For Dream, We Can
January 26, 2008

It’s all too often the case already whenever we’re out eating. We’ll be at this table, all 28 of us all guys, and in between the banters and worthless discussions, we have our eyes everywhere looking for attractive members of the opposite gender within sight.

If she’s alone, we’ll talk about all the possibilities; all the things that we could do to flatter her, only for her to leave before we could actually execute whatever bollocks we spewed out. If she’s with another guy, we’ll be allright if the guy looks allright. If that’s not the case however, you’ll hear the most horrible words coming out of these guys; from the Elephant Man to Gary Neville and everything in between.

Though I’m not much of a goody two-shoes myself, I try to instill the idea of, at least to myself, not ripping on strangers no matter how fun it could be. Yes estimating the number of mirrors he’d broken can be amusing but just look at the girl he’s canoodling with. Broken mirrors fix themselves whenever she’s around. You do have to give it to him, one way or the other.

The egoistical beings in us deny the fact that jealousy and envy play a role. That and the rather clichéd psychological state of ‘inferiority complex’. Mainly, it boils down to the innate, natural wants in us all. Not necessarily the need, but the want to be with someone physically appealing.

A bit of Dr. Phil cock-talking for you right there. Realization is the only remedy.

Whenever I see a good looking girl, I need no convincing that she would rather grow balls (out of her chin) than go out with me. I can’t help but see the guys throwing the same amount of abusive chant my way if I was that guy walking with the eye-catching lady. Through time I learned how to control my ambitions. You know, aim for the sky but don’t get too bogged down if you go no further than your room ceiling.

Fair enough Jessica Alba would hang herself after coming home from a date with me. I’ll make enough money just so the next girl doesn’t commit suicide. It worked for football players. They give hope to run of the mill looking men worldwide. And for that I adore them. Carlos Tevez, you earn every cent of the £182, 938.23 you get every week.

Hollywood has been a great help too. It wasn’t until recently that you finally, actually see Jack Black make sweet love to Kate Winslet on the big screen. Prior to that, the only movie that had ever given me hope was Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. Even then the Beast turned into a decent looking guy at the end of the movie. Apart from these ‘saviors’, I should say, we could only dread listening to women throwing praises in the truckload at the Clooneys, Firths, Grants and McConaugheys of the world.

So the next time you feel like slitting your wrist looking at average men walking hand in hand with gorgeous women, channel your negative energy into a pathway that would turn them to positive energy. These men aren’t our enemy. They are our friends; our hope, portraying the things that we are capable of. For dream, we can.

Eight Random Facts
January 21, 2008

Well what in the name of Johnny B. Goode are eight random facts about you? Najib tagged.
  1. Whenever I’m at the laundromat, I like to steal undergarments off female strangers’ laundry baskets, mix them with my own laundry in the washing machine and just watch it for pleasure before sneaking them back into their baskets.
  2. Nah, not really. I couldn’t think of eight facts so I thought I’d write seven real ones and one messed up fictional one up on top just for giggles. Judd does it for real though.
  3. There’s only one CD in my PlayStation 2 and it’s Winning Eleven. Other games are forbidden. It’s the only game worth playing and it separates the men from the boys. It’s the modern equivalence of the ancient duels of Japanese samurais, English knights and Roman gladiators. It makes WoW look like Tetris. *run*
  4. I have a problem with keeping my amusements to myself. Whenever I see something funny (gay couples, transvestites, you know) I have to breathe in and out of a paper bag to maintain my composure; otherwise I’ll just burst. If only I had the willpower to control my laughter. I’ve lost count the number of girl-dating tomboys who tried to smash my head with their scooter helmets already.
  5. When I was 14, I was banned from watching professional wrestling for putting my then 11 year old brother unconscious after giving him a Tombstone Piledriver. No I wasn’t daft enough to do it on the floor. I landed his head on the sofa... not realizing that it would reach a wooden plank at the bottom; scariest day of my life. Well I did feel a bit like The Undertaker doing it to Kane nevertheless.
  6. The pinky of my left hand goes dead whenever I play the guitar. I can’t fret any note with it; let alone do mean hammer-ons. But no ladies don’t run away... with the guitar off, my fingers are all fine and spanky I mean, dandy.
  7. I made it to the Under-10 school football team when I was 9; was the only one too. Impressive eh? Not quite... the rest of the team hated me. They made me lift the heaviest guy during training and barely passed the ball my way during games. Twats.
  8. Just as the disability to control my laughter, I can’t control my cursing very well either. Those who have played futsal or basketball with me would know. I’ve since mellowed down and evidently, it has improved my game; albeit still being on the mediocre side of things.
  9. Last but not least, I have a gap between my front teeth; to the delight of my friends. I used to think it was pretty cool as I can do that human water fountain thing. Not anymore when you have pricks as friends. They just can never quit pointing out the gap whenever girls are around. Then again I suppose they didn’t really have to; it’s as obvious as Lionel Richie at a KISS concert.
I’m supposed to tag another eight. Can you post it up on your blog and say I tagged? Sweet.

January 17, 2008

I was introduced to the Internet during a time when a lot of soul searching was going on in my life. The year was 1995 and I was 13. It was the early days of my teenage years and just as my peers, I was eager to explore a lot of things.

The Internet came at a pretty pertinent time. Making discoveries was my drug and the Internet was my window to the world; a tool for me to learn one new thing after another. It was a bottomless pit of knowledge; an abyss of information, if you will. My curiosity was beyond normal and often I would be confused, and maybe a little hasty in making decisions. Pretty much like Steve McClaren when he was at the helm of English football.

This is the story of my Internet life pre Firefox, Google, YouTube, Facebook, Flickr and everything else Web 2.0. This is the bittersweet story of my early days with man’s greatest modern invention, the Internet.

It all started on a sunny Saturday afternoon after we’d just got back from football. A friend thought we ought to drop by his place to check out these pictures he found on the Net. Some of us thought he was talking about a magazine but having watched that Sandra Bullock movie The Net earlier, I knew it had something to do with computers.

Strangely, once everyone was in front of the PC, he asked one of us to make sure that the coast is clear and no one else was within sight. And I was kind enough to guard the area. It wasn’t long until I was the only one making any sort of physical movement. The guys huddling the PC made no sound, their eyes straight at the monitor. It was just natural for me to leave my guard post and join them. Much to my amazement, the monitor was filled with little thumbnails of Ginger, Posh, Baby and Sporty Spice in minimal clothing.

“Hope the thumbnails are good enough... I can’t wait for the full-sized pics to finish downloading. I know you guys fancy Scary Spice but sorry dudes, I ain’t into that hahahaha...”

Before he could finish ripping on us, up comes a voice from the stairs,

“Boooyys, is everything allright up there? Come and have a drink..!”

Panicking, we scrum over the monitor and one of us unplugged the main switch. Nobody uttered nothing as we sipped Ribena off our glasses. But I remember vividly the sinister smiles on our faces.

It was either one of two back then; Jaring or TMNet, 28k or 56k, IE or Netscape, Infoseek or AltaVista, Yahoo! or Hotmail. Bar Yahoo!, the rest are now buried in the Internet jargon graveyard.

I bet many would have ‘change first e-mail address’ in their itinerary should they travel back in time. At least in my case, the excitement of having my first ever e-mail address took away all the sense I had in me. Putting my real name on it would be lame, or so I thought.

I was a huge wrestling fan back then; Rocky Maivia being my favorite. So my first e-mail address was, and I’m very sorry for this, He later changed his stage name to The Rock, to my despair. My second e-mail wasn’t one I was too proud of either. Eminem’s dirty dozen, D12 just broke into the scene and obviously the username ‘d12’ had already been taken. The genius in me thought I was cool enough to be a part of the entourage and thanks to the Bone Thugs-N-Harmony number ‘Mind of a Souljah’, I went for (Argh!).

Soon after, and with a bit of growing up, I decided to call it quits with the dodgy pseudonyms. had these amazing e-mail domains up for free;,,,, I could’ve even chosen I chose

Unlike Judd, Ticub and Bopi who spent their teenage years searching for the non-existent nude pictures of Natalie Imbruglia, I tried to play it safe when it comes to searching on the web, especially from the home PC. I kept it clean; searching only for guitar tabs. It didn’t take long for me to freak out though. I was on my way to school with a neighbor one day. And bugger said,

“I found this neat stuff online man. Brace yourself... Cindy Crawford in absolutely... nothing! On a sandy beach.”

“Hold on, I thought you said you have no Internet at home.”

“I don’t. I used your Internet while you were getting ready just now.”

“YOU WHA..?!”

From that moment, I spent every second at the mailbox waiting for the Internet bill; thinking that they will list down the sites that you go to. You know, like how phone bills list down the numbers you called. Never been more glad I was wrong.

Soul Plane
January 09, 2008

My parents once told me that when I was a mere two year old and the three of us were flying back to Malaysia, I created so much trouble that the pilot had to make an emergency landing. Not really but it was that bad. I was crying and whining and shouting and screaming non-stop for the whole 14-hour flight.

Evidently, the other passengers and the flight attendants were very displeased by the ruckus that I was making. An attendant even went the distance and yelled at me to shut the hell up; her effort bearing no fruit. Everyone on the plane wanted to throw me out of the window; except for my parents of course... well, maybe.

Little that I know, if I had not pissed so many people off during that flight, I wouldn’t have to endure the curse that they have cast upon me; a curse that would run until today.

I’ve been fortunate enough to experience many more flights after that. I flew solo for the first time when I was 16 and just like any other normal guys my age, I couldn’t get my eyes off the lovely MAS flight attendants. Then again I suppose any guy at any age couldn’t get their eyes off any pair of lean legs struggling hard to move in a very tight kebaya. But I was realistic, the closest I’ll ever get to these fine ladies is when they’re arranging the bags on the overhead compartment (insert smiley face).

So the next best thing a guy could wish for is to be seated beside a fine lass. You know, not really someone leading to having ‘They met on the MH 95...’ as the first slide of your wedding video. An acquaintance, or a friend rather for you to reduce your sausage fests/week rate. Someone you can text after a few days and ask out for a harmless cup of coffee. Someone you could enjoy a live band with on a Saturday night. Someone who may be friends with a host of blistering hot supermodels.

When it comes to seating arrangements however, especially when you’re flying alone, you can only rely on fate to determine who you’ll be sitting next to. And after a fair number of times flying alone, I started to realize a pattern that may well be caused by the curse that I was talking about.

One flight after another I’ve been destined to sit beside guys, and guys only. When I’m at the window seat there’ll be a guy in the middle seat. And I need not explain who are surrounding me when I’m at the middle seat. I did try to alleviate the severity of the curse by requesting the aisle seat. But even then there’ll be another guy seating at the aisle seat beside me.

I suppose it’s not too bad if they are proper guys; City fans, Blues musicians, comedians, filmmakers and whatnot. That is not the case unfortunately. I’ve sat next to people so obnoxious, their wives follow them to work just to avoid kissing them in the morning (credit: Ric Turner, you’re a genius).

Indeed, I’ve sat next to them all; the guy with bad breath, the guy who keeps on repeating the same story, the guy with body odor, the guy who wouldn’t share the armrest, the guy who talks in his sleep, the guy who couldn’t stop picking his nose, the guy who complaints about every little thing, the guy who reads aloud while reading the newspaper (half of it covering your face), the guy who cried watching Bridget Jones, the Man United supporter... the whole list will crash the server.

To make it worse, the departure gate will always be flooded with beautiful ladies. Which only makes it look more promising for the curse to go away and for me to finally sit beside a Meg Ryan lookalike on the plane. Only for me to realize that the spell has yet to be broken; even a Roseanne Barr lookalike wouldn’t sit beside me.

I struggled to find my way out, braving the jungles and seas meeting many gurus to find the key to unlock this spell. I tried taking other means of transportation instead but even then, the bus or train would look like a German brätwurst festival.

Who knows, the other passengers of that LAX - KUL flight in ’84 may have just got back from a witchcraft convention in LA. One can only wonder and I can only keep on looking a remedy to this pain, if you will. Googling ‘breaking spells’ would only return ‘Did you mean: getting a life’ at the top of the page, sadly.

Make Way
January 03, 2008

I'd seen many zombie movies. Dawn of the Dead, Evil Dead, Night of the Living Dead, Dead Alive, House of the Dead, Win a Date with Tad Hamilton; seen 'em all.

And every time I see one, I can't help but ask myself, what if this whole zombie thing happens in my neighborhood? Often though, I would answer the question myself by being convinced that pigs would fly before anyone around KL actually turns into a zombie.

Aren't we all supposed to think that way, anyway? Zombies, ET, Robocop, Alien VS Predator, Transformers, Sasquatch... they can all only happen in the West. And that's the bottom line, because Hollywood said so.

What the George Romeros and Sam Raimis of Hollywood aren't aware of however, is that over here, lives a group of people that makes zombies look like Snow White's dwarfs. They are as ruthless as Austin Powers after a month long sexual abstinence and as senseless as Triumph, the Insult Comic Dog.

They care for no one but themselves and show no mercy. And the most horrifying part about them is that they are minimally disguised. They don't limp, they aren't covered in shit and they don't look like Michael Jackson. They look like any one of us and without knowing it, we might be one of them!

Fortunately, they don't feast on human flesh and blood. What they do feast on instead, is your way out of automated doors; be it the lift, the train or the bus. They will do all it takes to make sure that they get in before you can even think to step out.

Can't believe it took me six paragraphs to get here but what I actually wanted to talk about are people who couldn't let others get out first before storming in.

You'd surely been on a train queue at some point, haven't you? After an exhausting wait, it's midnight and the 10pm train finally arrives. You're ready to get on board and before the door could even open more than an inch, you shove yourself into the train to be in the way of passengers who now have to squeeze their way out, in between the crowd.

Told you we might be one of them.

Unless they are women with chests to match that of Dolly Parton's, I do mind whenever people get in my way when I'm trying to get out. Though I don't practice Elizabethan manners, any Average Joe would find it rather improper to block people who are coming out of the door; let alone running in like a rhino.

It's a real challenge figuring out their objective in storming themselves so abruptly. Even if they are already in the lift/train/bus, the thing will not move until those who want out are out and those who want in are in. There's the 'open' button to keep the lift door open and any decent driver/conductor wouldn't move the train or bus unless everyone is in place.

The thing that would naturally irk me the most is the face that some people put on while storming in. I can't really find a word for it but the facial expression says it all. They have that snobbish douchebag 'not giving a damn' inbred twat face thing going on. That, usually after hitting my shoulder or banging my knees with his/her stupid shopping bag.

I would die a happy man should I one day end a World War, abolish poverty or put an end to global warming. But none of those are within my reach so I will still die happy if I could call upon us all, to do this. The next time we're queuing up to enter a lift/train/bus, calm down, take a deep breath, let everyone out and then gingerly swan in through the door with a broad smile in our faces. And everyone's day shall proceed.

Let's make the world a better place to live in.

Photography by Azalia Suhaimi

  • Asrif, b. 1983
  • Subang Jaya, Malaysia
  • asrifomar[@]gmail[.]com
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