wanna speak to us.we thought he's going to tell us information or whut but didnt expect he held us back and scolded us.he say dat 2 teachers came to him and complain dat out class was screaming and making lots of noise.whut the fuck?!we were playing game whut of cuz we were screaming lah. we only wanted to support our friends whut.


he asked us to admit who were screaming very loudly just now.we admitted and stood up.den he wanted us to wryte 200 words essay why we lyke screaming.ouh gosh we had no choice but to wryte.we thought dat after writting the essay he'll let us off but he called one by one to read whut we have wrote.fuck sey!!it was my turn and each tyme i read he interrupt!damn irritating!i havent even finished reading and he asked me to stand one side.bloody heLL!hate him fer life man!

things happened after dat.dun wish to wryte down.hate todays music lesson!it just suxs!!



gtg. *tooddles*

x`m0ii suckiing |ife`{M}unDae______**` waa.. berii berii l0ngg tyme didnt update blog le.. haha.. 2dae went tuu arcade.. waa.. playy lykk siia0x arhhs.. lols.. hahas.. tml g0rt science paper 1.. chem n physiics multiple ch0ice.. lols.. siianx.. nw @ c0usin's hse w0tchingg channel 5.. Shooting Stars..tufik batisa heng cute leh.. *aiiy0* at hm cant online le.. c0m @ muaa c0usiin's hse.. re-f0rmat.. hahas.. siians.. den cant online l0rhhhs.. yea~ tuesdae no sk0olingg.. markingg dae.. wooho0~ can g0 habb fun le..
oh yea~ one m0re wk june h0lidae le.. haha.. muaa resuts sure lykk shiit de l0rhhs.. kk larhhs.. end here le.. nth tuu write.. wen ii get muaa results.. ii den p0st l0rhhs.. buaiix buaiis..

`taKe#Kare*]]__;

Flyer variations..

It reeks of awesomeness here....

I have totally lost it. The past few months of military service have rendered me absolutely incapable of constructing a coherent English sentence. So basically ,now i look like pre-volcanic 3rd degree burns Anakin Skywalker with the eloquence of Jar Jar Binks. In a desperate attempt to utilise the poison quilt i used to wield with suche ease,i have decided to pen a poem as a contribution to Prosaic magazine and in conjunction with its Ninja theme for the month of August.

Having been one of the founding members of an elite assasin force,the Ninja Muscle,it shouldnt have posed a problem to me and my comrades,given our perfect balance of intellect and toned abdomens (which,by the way,ridzal have lost and now he's trying to conceal his paunch by growing a goatee and donning an Ultimate Poets Shirt.)

Our Last Tango

so we brandished our swords
on the steps of the derelict supreme court
the night takes its time to breathe
as the moonlight intervenes
in the plural space between us
the freezing air gnaws away
at our skin,so when do we begin
the tango to end this dance of inertia

dance,muthafuckas,dance
groove,muthafuckas.groove

like string puppets painted black
our bodies intertwined
we rocked the casbah,exotic,erotic,the steel clashes
splashes of crimson lipstick grazed my cheek
"we'll kill each other like only lovers can,"
i sneered
"MAcHiNEs dont love"
you replied while applying the lipstick on your poison blade

dance,muthafuckas,dance
groove,muthafuckas,groove

at the bat of an eyelash,a fictional blinding flash
i stood triumphant with my right hand on my chest
i'll scavenge from her body everything i deserve
and leave the rest to the angel of death
i bathed in her venom and the midnight rain
i'll never find so much grace in love and war again.

Currently Prosaic Magazine's drawing theme is just "ninjas".. it used to be "burning unicorns" and "unusually good looking foot calluses" .. so if you feel you can submit yer version of "ninjas".. go ahead.. add me on MSN or something. .

even better, email it to prosaic.online@gmail.com or contact the voice at the end of 90470279/93833804. (for any contributions whatsoever)

ps. i modeled the ninja's body after my own... no.. honestly man...

god! this is so arty farty!

Saturday was the day that most of society are relieved of the drudgery of being stirred in the morning, granted the option of sleeping in, watching morning cartoons and generally just sloth around like happy giant molluscs. Quasimodo, the band, gathered in a stuffy, constrictive 13th-floor room at ten in the morning armed with burstful enthusiasm and a whole cranial suitcase of musical talent. There to do a recording, long delayed by the mandatory basic military training that comes with national service which singapore citizens are required to undergo, Quasimodo impressed the one band outsider dressed in striped spandex tights despatched by prosaic magazine who decided to sit in.


Adjusting my tights to fully accentuate my figure, i attached scribbled notes on arrows in my quiver and shot it at the band from the next room as an unconventional way of doing interviews. This ended when someone got hurt, or at least my feelings did when one of them said "dude! this is stupid!".

Having no regard to my sensitive heart aside, the band made my stay throughout the interview an enjoyable one, with their company and their music.

"We're like a potluck, everybody brings something they can contribute to the table at that time. There is no specific job for anyone", vocalist/guitarist Zainal explained about the band's music and member placement. "We don't have a drummer and almost everybody can play the same instrument(s) that we use for a song.", this was observed in the recording they did where at least three members out of the 5-man band took their turns playing the guitar as
they captured the tune on the computer, trying to find just the correct sound.



"I wanna be your cigarette, hanging on the tip of your lips", went Zainal, the appointed vocalist for the song they were recording at the time of the sit-in. Sweet yet morose was the mood of the written lyrics and overall emotion felt from the song. The vocals then switched to Azmi's in his brooding sort of baritone that covered several verses. The effect proved immersive and strongly hints of indonesian and british indie rock influences, it was generally quite impressive and atmospheric, probably helped by the cell-like room we were in. My only complaint is that they sounded unpolished but thats nothing a bit more practice wouldn't cure. Due to the restrictive dimensions of the room, echoes accentuated melodies and the vocals sounded brilliant in the practice run before the actual recording began.High spirits were beached when the recording-by-layers (separate recordings of each individual instrument and vocals) removed the echo-effects the room unintendedly provided. Zainal, a current NSF combat medic in the army, with the driven personality spoke for the whole band as he expressed disappointment through some varied expletives. "We do not have much time for the band and this is the first recording since our Basic Military Training(BMT) and it hasn't gone that well... so yeah it's a bit frustrating" one band member explained.



Looking at their equipment, Idzwan, the rhythm guitarist revealed with a boyish grin, "We spent only about a third of what other bands spend in equipment", which had a sort of teasing smugness about being able to do decent music with limited resources yet humbling in a subtle plea not to hold too high expectations of the amateur band. "We don't look the part, we're a sorry excuse for a band really", the band confessed, preferring to dump image for craft instead.



The band revealed the primary source of motivation for forming the 5-man outfit with French author, Victor Hugo's 1831 novel as a choice for a name. "We treat it as a form of escapism", Azmi, co-vocalist stated with much undisguised pomp, the reason made clearer by Zainal. "I have a neighbour who has an engineering degree, a well-paying job, a considerably pretty wife, a car and a 5 room flat", Zainal cut in as if on cue, possibly aware that he was describing the popular Singaporean dream much preached by well-meaning parents. He continued, "Yet he told me he wasn't happy and even encouraged me not to work too hard but to enjoy myself instead". "My neighbour said something like 'I thought i would be happy if i studied hard, i thought i would be happy if i bought a car.. yeah it brings with it travelling convenience but it isnt the happiness you get when you are having fun doing the things you want to do'" The neighbour in question even suggested a path that modern materialistic fixation would find unthinkable. "Im sure people will look down on you if u just play music and dont get a permanent job.. but at least you will be happy."



The band revealed maturity and prudence when they assured that they did not find it advisable to listen fully to what the frustrated, regretful senior engineer dispensed. Zainal rationalised that "Sure the idea of a starving artist in a rented apartment is romantic and all but its the starving part that is f*ed up and we wouldnt want to go through that". Drawing lines to making sacrifices for the sake of their art, where the prospect of spartan dwellings and an empty bowl dampens all enthusiasm and optimism that might be in naive abundance, the band promised to at least meet up every few weeks, or in the worst case, months, to make music. In that sense, they explained that they feel privileged to uplift that feeling of routine monotony afflicting most working adults through playing music, for profit or not. It is poetic that, even with the transient nature of corridor acquaintances, it made a strong enough impression to inspire certain resolutions in a group of teenagers on the threshold of adulthood.



link: http://www.purevolume.com/quasimodo

On this frustrating Sunday.. I thought about..



burnt jossticks...



and a bad haircut...

...thats all....

The adopted country of Pug Jelly found them cool enough to grant the band considerable commercial success.

Has recognition of an expatriate punk outfit's marketability and careful targeting of the same
demographic spawned a Pug doppelganger?

Their fanbase might be mainly made up of tweenage orchard road infestations largely affected by jealous guys poking fun at the metrosexual boybands their predecessor generation were obsessed with. This results in them trendily declaring their non- allegiance to boybands but rather to the presentlypopular pop-punk/goth getups popping up everywhere.

Angsty "nobody loves me anymore" teenagers in Singapore now have a reason to do their version of the celebratory chicken dance.

Listening to SET FOR GLORY bestows the same exclusive smugness an underground band might bring to the "rebellious" non-mainstream listeners who will grumpily also find themselves among the same fan-crowdof Pug Jelly, for that is SFG's appeal.

Set for glory is ambitious and due to it's fortunate timing in pop ascension, looks strongly
marketable particularly because of its music's genre and ethnic mix. The young band is still in their teens and shows great promise in the music it can churn out. Also featured in their growing resume is their confident and engaging showmanship capable of causing a high-pitched oral eruption in the largely female crowd.

Enough about music, the orders from my co- overlords at prosaic were to write about the evening spent with the band...

Initially startled by the melodic beeps on my glossy-steel futuristic milky pink bracers, i crawled
out of my room where i have dictatorial rulership over the sea monkey civilisation that i have carefully nurtured from a $24.95 bag of eggs which i bought at 7-11 to a bustling metropolis with an unhealthy interest in bukkake, folded paper and chowing down on marine creatures raw. I then hopped onto my pterodactyl megazord and made my way to a coffeeshop in Potong Pasir.

The band in person displayed an almost alien sense of humor to native singaporeans which proved almost offensive and unacceptable in our own established decorum. Maybe its the three seasons of living with lydia that we have secretly/passively encouraged to be prolonged that has killed off our tolerance and ability to appreciate actual giggle worthy humor. Relating their encounter with irate Mcdonald's staff who told them off for behaving "like an american" and then getting labeled "lame" by "requested to be anonymous" voluntary viewers of the interview footage is proof enough of the rift between asian conservative chuckles and the modern satiric-hyperbolic cocktail of humor.

Shameer, the most charming of the three, joked about how "i heard that when the (hall)doors opened, a hot air of steam rose out" after someone commented about how stuffy the venue of their previous gig was. Lead singer Nico's anemic reply to the question "what inspires you when you write your lyrics" was met with a frank protest by the resident american-indian punk- rocker as he teased, "dude, its an interview! make something up! make it sound smart!"

Nico, notably the looker of the band appeared reserved and jittery, fumbled with a few questions and was fortunately saved a number of times by band member, Shameer. Titus however, looked comfortable and exuded that boyish, slightly-goofy charm as he posed for photographs and answered questions in his eager ear-to-ear grin.

The band collectively disagreed about being "the next" or "another" Pug Jelly, declaring instead the preference to be synonymous with the definition of pop-punk that Simple Plan has established themselves to be. When quizzed further, Shameer reasoned that "because both our band names start with an S" , prompting Titus's turn to remark that "that was the lamest thing ever dude!"

The band's unintentional, politically-correct disposition of members happens to be "regardless of
race, language or religion and for happiness and equality"(band members are malay, chinese, indian and eurasian), much to their gleeful delight. Although missing member, Faris, a malaysian wasnt there to be critically, unfairly judged and assessed by the crew of prosaic, the band has, overall, stifled laughter and all, charmed my socks off.

links : Set for glory

DAY 1:
It wasn’t my fault that I was imprisoned in a glass case of emotions. Feelings suppressed and constricted by glass walls and greedy goldfishes that gobbled up every fish pellet or flake in their sights, my months in this filthy water-world were always about survival of the fittest. The Goldfish Bourgeois finishing every bit of fish pellets before they reach to mid-feeder level and the Genghis Tiger Barbs were chomping away the fins of us weaker species.
My only place for solace was a small bottle cap thrown in the same day I was sent to this Aquatic hell. This bottle cap however will be the centre of a much needed power shift. Months have gone, and now I feel the need for a coming of a new era. The dawn of a new world is inevitable. It is time for the TETRA REVOLUTION.



DAY 2:
Went to meet up with some tetras sucking on some flavored gravel at the bed. Guess that’s the only food supply left. Heard from them that some Mongolian tiger barbs came and ate part of their tail. Sick bastard barbs. I curse their stupid mono-toned stripes. This was enough to get my cold blood boiling. Until suddenly I saw the most painful scene in my entire months of life. A group of young tetras lying on a hard plastic Hydrilla. They were dying of hunger. I knew we had to take on those fat goldfishes one day. I also knew before being dumped into this fish tank that the master Gobinut had a supply of miniature AK-47 rifles for his hamster cheer-leading brigade on the other side of the glass. What he didn’t know was that these supply have been passed on to me by his hamsters who were fun-loving, peaceful and gay. I tried to gather the hungry and half-eaten tetras first. I knew they would be easily hyped up to my ideologies having facing painful times. They wanted a change. They wanted the filters to run red…. With goldfish blood!




DAY3:
Today is the most memorable day ever. A most pivotal part of this great revolution. I have just rallied the tetras behind the filters where no fish would notice. Issuing them the AK-47 rifles all they needed was a great motivating speech by me before the mass killings! “ Hear me my tetra brothers! D-day is now! No more will there be imbalance in this tank! No more will there be famine for us tetras! No more shall there be fear in our eyes ever again! Our children will live free! This will be our fish tank! Our world!!
We began our massacre once Master Gobinut left after throwing loads of fish pellets in the tank. As usual the goldfishes instantaneously arrived to gobble up everything. From below we fired our rounds. They didn’t see it coming! One by one they died. One by one they cried ‘Oh great goldfish jesus! Have mercy on us all!’



(to be continued)

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a project by Muhajir Mobb the cashier, affectionately called Mobinut by me..

this piece was inspired by my testimonial for him which totally kicked ass...

muhajir feeds on plankton and keeps a red pouch on his abdomen to attract mates(puffed up for full effect).. i kept him in a fish bowl once, but he escaped by inciting a neon tetra revolution in the neighboring tank.. however orwellian, he installed himself as marine dictator and keeps a harem of snapping turtles now.. you horny piece of casserol you!

What will we ever do without HipHop, RNB and influential black culture?

Once upon a time there lived a boy named Azmi, this boy was well-known throughout the medieval, plague-stricken land for his famed double chin. "It had the power to tame even the wildest flames!!!", one extensively circulated legend exclaimed, among numerous others. "It has the power to tame my heart!", that, not mouthed by the impoverished, fable-weaving peasantry intent on glorifying this double-chinned young man but by the princess of yore, from the kingdom of all things nice,edible and gangsta, Princess Zainal "IN DA CLUB" Abidin.
Princess Zainal lived in a tower-prison, kept on a diet of baked Irish pheasants and assorted small mammals. The tower's spire touched the clouds, encircled by mutated-hellspawn vultures and no one was allowed near the tower except for the one guard, who happened to be a fire-breathing dragon, keeping with all the good spirit of conventional fairytales.
Azmi the valiant, double-chinned hero, of course leapt at the chance to rescue the delectable Princess Zainal who by now had honed his artistic, poetic talent through years of lonely song-writing in a drafty tower bedroom. The Princess sultrily warbled her self-penned siren song to her imminent escape from prison life. She had anticipated the arrival of the hero, Azmi and with magnificent talent-quest-grade intonations, belted out her latest lyrical wonder.. "You're gonna say OOHHHHHHHH... cos thats gonna be the sound thats when we going down...(1*)" The pyrokinetic dragon outside nodded agreeingly with the Princess's "illest rhymes", primarily due to him mistaking the song as a seduction attempt at his handsome self. "Stop right there Grrrrrllllfreennn! You talk to the hand cos the face don want to hear it!", the dragon shouted back because he didnt want to be too "easy", which in modern parlance would mean being a harlot, almost passing as acceptable to the giant mythic reptile cos he wanted to be a "HO" instead, even though both perform the same damned services. "All that and a bag of potato chips!!!" the dragon punctuated, all smug about his brilliant wit.

(to be continued)


"welcome to my candy shop y'all.. "


(1*) - taken from Omarion B2k's song about "going down" and all the usual gangsta merrymaking

This post is dedicated to a classmate of mine back in school, Dhanalatchmi..
She did a site with the intention of converting every classmate of hers , including me and Azmi into superheroes.. Its kinda cute really... considering im already one...

the link here

an extract from the site...

Male Mutants

Real Name: Ridzal Zinal Abidin

Character Name: Shabdrung Ngawang Namgyel (God King of Bhutan)

Date of Birth: May 25, 2003

Height: 187cm

Weight: 75kg

Hair Colour: Mahogany

Eye Colour: Honey

Powers: possesses superhuman strength, speed and agility (Has the ability to fly), an incredible martial artist and able to see energy fields with his mind

Real Name: Khairul Azmi

Character Name: Lestat

Date of Birth: Sometime in 1716

Height: 186cm

Weight: 71kg

Hair Colour: Dark brown

Eye Colour: True Sapphire

Powers: Is a Vampire, Invulnerable to Mortal weapons (except weapons made of pure silver), great physical strength, eternal life, produce Glamour energy (Hypnotic Voice) and able to multiply his species by contaminating their blood.

Real Name: Zainal Abidin

Character Name: Captain Berg

Date of Birth: Sometime in 1985

Height: 168cm

Weight: 90kg

Hair Colour: Dark brown

Eye Colour: Ruby Red

Powers: Incapable of bowel control and looking so devilishly good in dim lighting (interior of clubbing venues)

Ok so i made that last one up but thats not important... what is, is that i am on the verge of being crowned god-king of Bhutan after i murder the current one with my patented energy field detection specimen of a mind, although i am entirely unsure of how that would kill him, but lets not dwell on that... moving on.. Its also needed to be let known that my birth name is Shabdrung Ngawang Namgyel really... which totally kicks ass if you think about it....

Other highlights of this site are the wallpapers...
Im currently waiting for the hip-hop/fantasy themed wallpapers of me to be completed... probably depicting me ruling over my subjects with cotton candy compassion and toodley-doo grade niceness while being dressed up in pasty yellow spandex, the attire of kings!


she is definitely a head-turner.. mmmmm....


Subliminal erotic stimulation or just quality hip-hop lyrics?




Alicia keys's asexual reproduction goes thru a glitch


once again.. the link here

enjoy and good night!

we were pressured into doing our own versions of "burning unicorns" and used whatever spare time we had in camp to come up with our cool pieces...

- starting with fauzi's cute unicorn..



and ending with mine...



no captions or explanations needed for ours, its awesomeness speaks for itself.. haiyakk!!!