 You walk into your car, you start the engine, you switch on the radio, and you hear, thumping incessantly into your ears, "I've got a feelin' pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa... that tonight's gonna be a good night pa-pa-pa-pa..." You turn off the radio, you stop the engine, you get out of your car, and in undivided angst, you run to the nearest lamp post to give it a heartfelt, Chuck Norris signature roundhouse kick. Or at least that was what you had in mind. But how could you not, though? That's the sixth time now that, at the start of the engine, the speakers blare out the same track. As if the car would automatically play it when the spark plug ignites. A feature you would've preferred knowing from the salesman before you signed the papers. You've lost hope in tuning to the other FM stations anyway. Hitz couldn't stop playing music for high school proms, Mix couldn't stop airing home loan ads, Fly couldn't stop talking, Traxx couldn't stop pitching 1Malaysia, and Lite, well, they're the least guilty one I'd say -- playing Michael Bolton after every other song isn't too bad in my book. The man has got a fine, fine voice. And hair... back then. Also, there is of course BFM who plays decent stuff from time to time albeit their exhausting discussions. Cruising in the car to good music is just not as straightforward these days. While we can always argue that popping a CD into the player would solve the whole enigma, I'd still very much like the option of tuning into a station and listening to some good music as I curse at drivers on the road. You know, get comfortable on the seat, put my belts on, get my shades out of the dashboard, mend my hair at the mirror, rev the engine, switch on the radio, and nod my head while singing "Sweet home Alabama, where the skies are so blue..." And not, "I kissed a girl, and I liked it pa-pa-pa-pa..." Maybe I know too little to understand why this is happening to the radio broadcasting industry. Maybe I'm not seeing how it all boils down to dollars and cents. Maybe I can't quite decipher the logic behind the market supply-demand of the airwaves. Maybe I'm not appreciating music as I should, now that we're in 2010. Then again, maybe I don't have to. For I am a listener and all I need is some good music on the radio. Perhaps it's just a part of aging and I'm still stuck in the time when Billie Joe's hair was green, the Gallagher Brothers were brawling on stage, and Britney Spears could fit into her red, 'Oops I Did It Again' suit. All in all, it is an entirely subjective matter. Music to my ears may be noise to yours. And there can never be a time when every single song on the radio could satisfy all listeners. But all I'm asking, in general, is for the stations to not play, for example, Taylor Swift after every other song. Listening to her singing about being 15 every half an hour is not as easy as it sounds. Okay maybe except for that one time when it was pouring outside. Oh how my 26 year old guy heart beckoned.
 Guys, a lot have changed in us since the Paleolithic era. Well it was 2,600,000 years ago. Most of our cabinet ministers were still toddlers then. We don't go out scavenging wild game as much. We don't gather uncultivated plants as much. We don't use tools made out of bones as much. We don't -- unless you're Dennis Rodman -- cover ourselves in animal skin as much. Above all else, we surely don't, to win their hearts, go knocking out women and drag them back to our caves, as much. At least I don't. I don't live in a cave. What we still do, as much, however, in appealing to the ladies, is pickup lines. It's true. We do go way back. The art of blending wit, humor and most of all, class (well relatively) in engaging with members of the opposite gender is ancient. Among the traits of masculinity, it has been as constant as the songs of Canadian rock band Nickelback. And anthropologists worldwide would collectively agree that the first person to ever put it to practice was Barney Rubble. Who else would you think came up with the following classic, "Well I'm no Fred Flinstone but baby, I can sure make your bed rock." I guess the man was only guilty of being inspired by Fred in sealing the deal with Wilma. Today, pickup lines are as widespread as singing to Lady Gaga while doing your laundry. It has become a part of life. In essence, the negative connotations that have been associated with it have been gradually cushioned by such acceptance. Before I continue, ladies, agreeably, it is true that at times, pickup lines can be more of a vice. You know, in clubs, with booze spilling around the smoky ashtrays at the bar counter. A guy with his utmost confidence would come to you in his proudly unbuttoned shirt and majestic greasy hair, dip his hand into a glass, grab some ice and throw it onto the ground before going, "Now that the ice is broken, can I have your number?" Creative? Yes. Effective? Questionable. I believe pickup lines go beyond that. As essentially, and as mentioned, I see it as a form of art. The play on words that it involves does require some intelligence. Some. And it crosses the many borders and barriers of languages. In fact, some of them are only applicable in certain languages. A good friend of mine had just delivered an instant hit in Malay, yesterday over a drink, "Mantap la teh yang makcik buat ni. Manis. Macam anak makcik." Little did he know, the only child in the makcik's family is her son. Unless he was going for the makcik herself. We're not too sure. You know who you are, Syah. Pickup lines create warmth and it shouldn't be confined within the territories of strangers. I see no reason for husbands to still not use them once in a while with their wives. Given that they're alright with it. And it's not "Are you wearing space pants ‘cos your ass is out of this world!" and its derivatives. Then again, she might like that. I, for one, wouldn't mind. Perhaps the more charming ones with stars in her eyes and knots in your heart and the likes would be more appropriate. Most importantly, I reckon keeping it original is the key to a successful pickup line. Surely the tales that you both encounter together in life are aplenty. Like that time she got mad at you for screaming at 3am while watching football. You know, something about the way she didn't look like a witch at all as she threw the broom at you, half-awake. Then again, I'm in no position to really say a lot about this, as much as I'd written about it here. I'm bad at it myself. My girlfriend would hold evident the number of lines that had gone down the drain; in the earlier days, at least. To date, the following seems to be the only pickup line I could claim glory for, "So what time is cool for me to pick you up?" Told you.
 And all I could see is darkness. For opening my eyes would only bring me back to the chaos in the room. My shoes are oceans apart. I’d flipped them off the minute I slammed myself through the door. The right side, hitting the TV tuning it into the American Idol auditions -- as if I’m not in enough pain already. The left, hidden deep beneath the obscurity of my bed. Surely I’ll find some gems while looking for it. I believe my treasured box of Geri Halliwell cutouts from 1996 are still in there. (I was 13. Thanks for making our prepubescent years colorful, Ginger Spice.) I’m on the chair now. My hands clasping tightly onto its legs. My feet, stomping incessantly, thumping away sounds that will surely wake the neighbors up. Not that I would regret it, though. The cretins have been on my back for the past few days themselves. While I embrace our differences in musical preference, looping the Black Eyed Peas at the volume of a jumbo jet isn’t entirely courteous. Oh there it goes again. Yes Fergie, tonight is going to be a good night. At least until I smash the stereo. I get off the chair and head on to the bathroom. Barely three steps on the tiles, I see there, in the mirror adjacent to the sink, the image of possibly the scariest figure I’d ever seen since Joan Rivers. How did I even get that necktie wrapped around my forehead anyway? Why am I looking like Rocky Balboa after that final, tumultuous round with Apollo Creed? That’s alright, I guess... I’m starting to talk like him already anyway. And my hair is akin to someone familiar ringside, Don King. I’m still in my office attire. Well, partly. The buttons are all torn apart. I shouldn’t have reacted like The Hulk after losing a bet on his racehorse. This is, after all, one of the only five shirts I have for work. I suppose I’ll just have to make do with the safety pins for now. At least I’ve still got my pants on..and there you go. Sliding down right onto the drenched floor. Just what I needed. Then again, my belt has, been as loose as a politician’s promise. Turning the tap on, filling the sink full, I drown myself into its shallow waters and try screaming within the dampened acoustics of it all. Bubbles emerge on the surface as if a group of frogs had just bawled a huge croak in unison underwater. And I lift my head rapidly gasping for breath as I again endured the painful sight in the mirror, of a now soaked –- imagine not -- Don King/Joan Rivers crossbreed who talks like Rocky Balboa. Not without a necktie on his forehead. I tremble on to the ground, rolling into the parquet floors of the room and crawling onto my bed. Punching the pillow remains a placebo and kicking the bedposts proves to be no more fruitful than banging my head on the wall. Which is what I’m planning to do. If only I could reach the wall, first. Or lift my head, at the very least. I guess I’ll just lay down here, on my back, close my eyes, and think of random things. I see a gnome running around a polka dot mushroom now. Stupid bloody toothache.
 Tell me. How do you guys do it? It’s 905am at the office. You need your early morning coffee to kick-start the day and waste more time before you start doing actual work. So you walk out of your cube and off to the pantry you go. You say "Good morning" and "Hello" and "In your face glory hunting Man United rag" to the cubes leading you to the coffee maker. On the corridor, you meet people walking by, holding their mugs or newspapers or gym bags or kids... for the maid, had run away, again, last night. And you say pretty much the same things to them: "Morning" and "Hey" and "Nice pants" and "In your face glory hunting Man United rag" (to the kid). You brew your caffeine and walk back to your cube, happily. Except for the minor burns suffered from walking with a full mug of blistering hot coffee. All in all, though, it’s all good. It’s 1034am. You have yet to open any office e-mails. As the harvesting of your pumpkin crop circles on FarmVille, takes precedence over the company’s tanker stranded in the Pacific Ocean. Above all else, however, is the urge to take a restroom trip that suddenly creeps in; after all that coffee. And you walk, out of your cube, into the corridor, where, from a distance, you see Jim, your colleague, whom, this morning, you’ve greeted, and enjoyed a small talk about sports rims. You don’t usually talk much with Jim; just as you are with everyone else at the office. Well, you do talk to them. But you’re not blessed with the eloquence of Perez Hilton. In other words, you can’t simply bump into them and talk about the Kardashians. Not that anyone cares. So you walk toward each other -- you and Jim, not Perez (as much as you want to) -- and you’re both torn. Do you guys look up and smile to each other? For a good few seconds before you’re both on the same latitude and longitude. But what kind of smile would it be? A huge glee supposedly directed at the same humorous subject matter (e.g. the grunts in the men’s room this morning)? A tiny snicker? But all that would do is create an awkward, empty space within the time continuum of your journey to the loo. One that would flirt with your masculinity as you’re forced to look into each other’s eyes. Or, do you guys just walk, and look at the floor as you throw glances at the nothingness of your sides? Until you’re both within inches and throw a cool "Ssup?" his way, vice versa. Newspapers would usually, ideally come in handy for me. I personally find it helpful. For when a figure is in sight, as I walk through the passage of the corridor, my fingers would swiftly flick on to a page as I stare at it with a convincingly concerned face. Waiving the need to greet. Full of vigor, as if engrossed with the unintentionally selected ‘Dazzling Night Gowns’ article. Alas, that’s just how I do it. Maybe you can share then, your office corridor stories. College corridor ones work just as well. Looking forward to your responses, I’ll be heading to the copier room now. Not without today's newspaper.
 "Every year also like this. School time come then I always need to fork out money one. Your kid how old leh?" And I snorted iced tea out of my nose. The last time I checked, it was January 2010. I was 26, not married and couldn't recall adopting a child. My ID clearly didn't read 'Madonna'. "I'm here for my sister actually." Perhaps she didn't notice the South Park t-shirt I was wearing. "Oh like that ah. I'm here for my boy. Going to Standard 1 on Monday. So scaredy-cat one. Today crying already... want mommy." I looked at him. He was facing down, kicking pebbles in his white shoes. One hand, busy wiping off the incessant flow of tears falling down his cheeks. The other, clutching on tightly to mommy's arm. I could hear the echoes of the sobs he was trying to hold in and let drown in his heart. Perhaps he was doing all he could in reclaiming his masculinity; which had just been crushed by his own mother. As his tears dry off, the boy finally lifted his head, and looked at me. The prideful ego of a man in the presence of another was already apparent in the youthful innocence of his watery, squinting eyes. Through which I saw myself. For I was once, in his shoes. I'd be lying to say that I had a smooth transition from kindergarten to primary school. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that I had an easier time adapting to boarding school and later on, college overseas. Well maybe the open shower thing we had in the dorms was a bit difficult. Nevertheless, I'd still take anything else over January 1, 1990. It was the first day of school and I was due to register as a Standard 1 student. A day I wasn't looking forward to. Even as a 7 year old, I already knew way beforehand, then, that the whole experience won't be anywhere near fancy. Maybe I was a bit too at ease in kindergarten that I couldn't quite get out of my comfort zone just yet. In other words, I simply couldn't imagine myself surviving the following years without biscuits and Milo at 10am. Going into primary school meant more than just being in the white and blue uniform. The buildings will be bigger. There'll be more people in the classroom. We'll only get one break for the day during recess. I'll have to start buying stuff on my own from the canteen and bookstore. Even the teachers, were somehow, two to three times the size of lovely Ms. Maureen I had in kindergarten. Most of all, I was dreading the whole process of making new friends. You know, questions lingering in my head. Who should start talking? What do you say first? What language should you use? What is that kid doing? Why are his shorts so tight? Shoot how does he even walk in them? How long until I could make fun of this guy? And won't you just look at his Jem and the Hologram tumbler. I bet he got it switched with his sister this morning. Ha ha. Where was I? So from these concerns of mine, and being the pure unadulterated soul that I was, as a child, I had no other choice but to express my dissatisfaction through the acts of crying my lungs out, wrapping my arms to a lamp post, sticking my legs in between the gates, and biting the guard's ear; as I stepped into the school compound with my parents. The word unjust comes to mind whenever I'm brought back to the incident and be wrongfully accused of cowardice. That wasn't cowardice. That was merely an expression of angst and frustration over all that was not right with the system. Evidently, the Che Guevara in me rebelled like no other as I tried to slide my way out of the classroom window. Only to get my neck stuck in between the panes. Though the struggle, was all worth it. I simply had to fight, for my right. As the images of the past fade away, I was back to where I was. On my knees, I placed my hand on the boy's shoulder. And said to him... "Sit near the window without the panes. Just, run."
January 2009: Fireworks at the banks of River Chao Phraya... "2009 will be the year, @flyikkyfly. It will." February 2009: The Big Pink & Zhin, reborn. Brown Black Blues 40th Anniversary. Got our mojo working with the best audience ever. March 2009: Jakarta dan Bandung with MRSMPC schoolmates. 10 years since we first met and collectively hate Badol... 'til today. April 2009: Turning 26. Perhaps the biggest b'day bash I'll ever have. Thanks @izzudinabrahim, @syahrizan, @razzario and @flyikkyfly. Love. May 2009: Hanoi, Vietnam. Binging on pho overlooking the quaint French colonial buildings while talking about life with Freddie Kelate. June 2006: The Big Pink became Fed Hi. You know what it means. Some of you go through it everyday, to work. EP recording project begins. July 2009: Lost my laptop after some asshat broke into the house. Drafts of materials gone. Only to be found yesterday at the office PC. August 2009: I forgot what happened in this month. @razzario was still not funny that's for sure. September 2009: Lost my voice after going berserk at Safiz Hartamas when Adebayor ran 100m down the pitch to show some love to the Arses. October 2009: EPL Premier Skills. Sprained ankle, twisted knee, burned skin and loved it. Joined the Subang Jaya Community Youth League. October 2009: How could I forget. My first acoustic gig with Imran as Flattops. Daikanyama, Changkat BB. Lovely, lovely audience. You rule. November 2009: Sabah with the Godbros. Islands, beaches, mountains and jungles. Malaysians, please go there. Thanks @syahrizan and family. December 2009: @azaliasuhaimi :-) 2009 is the year then, @flyikkyfly.
Long weekends. You have to love them. An extra day off for you to treasure and cherish for it only comes as often as Bar Mitzvahs in China. Plus few could surpass the joy of waking up to your alarm clock and throwing it away instantly. Well at least for three minutes. Before the SpongeBob theme ("SpongeBob SquarePants! SpongeBob SquarePants! SpongeBob SquarePants! SpongeBob… SquarePants!") blares out of the TV, flushing away your deep slumber before you could even puff out your final snore. Enter cousin sleepover.  It was the school holidays. And just any other breaks, our household will host arguably the biggest Barbie showcase in the country; dwarfing those you’d usually see at the malls. You know, the endless racks of pink boxes stacking on top of each other into walls of magical fairies and dainty princesses that would apparently scare parents just as the Sun -- of all things -- would on the pale vampires of Twilight. Chaired by my sisters and attended by our cousins, whose cumulative age is barely half of mine, the gathering would be an elaborate celebration of the dressing and undressing of 11.5-inch tall plastic figures in their room, where the slightest sight of me, is forbidden. Unless I feel like stepping on miniature stilettos and cursing as I run away from their flying hairbrushes. And hangers. At other times though, i.e. when they need a ride to the mall, I'm more welcomed into their domain than the entire cast of High School Musical combined. Which is not too bad actually. It’s not everyday that you get to go out with six Hannah Montanas. And listen to Taylor Swift (and maybe sing a bit) in the car. And argue how Toy Story 3 won’t be out until June. And wait in front of Forever 21 for an hour. And explain to staff there how "No, I’m not a male nanny." They bring me back, however. They do. To the days when I would hide in the kitchen whenever I was at my cousins’. With hope that my parents would somehow, eventually, leave for home only to realize later that I wasn’t with them. And, for some other awesome reason, decided to leave me to continue playing with my cousins at their place for another week. Not to mention allowing me to not shower during the period. And maybe, you know, send in Geoffrey the Giraffe to shower us with a bagful of Ninja Turtles. Which is quite sad if it was, actually, the case… the forgetting about me part. Geoffrey and the Turtles are good. None of it ever happened. For most of the time I’d be dragged into the car. And sent right into the shower later. So, girls -- yeah, I know some of you are reading -- be thankful that your parents are kind enough to let you do sleepovers and have fun together. Even if it’s at the expense of me waking up at 7am to Miley Cyrus belting out "Best of Both Worlds". (How do you even wake up that early anyway?) For back then, things were a bit tougher on us. Apart from hiding in the storeroom, we had to, at times, pretend to be asleep, not without a pitiful posture, expecting our parents to go, "Aw, look at him dozing off all tired with Optimus Prime in his hands and half a candy still in his mouth..." "...well not this time, mister. Wake up, we’re taking off." Dangit. 
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 Photography by Azalia Suhaimi
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