Thursday, November 26, 2009

2-0 to the Arsenal

The walk from the tube. On your way to the stadium. There's a general sense of exuberance. Robbie Williams in the early noughties, singing Let Me Entertain You.

It should read "You earn your seat chaps, signed Roger & Rafa"

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Sunday, October 25, 2009

184. Freshmen

When I was young I knew everything, just another young punk who rarely took advice. Now that I'm older, and just that slightly bit wiser, I've come to the realisation that you can't have it all your way. You gotta go with the flow, roll with it, sometimes take the blows, suck it up a little. More importantly, you gotta pick your battles, and not wage war all your life. You'll just end up another prick with no friends. You can never be right all the time, face it. Swallow that ego a bit, grit your teeth, and be fucking flexible for once. Both in your personal life and at work.

Sunday, October 04, 2009

No matter how you read it



Enlarged: The best excellent food is homemade cakes in the after.

Saturday, August 29, 2009

183. District 9

No title was ever won in August. Fact. Only the hopelessly deluded, BN politicians, and smurfs would think otherwise.

Moving on, this past week has seen the release of the Best Film of the Summer, and judging from that underwhelming Avatar trailer, quite possibly the Best Film of the Year (though the likes of upcoming releases like Where the Wild Things Are and Moon may yet have a say). Neill Blomkamp's District 9 represents all that is grand and wondrous about genre film-making, and how it magical it can be if done right.

With a modest US30m budget, a little known director and an unknown cast, District 9 towers above all other so-called tentpole blockbusters that have been released this summer (excluding the latest Potter and Michael Mann's Public Enemies). It goes to show how a little money and a lot of guts and imagination can take you a long way, and shows how the opposite is true with crapfests like the latest offerings from Bay and McG.

Remember watching the first Matrix? Or experiencing Robocop and The Children of Men for the first time? All three are based in the sci-fi genre, but what made them great was it was so much more than the guns, robots and futuristic setting on display. What sets these films apart from turds like the first two Star Wars prequels and the latest Transformers and Terminator sequels is the fact that they draw you in make you care for what's going on, and make you not want to grit your teeth through another awesome, but ultimately hollow and stupid explosion and special effects set-piece. The effects in those former films (though mind-blowingly awesome) are just incidental to the story, and not the centrepiece. They are there because they serve the main plot and characters, and not the other way round.

Now going to the cinema should be for experiences like . It shouldn't be spending two hours in the dark thinking what the fuck you're doing there and wishing you'd never made the journey in the first place.

Watching District 9 was like discovering once again that there are truly great summer films, only if you wish to look hard enough, and keep an open mind about it.

One last thing, what's the deal with G.I. Joe? They pretty much screwed the entire Snake-Eyes/Scarlet/Storm Shadow dynamic that was so cool in the comics. A very big fuck-you to Stephen Sommers for that.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Top in August

Who else would it be but Arsenal.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

182. My Brilliant Season Predictions

This season, English clubs will be playing for domestic titles only. The EPL should go to Chelsea, unless SAF finds a way to sort Man U out with the preening one's absence. Liverpool are still a striker and creative midfielder short, and Arse will be up there challenging, but unlikely to finish strongly. Man City are unlikely to break into the Big 4 this season, their midfield currently lacks balance, and the likes of Wright Philips and Ireland are not exactly world class.

For Europe, it has to be Barca, and potentially Madrid, if they can sort themselves out in defence and midfield. They have all the right ingredients, mind, but the Pellegrini will have a handful in balancing and pleasing all his attacking forces, especially the once golden, now olden Raul. Guti leaving will be the best thing for them. If I were the coach, my formation for them would be a 4-3-3 as follows:

Casillas

Marcelo
Pepe
Albiol
Sergio Ramos

Xabi Alonso
Gago
Kaka

Ronaldo
Benzema
Robben

But hey, I'm just a guy whose sole experience in managing is through playing Football Manager (winning the Champions League 7 times in a row mind)

Watch this space

Wednesday, August 05, 2009

181. The True Measure of a Man

And I'm not talking inches here.

So, what is it? The size of his bank account? The status achieved through his career? A natural leader that people look up to and admire? The car he drives? Being constant unlike the moon? Being the greatest person in the world before the eyes of his children?

Probably all that, depending on where you sit.

I knew a guy once, during my uni days. A pretty decent guy, but oft to much unnecessary brooding and wandering about, lost within his thoughts. You could tell that he was never really present, always that somewhere else...probably in that distant landscape existing in his mind...anyway, this guy, in one of his more lucid moments, shared with me his view on the true worth of a man.

You see, he had lost a casual friend he knew during our uni days, a guy he occasionally jammed with, and who was apparently a killer guitarist. Now his friend unfortunately succumbed to diabetes, and though he did not know him or count him as one of his closest, he was still utterly devastated, as devastated as anyone could be. And for the first time in his life, he told me, he felt closer to death than ever before. It was as if this dark shadow fell without warning or reason, a doom that made him realise how insignificant he was in the grand scheme of things. And for a waking moment in his life, he said, he felt the presence of...how can one put it? Divinity. He felt closer to that divine Creator of all things glorious and terrible. And he knew like never before of his own mortality, and of the true worth of things.

And in that moment, he truly believed that the true measure of a man was, as he put it, the memory that he left behind...of how he would be remembered, probably a compatriot, not faultless, but someone who tried his best, and knew how to have a good time, and believed and would strive to achieve something wonderful in his life, to make a beautiful thing out of it, who would sing with a careless abandon, and constantly seek places where honey could be found.

Now, this man, as fallible as he is, and susceptible to a great many weaknesses, would always take the true path when it came to him, no matter how hard it would be, as he knew there could be no other. And it would give him comfort in the cold of night, even as there would be moments of restlessness before he slept. But during his slumber, there would be a blissful peace, for his conscience, and his soul, would be glad in the knowledge that the path he took would bring him closer to home whence the cold of that inevitable winter comes.

That's how he remembers his departed friend. And that's how he would want to be remembered.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

179. Michael Bay: Childhood Rapist Extraordinaire

Michael Bay has raped my childhood. And he didn't do it gently either. No no, he went the way of George Lucas, who before him had molested and violated those tender memories in the worse ways possible. But at least Bay is brutally honest about it, when he fucks you in the arse, he makes it known that he's fucking you in the arse. Unlike Lucas, who fucks you in the arse, and pretends that he's actually giving you a back rub, and that it's what you wanted in the first place (case in point: Greedo shooting Solo first, a quasi-scientific explanation for the Force i.e. midi-chlorianitisbullshitous, a semi-retarded young Anakin "Whippee!" Skywalker, a full-retard Jar Jar Binks, a CGI Yoda who looks like a cartoon and has the personality to match one, and the list goes on and on and on...).

So the first flick was pretty entertaining in a mindless sorta way, with Spielberg around to check Bay's over-indulgent impulses and excesses (too bad he couldn't restrain that weird almost homo-erotic military fetish Bay shares with James Cameron). Outside of all that "Bring the rain" macho-bullshit, you could clearly see Spielberg's influences in the story of a boy discovering that his car is giant kick-ass robot. Some scenes were just classic Spielberg; the first reveal of Bumblebee, the Bumblebee-Barricade chase and face-off, the arrival of the other Autobots, Prime's first transformation to his classic form...just pure genius.

Of course there was a whole load of wrong with in that flick too...all that army bullshit blatantly acting as a recruitment ad for the US military...impossible to decipher action scenes...the swapping of names and forms of the classic robots...but, all that in the end was forgivable...Transformers was a weirdly entertaining movie, and brought a warm fuzzy feeling deep down in seeing all those childhood legends brought to life. We could forgive Bay for his occasional lapses in judgement and some questionable choices. Now this flick...well, that's an entirely new thing altogether...oh my oh my oh my...where do I start?

After an entirely confusing prologue where we are introduced to the fact that the Decepticons were on planet earth many millennia ago in search of Energon (one which makes us start to wonder; hey now, wasn't it revealed that Megatron came before to look for that All-Spark thingy?), we quickly move on to a fairly awesome opening set-piece in Shanghai where Prime battles a huge motherfucking monster. Hell yeah, more of the same please. At least that's what we hope. What follows, unfortunately, is a descent into madness and darkness that will forever sear those fond childhood memories and destroy a bit of our souls in the process...

The first worrying signs...the introduction of the jive-talking Autobot twins; Mudflap and Skids...probably the most offensively racist stereotypes ever committed to film...and I shit you not on this...with their ape-like appearances (complete with buck-teeth and crazy eyes), the portrayal of these two characters are the realisation of every Klan member and closet White Supremacist world view of how blacks look and act (both can't read, speak in street slang and one even has a gold tooth for fuck's sake). And folks, it all goes south from here.

Midway through the film's first act, we have the Pretender Decepticon in the form of Alice, the hot college co-ed. Fuck, why transform into giant vehicles when you can transform to humans in the first place? Why oh why oh why oh why? Then, we have some lame-ass story about the original Primes and how only a Prime can kill the Fallen. Says who? Says the Fallen of course. Why? Heck if I know, it just is. Now who is the Fallen? Well, he was one of the original Primes who decided to go all Lucifer. Oh, and Megatron serves the Fallen, acting in an almost Padawan-like capacity. But wait, isn't Megatron Optimus' brother like it was revealed in the first movie? Er, wait, the robots breed in the first place? So says that Decepticon fella who now is an Autobot, who now walks with a walking stick, who can warp people from place to place, I fuck you not. But didn't we see that the Decepticons were a separate race bred in an almost hive-like environment? What the flying fuck man, I mean what the fuck?!?!!! It all doesn't make any sense. Shit just happens.

And we're expected to go with the flow. This is Bay's world after all. Where every girl is a scantily-clad skank and every marine is a blue-eyed Aryan poster boy or proud black American (playing second fiddle to the white Boss-man of course) who never harms those ignorant ragheads or chinks and are out to right the wrongs of the world (thus reinforcing the wholesome ideals and vision of every Republican out there).

So we get extended shots of the navy, of the air force, of the marines...all in glorious slow-motion...we see soldiers walking during the day, soldiers walking during the evening, soldiers walking at night, soldiers jumping out of planes, soldiers pouring out of boats, jets taking off and landing, navy ships sailing, crewmen running about, soldiers firing big guns, even bigger tanks firing their bigger canons, and even a bigger aircraft carrier firing the biggest motherfucking gun you'd ever see...you could almost sense Bay getting a hard-on filming those pristine uniforms, the hard machinery, the killer sizing-up of weaponry...Now who's got the biggest gun of them all? Bay seems to say: Why it's me of course! Now come ye geekboys of the world, enjoy this huge gun of mine while it pounds you up your nerdy arses as I violate you in unimaginable ways. You could almost hear his insane cackling in the background.

Then, we get the gratuitous nudity. And not the good kind, mind. With hotties like Megan Fox and that hot Pretender-robot chick, Bay opts to show us...now wait for it...robot scrotum. Shit you, I not. Fuck you, Bay will. You couldn't make this shit up.

So, what we're left with is bloody mess of a movie. No story, loud mindless action without any emotional pay-off, wafer-thin characters. Heck, am I asking too much to have at least a semi-comprehensible story while I watch giant robots beating each other up? I'm not asking for much here, I'm not expecting the Remains of the Day when I watch a movie called Transformers. But, for the love of all things good and pure, at least pretend like you're making an effort! This flaming turd makes the first movie feel like The Godfather in comparison. I bet Bay is thinking of introducing slant-eyed ninja robots or dread-locked pot-smoking robots in the third film as I write this, while finding a way to introduce robot manure too, and of course, more of those kinky guns and macho soldiers, probably without all that cumbersome uniform-shit to get in the way of those glistening sweaty hard bodies.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

178. Fortune's Fool

Thus said the heir of Montague, Shakespeare's immortally romantic and tragic protagonist.

Perhaps we are all are, to a certain extent. Some things happen beyond our control, and you just gotta flow with it. Lock and load, push and shove, rock and roll...all that, and maybe more.

We've all encountered a moment in our lives, when we realised, there are larger forces at work, unseen yet present. And in those moments, perhaps there is a little despair, a little joy, and makes us look back with a melancholy dispostion.

What's one to do? Be steadfast perhaps, always keep hope in light of hopelessness, keep joy in the face of desolation.

Keep those promises of your youth, lest we forget it in once the noontide of our glory has come to pass...and swear not by the moon, for it is inconstant.

Friday, May 22, 2009

177. Getting With It

News today on the Appeal Court's decision probably held no surprises for anyone. Even the most optimistic supporter would've figured that you could never really hope for a fair result against that well-oiled machinery of that controls everything. You just have to get with it. Painful as it sounds.

Like Man U's 3rd league title in a row. More painful than having iron hot needles inserted in your eyes. Or being buried in cement with only a blowpipe shoved down your throat as a breathing device, which is slowly but surely filled with termites. But it's done. Get with it.

Or the economy being absolute shite, and that there's nothing being done to address it. Other than the perception of something being done. Perception is not reality. Perception is what you see when you watch the news. But you just gotta get with it eh.

But there are things that have yet to happen that you don't have to bring yourself to stomach just yet. Outcomes that you can change or hope for the best. Like Barca beating Man U next week. Or a certain royal declaring for the dissolution of the state assembly. Or for the revolution of the mind, where perhaps the media-numbed masses open their eyes, raise their voices and take up arms against their oppressors. Hell yeah, I could dig that.

Thursday, May 07, 2009

Then there were 2

Bad couple of days for London clubs. Barca for the win.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

176. Magic

Initially, this post was supposed to have been titled Broken and it would have been written as a mournful ode to all things crappy with the world and life in general, and how things seem only to be getting worse without ever getting any better. Not even an escalation of things, but just a gradual, layering of shit that keeps coming and coming, slowly...but surely...making us not really aware to the fact...numb perhaps...desensitised by the media hyperbole and the superficiality of society in general...now that was a mouthful...

Thankfully, I never got down to finishing it up...mainly because it won't be anything that you haven't heard before, just another voice adding to the neverending drivel of meaningless words that drift in and out of cyberspace....disembodied and puerile. There's that, but a more telling reason is that I just couldn't bring myself to do it, 'cos all of a sudden, the venom's disappeared, and replaced with that irritatingly funky feeling that comes to us now and then. That magic mojo has been kindled again...you betcha...

It started with that flick Slumdog Millionaire, bloody hell...just when I was getting in a depressive funk of smouldering brooding and mysterious stares into nothingness, that feel-good crap puts a smile on my voice, and gets me to actually want to break out in exuberant song and dance. Then, there's that thing with the books Stardust and World War Z that I somehow managed to read while on a working holiday to Bangkok. Fucking hell, I actually finished reading them for once. Both of them. In one night. That pretty much doubles my tally for the last year or so. What's happenin' man? Something just stirred, that kind of magic that opens a window to the favourite things close to our hearts. It's been so long since there's been any of that. From Gaiman's beautiful Tolkien-esque prose describing the wonderful and melancholic world of Faerie that lay beyond Wall in Stardust to the sheer raw terror of Brooks' World War Z...the best ever feeling a good yarn could evoke was, well, evoked...getting you lost in the landscape of your imagination, and enjoying ever damn second of it...

Then there was Watchmen, a film nobody I knew could stomach. How can you not love the Watchmen? I mean, how could you not??? It has everything in it, from a naked blue man with a swinging penis to a superhero who couldn't get it up. Surely that's the kind of shit you'd want to see on the big screen. Ah well, go figure. I thought it was great. Not perfect, but great nonetheless. Just seeing everyone else shaking their heads trying to figure out what the fuck was going on was worth the entire five trips I made to the cinema to watch it. And what do you know, even watching that rom-com flick Definitely, Maybe made me grin like the glue-sniffing friend I used to know back then. How could any sane male enjoy a show like that?

Needless to say, the entire transformation from a hater to a groover was completed upon seeing the trailer to Where The Wild Things Are and checking out The Arcade Fire play their majestic anthem Wake Up live at numerous gigs (even one with Mr Labyrinth himself, David Bowie!). Both I've touched on already in my previous post, but just needed to mention them again 'cos I'm a freaking geek that way. That trailer just makes you wanna weep in joy, and it's nothing like I've ever seen before, capturing the very essence of our childhood, at least mine anyway (as I remember it)...the wonder, the fear, the reckless abandonment...and the sheer gritty dirtiness of it all! Holy flying shit on a paper airplane Batman! I swear to you, in those very few seconds, I was transported back to the time when catching mama blackjacks and jumping off roofs was the norm...and that song, freaking hell, it was like hearing Where The Streets Have No Name again for the very first time, nothing could ever beat that amazing first time when you hear something you just know is special...hell yeah, there's so much life there, and it literally spills out both the music and lyrics, literally grabbing you and driving you awash with an exhiliration that's too infectious to ignore, that buzzing hope that makes you wanna change the world and run out and hug everyone...

Who knows if the film will be any good, the trailer has already done it's magic...and just like the opening credits of Watchmen, that sticks no matter when comes next.

Do yourself a favour and check out the trailer and song. You can thank me later. Love you all! I'm still buzzing at this hour, can't freaking sleep!

Monday, March 30, 2009

175. Where The Wild Things Are

Check out this trailer for the new Spike Jonze flick. There's something so wonderfully exuberant and magically about the entire thing, makes you kinda feel like a kid all over again. Love it already! Now check out the full masterful song from the trailer here from Arcade Fire. The song's called Wake Up, and it's probably one of the greatest songs you've never heard. Just stirs that wild thing sleeping inside you don't it? Raise hell!

"Somethin’ filled up
my heart with nothin’,
someone told me not to cry.

But now that I’m older,
my heart’s colder,
and I can see that it’s a lie.

Children wake up,
hold your mistake up,
before they turn the summer into dust.

If the children don’t grow up,
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We’re just a million little gods causin rain storms
turnin’ every good thing to rust.

I guess we’ll just have to adjust.

With my lighnin’ bolts a glowin’
I can see where I am goin’ to be
when the reaper he reaches and touches my hand.

With my lighnin’ bolts a glowin’
I can see where I am goin’
With my lighnin’ bolts a glowin’
I can see where I am go-goin’

You better look out below!
"

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

174. Monkey's Paw

Kekekekekeke, the Monkey's Paw! And it's out to get you! All of you! Muahahahaha!

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

173. Random 2009 Stuff

So, the great American stimulus bill of '09 has been signed, sealed and delivered by Congress. Mr Obama's first notable act to revive the ailing economy. More spending. That makes sense. When any decent text-book economist would tell you that savings is the bedrock of sustainable recovery and growth.

The economy will slowly heal, it always does, as it re-adjusts and corrects itself. Then people will once again prosper, and find news ways to create wealth. Then, we'd face this shit all over again. There's always shit to be created whenever people find new ways to make money for themselves. And everyone's complicit. From the bankers to the buyers, from the rating agencies to the regulators. The whole system is flawed and broken. That's why history will always repeat itself.

So be it. That's just how things go.

Anyway, the Oscars. Is it me, or was it kinda, well, lame? Besides Mr Jackman's commendable effort as host, the rest of it just seemed, strangely subdued and no moments of real drama (besides the late Heath Ledger's predictable win and a moving tribute by members of his family). There was a great bit from Steve Martin and Tina Fey though, and a wonderful montage tribute for the departed stars. Mickey Rourke should've nabbed Best Actor. No two ways about it. The Academy does indeed work in mysterious ways.

Flicks...

Well, I've managed to see a few so far, and the best have been The Wrestler and Slumdog Millionaire. Both films couldn't be anymore different, but both are brilliant pieces of art that just re-inforce your belief in cinema after the usual turds that Hollywood dishes out.

Books...

World War Z by Max Brooks, best book I've read in recent months, which quite frankly hasn't been many. Stardust is another one, an oldie by goodie. You probably would've seen the film, but the book is so much better. More magical, and tinged with that deep sense of sadness that evokes Tolkien in some parts. Love it. World War Z is a barn-storming good read. Thrilling, horrific and absolutely epic in scope. Kinda reminds me of the joy I had while reading Stephen King's The Stand. It's the definitive take on the Zombie-holocaust genre. Good news is that it's being made into a flick by Brad Pitt's production company. Lukewarm news is that the director is the guy who did Quantum of Solace. Let's see if he can pull it off.

Ok, finally. Just a word of warning to you people out there. Make sure you cover your bare essentials when you sleep (wrapping yourself up like a mummy might help), cos you never know who's snapping pics of you in your unconscious state. Because of course being caught by a sneaker lover's phone camera while asleep automatically makes you a sexual deviant unqualified to serve in office. This is Malaysia after all. Where you can get caught pants down with a local celeb or blow your Mongolian lover to hell and still be the authority on all things moral and decent. You just gotta love this country.

Monday, February 16, 2009

172. The Blues

Ho-hum, here we are well into 2009. So what's new? Economic turmoil, conflict in the Middle East, war in Sri Lanka, greedy corporations asking for bail-outs, and closer to home, corrupt politicians and cops up to their usual shenanigans. Ahhh, it feels like 2008 all over again.

Thank God for the insanity of the EPL to keep the mind off things. Particularly Chelsea, oh beloved Blues. Out goes a respected World Cup winner, in comes a no-necked Dutchman with a liking for incessant barking and who happens to just look, ohhh, just a few marbles short of normal. And let's not forget about those eyes shall we, those mind-boggling looney eyes...

Truth be told, a crack pot who hears voices in his head might just be the remedy to jump start Chelsea's season again, giving much-deserved kicks up the backsides of those overpaid and lazy egos floating about the dressing room. Not talking about anyone in particular here, oh let's just say his name starts with a "D", and ends with "-rogba".

Ok, back to the nonsense of Scolari's sacking. So, let me get this straight. You hire a manager of international pedigree, pay him a King's ransom, promise him funds to breathe new life in an aging squad, more importantly, you promise him flair players to inject magic into a functional squad devoid of flair. So you get him a swashbuckling rightback and a little midfield magician who may just be past his prime a bit. It's fine, cause the crown jewel is on his way, he of the infinite stepovers, Robinho. Your new manager tells him how crucial this acquisition is. And you're confident that the deal will be done. So confident, in fact, that you start printing jerseys with his name before his current club actually agrees to a transfer. Talk about confidence. Heck, you're freaking Chelsea, and no one will get in your way.

Finally, when another club with even more millions hijack your bid, you refuse to pay a few million quid more for this crucial player. Brilliance, sheer brilliance.

This, when you paid 12 million for an average rightback, 24 million for a midget winger from Mancherster and...and this takes the cake...what was it, 17 million (including the settlement with Man U) for one Obi Mikel? Someone who's undoubtedly half the player Diarra is (a player sold for 2 million to Arsenal, and probably ten times more to Real Madrid).

Who is at the heart of this insanity? Which pea-brained retard would sanction such wretched decisions? Why, it's Peter Kenyon of course...transfer deal extraordinaire...remember how he cocked up the Ronaldinho to Man U deal a few years ago? Well, consistency is surely his forte. Please lord, let us be rid of this evil, forgive us the sins of the past (the sackings of Vialli and Scolari; the delay in tying up Zola's contract for another year, the signings of Borgarde, Wright-Philips, Obi Mikel, Kalou, del Horno; the sale of Robben). Rid us of this taint, that threatens to corrupt and lead us into the unending blight...

We need a new saviour, we need the magical no. 25 to return, and lead us once again into the Promised Land, a land flowing with milk and honey.





Would you trust this psycho to run your team?

Sunday, January 25, 2009

saatchi gallery

I am whatever you say i am
If i wasn't, then why would i say i am
...it's just the way i am.

Monday, January 05, 2009

Saturday, January 03, 2009

Mamma mia

FINALLY.

I got hold of them. Behold Air Jordan XI and XII.

Let me introduce ourselves.

AJXI
Patent leather makes its first ever appearance in basketball kicks and the result is one of the most beloved Jordans of all time.
Few would argue this is not the best shoe in the world. The only question is - can a shoe have soul?



AJXII

Inspired by 'Nosshiki', the Japanese Rising Sun flag and 19th century women's dress boot, this shoe set a new direction in style and technology. Not one of my fave, but awesome still.





Don't hate playas. Haha!

Friday, January 02, 2009

Comparison is the death of happiness


And i wanna be happy.

May 2009 make u a better person.