Tipping Points

There's a business/marketing/advertising jargon that we like to call the "Tipping Point". It's that pivotal something that either turns an opinion, creates a decision, or alters perception to either win, lose, open, close, like, dislike something.

My obeservations of Tipping Points in KLCC over the weekend are as follows:

a. Guy in KLCC carrying a Gucci shopping bag : Cool

b. Guys in a group in KLCC carrying Gucci shoppingbags : Gay

a. Girl in short shorts and flats in Chinoz : Rich gal having Sunday brunch

b. Girl in short shorts and stilettos in Chinoz : Sugar daddied slut

a. Guy in Bottega Venetta giving helpful comments to female partner : Schmuck

b. Guy in Bottega Venetta giving understanding nod to other guys on the sofa : Comrade

a. Guy who helps carry girlfriend's 8 shopping bags : Valiant

b. Guy who helps carry girlfriend's handbag : Pansy fool

a. Guy having Double Espresso at Starbucks with 3 hot girls : Stud

b. Guy sipping on Vanilla Surprise with whipped cream with 3 hot girls : Sistah

a. Guy with Man U jersey on : Supporter

b. Guy with Man u jersey AND Man U cap on : Dork

a. Guy in shirt and tie with one handphone : Businessman

b. Guy in shirt and tie with 2 handphones : Malay businessman having an affair / affairs

So remember guys n gals, you might wanna be mindful of sending out the wrong kinda message to the audience of the brand that is you.

Let's Get Involved!

I was on my ceramic throne today (i.e. toilet bowl for you simpletons) reading a copy of my wife's I'm Pregnant! magazine. The article was about what to expect during labour. I learnt a great many thing there, on the crapper. Among them was the ever famous "you men think you have it easy!" subject of labor pains and contractions.

In my foolish determination to be a an A-grade caring partner to a 6 month pregnant woman, I wanted to be extremely supportive when that moment will eventually arrive. In order to do that, I obviously have to learn as much as I can about what she will or may go through.

Birthing contractions get closer and closer as the baby is nearing the time for it to be born. Contractions can last for 2-3 minutes each time.

And then I had an epiphany.

2-3 minutes and an explosion of audibly wretched moments later, I emerged out of the toilet (sanitized of course), as the most sensitively understanding and caring husband and birthing partner in the whole world.

Self Conscious Self Conscience

Have u ever had the feeling of being your self conscience's self conscience? I think I have a pretty symbiotic relationship with mine. Sometimes, I question my self conscience so much that the idiot has to take time off to get back to me on certain things.

"I don't think you should stay here for the night. It'll get messy. Best to politely call it a night and head back home."

"Are you kidding me? Aren't you tired of our left hand already?"

"Well...Umm...I..wait...I guess.....you're right, dude. Holy shit dude, what was I thinking?!. Onward!"

Sometimes it feels like my self conscience is losing confidence in his abilities. He sometimes feels like I should do this, but then again, he leaves it up to me. Nowadays, he even goes as low as being impressed by my foolish actions.

"Dude I can't believe you're actually smoking in the car! Like, she's gonna kill you! And you're not the least bit worried! You're so awesome."

Some days, he goes a bit overboard.

"Look, I know it's probably not right of me to suggest this, but since most of the staff are out for meetings, you think it's okay if we surf some porn?"

Have you ever toyed with the idea that we could actually be our conscience's conscience in an alternate yet parallel universe where he is the actual person?

And if so, have I failed to keep my guy on the right path? Or did he fail me first?

What do you think?

"Dude. Honestly? I have no idea. But for just once could you please shut the f*ck up?! Get outta my head, will ya?"

Surf's Up

"Corruption doth appear in land and sea because of the evil which men's hands have done so that He may make them taste a part of that which they have done in order that they may return to the right path." - The Holy Quran 30:41

Wave after wave of biblical-proportioned shite is upon us, dear mankind.

There was the wave of terror, violence and paranoia of 9/11

There was the devouring tsunami of Boxing Day

And now the Financial Tsunami that are drowing us in our own earthly riches.

But who gives a toss right? Because it's apparently more interesting to know whether Muhyiddin gets enough seats to contest. And apparently it's more exciting to find out if Norman Hakim really shagged that 20 year old slut and took 45 minutes to actually get dressed with time to kill for a fag and a cuddle before opening the doors for the religious cops.

Ignorance is bliss, no? Only if you know whats going on and choose to be ignorant.

For me, I know enough to know that shit has hit the fan and sliced into enough tiny projectiles to be redistributed evenly across the whole room to know that I choose to not know what to do about it.

And like a respected business partner I know used to always say, "If you don't know what to do even when someone tells you how to do it, just sit around all day and twiddle your thumbs. At least you're not screwing up something".

How did we get into such a mess? Man is a destroyer in nature. Even when we build things, we always tend to be the one responsible for its destruction. We built the concept of finance and the financial institution and globalization and economic necessity. And that's where I believe our downfall is.

We have turned means into necessity.

The creation of money were a means of transaction to get what we need and want. Back in the day, getting what you want could either mean feeding and cleaning out cow dung for 3 years before you enjoy a good steak, or spearing a fanged beast for a new pair of leather kicks.

Since then, we've fucked around with it so much that it gets transacted, invisibly, between god-knows-where to hell-should-i-know-who. And before you're even sure you had it to begin with, someone tells you that you've just lost it all. Then you really start thinking about spearing someone.

So what's next, then?

In true cheerleading fashion some may chant "Bring It On!" and shake our pom-poms in the air.

For some, it will be a call to roll up their sleeves, grit on a toothpick and say "Wow, that was a great party. Now help me clean up this shit".

Some will say "Oops. Yeah, shouldnt've done that. Tee-hee-hee"

Most in Malaysian Politics will say "Kita Okkkkk...! 5% for next year! Even if Singapore and Australia are announcing negative or 0%. And so what if the whole of Iceland is bust. By the way, Mawi nak kahwin kat stadium youuuuu!!"

But I really, really, really hope...that most of us will start to realise that when they say "Damn it to hell!" in the movies, it literally means nearly everything worldly that we have or are trying to achieve in our lives. For damning us to hell, they will.

"And others have confessed their faults, they have mingled a good deed and an evil one; perhaps Allah will turn to them (mercifully); surely Allah is Forgiving, Merciful." (Qur'an 9:102)

Good night, god bless, and don't be too hard on yourselves. We're all screwed at the moment. But at least be that guy that knows he's screwed, rather than the guy who's always tricked into picking up the bar of soap. Every single time.

The Other Woman.

Last Friday morning I woke up with the anticipation of a 13 year old geek about to meet his mysterious european pen pal behind the delicate cursive handwriting he's been lusting over for the past 3 months.

After dropping off the wife and the just recently-kicking unborn at her office, I headed off to my own. The next 2 hours at work seemed like watching Squawk Box on mute. Action was happening all around, but my senses were on overdrive only underneath my quiet exterior. My mind was somewhere else. I had that blank yet suspiciously smirked face of a pimply 15 year old with a porn tape in his backpack and parents that were going out to dinner that night.

She was waiting for me. And I know she was ready. Her manager called me to say so.

But I had to plan it discreetly. So no one would be the wiser. But I needed a means to get there. People were sure to notice my absence if the CRV wasn't parked in its bay.

Finally I hitched a ride with the brother, after much negotiation. We travelled North-West, where I was told to pick her up.
Once dropped off at the door, I could barely bring myself to push through the glass doors. I didn't know how I'd react upon meeting her for the first time. I knew what she looked like, sure, from all the pictures of her I've been lusting for so long. But to actually meet face to face for the first time?

Her manager greeted me as soon as I walked in, and without further hesitation, brought me to the usually-off-limits room at the back. She was still getting ready, and I could watch from the other room. I did, and the turn-on was extremely overpowering that I decided to come back later...when she was ready for me.

I got a lift to a hotel nearby, to calm my senses. With an order of gyoza and a nicoise salad, I weighed the enormity of what I had set out to do. It seems so wrong. But not everyone is as lucky. It was the perfect crime that had not happened yet. To have complete happiness at home, and yet indulge myself in another seduction.

After an hour, I realised it was time. Back through the glass doors, North-West. Manager greets. But this time, she was ready. And waiting at the lobby.

Gorgeous.

Her eyes, as bright in the day as they would undoubtedly be in the darkest of nights. Her lips, framing her perfect face.
The curves.

Ohmygod.

Curves that accentuated her shoulder line so perfectly.

And to top it all off, the manager reminds me, in a whisper, that she can walk like a lady, and be ridden like a freak, if I knew the right buttons to press.

Ladies, and gentlemen, it was time to take my new Audi A4 B8 1.8 TFSI home.

Welcome home, Au-Au.

The Art Of War

The key to successful marketing is to eliminate the competitors from our target's mindspace. What this means is literally kicking any memory, positive feelings, or any association to the competitor's brand, ads, logo or sloppy slogans, out of the way.

At a recent birthday party, I had a very interesting conversation with an ex-colleague of mine. She got to the topic of how she managed to successfully conquer the full capacity of her (then guy-she-wanted-to hook-up-with, turned boyfriend, and now husband)'s brain by destroying the competition.

Story starts with her already sort of knowing the guy, and they were at a party . Enter intelli-skank, in the form of a 5'10", overly-rebonded hair executive of a woman who snaps her neck at a 40 degree angle everytime she laughs just so that her hair could demonstrate it's fully conditioned salon-treatment-at-home look (no offence, Vidal Sassoon - or was it VO5?).

Upon eavesdropping, my friend learns that intelli-skank was going full-on about politics, the decline of the world's social structure and the financial crisis befalling developed nations. The whole time whiplashing a few waiters passing by and annoying the rest of the world with her put-on Chelsea accent and glowing in her intelli-skankness.

A smart strategic planner such as my friend knew that the only way to counter offensive a competitive intruder is to lie in wait beyond the grass plains like a lioness and let all the hot air steam out before striking for the jugular. And true enough, the hot air subsided as intelli-skank excused herself to go to the ladies.

My friend proceeded to walk up to Mr. Oblivious-to-fake-skanks and clinked her glass with his and gestured for a toast. "What were you guys talking about?". "Politics. World hunger. She really was very enthusiastic about those topics. I could see by the way she was telling me all about those things."

My friend nodded, then put her glass on the bar top, and pulled his ear as close to her lips as possible.

"I like porn."

Brilliant.

Holy Crap

Ever had one of those dreams where everything was completely fucked up and you're just screaming to yourself to wake up? I usually do. The funny thing is, most of the times, you know you were dreaming.

For me - either if the scene had me alongside Indiana Jones trying to solve an ancient riddle before the cave was completely filled with water and poisonous sea snakes, or if it was me getting low,low,low,low on the dancefloor with a Beyonce lookalike booty but then pleasantly surprised with the face of Omarosa (from The Apperentice) - I always had a 50/50 emotion of utter terror that shit was going down, yet the most peaceful inner comfort that i knew it was just a dream and that sooner or later, I'd wake up.

That feeling, my friends, is like getting an anaphylactic shock while doing the horizontal lambada. Or like throwing up on the 8th round of salt-tequila-lime and knowing that after the horrible ordeal, you're set to go for no. 9.

That's why we probably enjoy The Grudge (1 and 2) or Final Destination (1,2 and killer No. 3!), Knowing the fact that after shamelessly gripping your girlfriend's thighs and squealing every 7 minutes under your own fag-breath, you can safely walk out of the cinema and tell yourself that it was a good movie. But most importantly, that it was a movie.

But sometimes, you come face to face with a situation in real life that makes you wonder, or wish, that it too, was a dream. And you wait and wait and wait for that "Ah-ha!" moment just like the one in your dream (as you strangle one poisonous snake with your left hand while helping Indy fit another Aztec stone to solve the deadly riddle with your right hand) when you sheepishly smile in your sleep and say to yourself "It's just a dream! Ah hahahahahahahaha" - But that moment never comes.

And the longer you wait, the more sea snakes come hissing your way. And you know Indy can't perform when snakes are involved.

No Dorothy shoes to click, no Ziggy (from Quantum Leap by the way) to consult, and no Doraemon to pull a magic door from his magic pocket.

Shit.

But hey, look at the bigger picture. Our whole life in existence could just be one big dream. 'Cause life doesn't begin at 40 or 50 apparently. It begins in the afterlife.

Good luck to you on this one.

The Swing Of Things

My neighborhood buddies came over to the house for Hari Raya yesterday. It was a blast.

We laughed like the old days. The eating and drinking became just a-matter-of-fact.

Old jokes remained as fresh as ever. And just as funny as they were 5-7 years ago.

The topics of the newer conversations circled around due dates, his daughter's habits and refreshingly enough, plans for what excuses to give the wives for the next karaoke session.

Time seemed to zoom back 10 years yesterday. Down there, on my driveway, smoking and talking crap. With our wives strategically compounded in the living room upstairs.

Good friends are unlike your golf swing. When you haven't played in awhile, you usually have to take some time to get your swing back. With friends like mine, no matter how long it's been since we last hung out carelessly, we have a swingin' good time right at the get go.

By the way that picture there is about 2-3 years old. So there...

Cheers, Boys!

Guilt Ridden Grown Up

The older you get, the more baggage you seem to collect to add to your collection of should have, must have, could have and would have.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not talking about the Sophie Kinsella type situations (though I swear to you I don't read Kinsella. Bleuch)

I'm talking about how being an adult and moving on often puts you in precarious positions if you stop to think about it sometimes.

As Eid Mubarak approaches, I can't help but think of all the things I would have been doing if and when I was younger.

If I was younger and still living with my parents, I would be spring cleaning the house right about now. Helping my mom roll up the old carpets, spread out the new ones. Perch on a high stool to wipe off the dust of the fan fins. Bring out the superpowered Rainbow vacuum and suck out all of last year's mess in the living room. Back then I hated it, right now I miss it. And also feel guilty for not being there to do it.

If I was younger and still gallivant with my buddies day in and night outs, I would be out at some stall somewhere, chugging coffee flavoured sugar liquids at the mamak stall, talking shit and trying to come home just about 5:30 am before Imsak. Though it was tiring and often mundane, right now I miss it. And also feel guilty for not having the time to call and hang out.

If I was younger and still a bachelor, I would be thumbing away on my mobile wishing every prospect on my list festive greetings in hopes of getting someone somewhere a reply to acknowledge my existence so that I can feel good about myself and feel less lonely. Back then I yearned it, right now I dont miss it at all.

Instead, I'm lying in bed next to my beautiful pregnant (sleeping) wife and my unborn daughter, waiting to drift into sleepiness so I can hug them both to sleep.

And maybe tomorrow I'll vacuum our own house and wipe our fan fins.

And maybe tomorrow I'll hang out with both of them till 5:30 am before Imsak.

Life comes and pulls you forward. It's always good to look in the rearview mirror at times to remember what's important. But you have to always keep your eyes on the road to get to where you're going. And not get hit by an SUV, if you're lucky.

Happy driving!

How (Not) To Break Up With Someone

Feeling a bit nostalgic tonight after hearing a coupla stories about people I know who had recently broken up. It's never a clean getaway. Or if you're on the other side of the fence, It's never that easy to understand.
Being 7 months shy of the big 3-0 (April next year), I wouldl like to impart some knowledge on the art, or the lack of, of breaking up with someone.
Brace yourselves, for these are not mere theoretical or conceptual tips. They were tried and tested, with the defensive wounds to prove it.

Here's how NOT to break up with someone.


1. Tell her you're not the right guy for her after sticking your tongue down her throat in the middle of the dance floor, completely intoxicated by a birthday boy concoction called the "Graveyard Shift"

2. Telling her it's because you're uncomfortable being a Malay boyfriend sized up against her 3 chinese doctor elder brothers

3. Leave her by the side of the road, pulling hairs and clawing away with an unknown crazy woman who apparently is her ex boyfriend's current girlfriend at 3 am along Jalan Jelatek. At least break up the fight and drop her off somewhere safer.

4. Blame it on the FuBu concept that turned ugly. It was always designed to turn ugly.

5. Send her best friend to try and explain to her why you did what you did

6. Over the phone, 12 hours behind in a different timezone

7. At the VIP lounge, after being caught

8. While driving. In your sportscar. With her in the passenger seat.

9. Accuse her of a lying vixen when that you thought she was an aeronautical engineer when she said she worked at an airline.

10. Saying that it's not her...it's YOU.

Good luck, and don't make me say I told you so.

The Banana Club

There's this place we called The Banana Club. It was situated behind some poor family's house right opposite our high school's side entrance.

The Banana Club existed roughly about 13-14 years ago. Back then it wasn't called The Banana Club. I have no idea what they called it then, nor a clue what they call it now.

I passed by The Banana Club sometime earlier this week and it was stil abuzz with activity, just as it has always been 13 years ago.

You see, The Banana Club was where we met everyday, before and after school. Many things happened at The Banana Club. Things that shaped the way we are today. Things that changed our perceptions. Some forever, and some as we go along through adulthood.

Social activities usually start from 7am Mondays to Friday. For members that took the school bus, they were always at The Club pretty early. For the ones on bikes and on foot, we were always there just in time for the morning fag and manly gossip sessions.

You can always tell there was activity at The Club by the thick smoke snaking through the trees. Morning salutations were given, idle chit chats and doobies being passed through de left hand side.

It was a place for formal functions as well. The welcoming of new faces. Of brotherhoods. Of alliances. There were happy and dark times. Mostly after school, judgements passed at the club. fists and feet become judge and jurors. Maturity was the outcome.

Blood, tears, laughter, happiness, dissapointments, tall tales. That was what The Banana Club were to all whom I knew.

I hope it still serves its purpose well till today. The trees have many a tale to tell. Some to remain a secret forever, and some to peek silently at you after all those years as you drive by, with your family in tow.

I always wink back when I drive past The Banana Club. And for all those new secrets that it hears and witnesses for this generation and the generation to come, I hope that those who enter and eventually say goodbye to it, will live and learn to tell their tales. Of The Banana Club.

Perfectly Different

I remember someone telling me that once you're dead, once the end of the world is over, and once the world of heaven and hell begins, there is a sad, but true fact that we have to accept.

That even in Heaven, there may be certain clauses.

The concept of Heaven is that it's a place where every good soul will ultimately and eternally enjoy the rewards of their earthly labours and sacrifices.

A daughter that selflessly took care of her sick mother for 23 years may not want to see her mother anymore. Instead, she may want to surround herself with 23 naked New York Firemen.

A wife that has sacrificed her earthly lust for the neighbors husband to be faithful to her own, may want to spend her eternity doing the horizontal lambada with Mr. Swinton (just picked that up from nowhere) next to a river flowing with Dom Perignon.

The point is, every soul will be busy with their own rewards. Everyone will be relatively the same age (so I was told).

And therefore, when your one wish is to meet up with a certain someone that you miss, the person that appears before you is a 110% exact replica of that person, even down to his deviated septum. Not, the real person. Or the actual person's soul. That person is busy with their own vivid and/or devilish plans.

Will you get to meet up with your mom? Of course. Her exact replica. Your mom will be busy canoodling with Rober Redford (also his replica) or Lawrence of Arabia.

How will it feel? Will we be contented? Or will it be that person, who is perfectly different?

I'll tell you what though: I wouldn't mind a replica of Anna Ohura, Marquetta Jewel and Ava Devine any time of the day!

The difference between

I read a really good article in Top Gear today. It was about the monstrous new Caterham R500. Written by Tom Ford. One of his lines had me cracking up on the toilet seat:

"The difference in feel from this Caterham to something like a Ferrari F430 is the difference between placing your hand on the road and licking it"

Brilliant. What superb word play to illustrate the cavernous difference between two things.

Like the difference between the US and Malaysia is the difference between fucking people in the ass everyday and being fucked in the ass by people everyday.

Andai Ku Tahu

Dear Politicians,

Go to your local music shop. Download it on Limewire. Or you can even ask me for a copy.

Listen to the song "Andai Ku Tahu" from a bunch of young men from Indonesia who call themselves Ungu.

Listen to it carefully. Every word.

Then leave your desks. Get up from that $5000 chair and go to the bank that has your secret bank account, withdraw all that illegal money you've collected for the past 23 years, including the one you just received 2 days ago from that judge and that businessman.

Take the money to the East Coast, up North, down to the slums of JB City, Balakong and San Peng. Take the money to the deep interiors of Mukah, Rompin & even right down the road off the Putrajaya Highway to the small shacks that litter the landscape from Sepang to Morib.

Once you're there, look at them in the eye. Someone's grandmother, with her deep set eyes and fidgety wrists. Smell her abandonment. Inhale it. Let it settle in your nostrils for awhile.

Just for awhile.

And after that, you can get back in your chauffeur driven S class, and head back home. Away from the destitution. Safe in your corruption. Will the pictures come out on the front page or page 3? Doesn't matter. You had your good side facing the camera just now.

I've been sitting in my office for the past 6 hours waiting for Sept 16th to happen on Sept 16th.

Should it? Or will it?

It doesn't matter. I just hope everyone's listened to the song.

If you haven't, let me know. I'll email it to ya.

Ants Marching

Woke up today for sahur to find about 32-34 ants who drowned themselves in my glass of sea coconut drink I left on my nightstand.

This is such a familiar sight. Ants, attracted to sweetness out of pure instinct would brazenly (or foolishly) get into a (literally) sticky sweet situation regardless of the impending doom that awaits them.

Ants dead and drowned in my coke. Ants dead and drowned in my cough syrup. Ants, dead and frozen in my fridge, possibly whilst trying to carry away a cut apple.

They have the natural instincts to find grub, protect the queen, safeguard the colony, and even send ant signals to one another while organizing the best way to drag a dead dung beetle.

Yet they can't tell each other something simple like " Don't go there! You'll drown!"

Is this God's twisted way of monitoring the world's ant population so that they won't breed and grow in colonies that may eventually overpower us?

*Ponder*

Two-che

If there were 2 of me, where would my other half be right now while I'm in the office?

Where would I send him?
Would I let him sleep in?
Would I be the one sleeping in and send him to work?
Would I be on holiday while he stays in the office?
Should I send him instead to entertain the clients? Or face them when there's a problem?

But wait.

Which one would be me and which one would be the other me?

Would I be jealous with my other self?

And which me will enjoy what I will be doing and am not doing?

I guess the answer to this is simple.

I would have both of me working as pornstars.

Velvet Evolver

I used to be an ad man. Associate Account Director. Worked my way up 2 international ad agencies in KL.

Like a psychologist that comes to their clients offices, I would sit patiently, take notes. Poor souls. Marketing Managers or Executives. Some of them have no idea how they even got there. But I was a good listener. I was a good deconstructor.

I deconstructed everything. What they wrote on their Agency Brief. What they said. What they said behind their bosses back. What they said behind my bosses back. What they said behind my back. What they wore that day, what ties they were wearing, what bra color and type they were wearing. What they smelled like and even what they ate before the meeting.

I deconstruct their competitors ads : What their layouts were like, what colors, which talents, what slogans, what nonsense.

I deconstructed my own Creative Briefs : What strategy, which art director, why so, why not?

I now deconstruct my wife's actions : Why'd she do that? Why'd she NOT do that? Why'd she say that? Why DIDN'T she say that?

And as I sit here 8 years after my first advertising job, and 3 years after leaving it to commandeer a family business...I seem to feel that deconstructing is deconstructive.

I was trained to question. Now I am forced to answer.

My staff needs me to. My wife needs me to. My family needs me to.

And soon, my child will need me to as well.

But I don't think I should stop deconstructing. I just think it should be immediately followed up with my own answer now. And if I don't have it, it's OK. It'll pop up somewhere someday.

Right God?

Hello? U there?

Ming La Ba

Welcome in Burmese.

So Ming La Ba to you. You, that is reading this blog. You, that hopefully has very low expectations in life.

For the future ramblings in here will be sweet and sour, flacidly uplifting, intelligently moronic, and as democratically republican in thought.

'Cause for those who do not personally know me, that's who I am.

For example, last night I dreamt i was organising a small party at my house, grumbling that I was too "married" to have a wild frat-like one anymore. Then 1000 people showed up. Hot chicks, cool artsy fartsy types, and nude swingers. Then I stood on a table, introduced myself as the host, and asked them all to f*&k off and leave me the hell alone. Then I drove a fuel tanker.

See?

Buckle up. The ramblings have begun.