Thursday, June 28, 2012

What We Take For Granted...

"A young Penan family, on their way home into their rainforest after the young wife had a day 'maternity' rest in the Klinik Desa of Bario. Her baby died during delivery when they were still about a day away from Bario, about 3 days ago before this photo was taken" - Rabani Ayub, free lance photographer for many well know publications including NatGeo and Discovery.
Just to be clear many families need to trek many days to the closest village in case of medical complications. There are no roads and an average trek could take them up and down mountains, streams and thick jungle.

Life in the interiors of East Malaysia are being left behind. While governments and corporations pillage the natural resources the people are left to fend for themselves. While Malaysians seek to solace their conscience by feeding a starving child in Africa they forget that just across the South China Sea there are their own countrymen who need this help. Maybe if they could only find some stuffy Miss World contestant to push their cause, the sheep will follow.

In the meantime I wont be bitching so much when I am stuck in traffic or when that chicken rice joint has run out of drumsticks...

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

My First Paid Speaking Engagement

Well it wasnt much, enough for me to buy a banana leaf lunch for the Girlfriend of Chindi and maybe with some spare change for a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger but it was kinda cool when someone is willing to fly you to a foreign country, put you up in a nice hotel and all you need to do is share a little bit about the nature of your work.

It was kind of awkward as the Thais dont speak very good English and because of time constraints my translator told me to just go ahead "but speak very slow. VERY SLOW PLEASE MR CHINDI. You talk quite fast"

It was an OK crowd about 100 people, mainly some professors of sports management from local universities, some corporate clients and personnel from the Thailand Sports Authority.

Was still amazed at my supreme talent at managing to put 2 fuckers to sleep within 15 minutes of my presentation at 10.30 in the MORNING. Was EVEN MORE amazed when one of those dozers managed to wake up after the talk and actually ask me quite pertinent questions. Is there such as thing as 'sleep eavesdropping'?

Anyway for some reason that 5000 Bhat is now sitting in my drawer in an envelope marked "First Speaking Engagement. Many more to come"

Yeah it WAS kind of a cool experience. I'm hooked.


Saturday, June 9, 2012

Parents! You're Spawning Brats!

Thats right you baby boomer mother lovers, you're creating a generation of soft, whiny bratlings that are now going on to the lead the human race into the future. How the fuck are we going to fend off alien invasions and zombie holocausts if the product from your loins is going to turn out to be walking tofu with the defense mechanisms of a diabetic hamster?

Simply put, with the government now employing the equivalent of Jamaican Ewoks as teachers in our public school system with the syllabus built around answering questions tailored made to allow an easy pass rate, we're not going to be seeing any members  of the Avengers coming out of our government schools.

OK, I cant blame you parents who've got your kids here. You're too poor to be fooled by the Private School system that just takes your money so that the headmasters get to suck your sweaty balls for a 20% increase in fees every year.

NOW.

You private school/international school mother fuckers.

You're supposed to be the white collar white knights of our economy. You're supposed to back up that Porche, chauffeured Mercedes and Beemers with some intellect and common sense.

You dont create a future son or daughter worth their salt buy raising spoilt brats, by interfering with the teachers or TRIPLE PARKING on the fucking main road because your brat can't walk that 50 meters to the school class room. You're holding up traffic in the whole of the neighborhood you dumbass.

This city is creating selfish, ignorant fools who unfortunately DO know how to make money. Its funny that the search for the material gold mine has made us lose our very soul as human beings. And now we have little clones who will now not only invoke their parents selfish narrow minded traits but will also add the very special talent of being as spoilt, bitching asshole when s/he grows older.

Hopefully by than I hope I'm captured by Imperial Stormtroopers or kidnapped for anal probing by some Martians. It will sure beat navigating the human ass hole traffic in 15 years time.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Inspired Writing This Is

They say you've got a twin on the opposite end of the world and everyone of us believes that ever since that first encounter with Bizzaro within the pages of Superman, you always thought that out there was an warped doppelganger who was going to steal up on you, kill your fat ass and make sweet love to your wife while secretly selling the neighbor's puppies to the dodgy 'exotic meat' restaurant in Sec 17 PJ.

You're not going to find another grumpy, angry, good looking man with an incredible flair for writing who works up an appetite every morning by wrestling bears before breakfast on this planet.

BUT what you will find is another angry, good looking man, wrestling with his alligator cynism who's word play would turn lesbians straight and make zombies turn to petunia gardening.

My friends and readers (all 5 of you) let me introduce to you Carlos The Tired One, who for some reason seems to find the rants and random shit on this blog to be somewhat entertaining.

I thought I'd share a little of Carlos' writing as it's made me reconsider how shit i am if I ever want to get published.

The account below is a short excerp from Carlos' epic cycling journey from San Francisco to Austin, Texas.

Enjoy.


A Bicycle Ride: The End

The first time I left Texas, I mean really left Texas, on an adult trip, was when I was nineteen. My then girlfriend and I drove from the loose center of the Lone Star State to the loose center of the Grand CanyonState. We stopped at Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico on the way; a two-mile meteor crater east of the actual Grand Canyon; the Grand Canyon itself; miles of “Indian” reservations; the remarkable ruins of ancient cultures that were either eradicated by foreign invasion or allowed to die by resettlement; and even the city of Tombstone, romanticized for people being shot through with bullets. I loved the southwest. I loved Arizona, and for a long time afterward, I boasted it my favorite state of the union. As a man cycling through it thirteen years later, I saw it for what it really is: a sprawling region of fat rednecks, brandishing American flags and automatic weapons under a grimy cloak of fascist racism. Of course, I’m generalizing. It’s still a physically beautiful state, rich in history, geology, and geography, but without brains, it’s just a bubbly pair of breasts and a pretty face. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, fuck Arizona. If I never return there again, I’ll not miss the place. It’s a . . . pleasing sensation to discard, without hesitation, something you once treasured. It’s dynamic. It’s discovery. It’s growth, and I see now that the only reason I marveled over the place at all is because I was still a boy, so full of shit that it was impossible to see that I didn’t know shit. I’m still filled with said refuse but at least I know it now, and at least now I can finally think for myself. It’s liberating, this relatively new freedom from mental slavery. *clickety heels*

Minds, however, are not the only aspect of being human that change (or warp, depending on your perspective) with the passage of time, and from a darkening of the mind to a waning of the heart, the body is just another turn of the screw. Muscles inevitably weaken during their lifelong press against the imprisoning physics of gravity, and from behind the bars of our windowless cells, skin sags and spines curve our droopy faces too far out in front of the rest of our palsies, and then one day, if we are not careful, we are old, tapping around the perimeter of a mall in trembling orthopedic shoes, cursing a generation twice removed because it is unlike the shitty generation we thought we were a part of while watching it on our computers.

The worst part, however, is the sensation that there’s nothing left to discover. Curiosity’s last light has set over the western horizon and darkened the prehistoric striations of the Grand Canyon into one shade of apathy. Intrigue is as dilapidated as the mud bricks of a lost Native American structure, weathered by the destroyer of all culture: time. The proverbial curtain of this lifetime theater has been unexpectedly drawn to reveal a stage of nervous barkers caught in a private congress of despair, and once you recognize their cries as sympathetic attempts to distract you from the inescapable truth that you and everyone you know will die, there is nothing left to do but leave the show and master the one thing that will survive this carnival of brunches, luxury cruises, birthday parties, vinyl collections, . . . greed and greed and greed: your soul. There never again will be an Arizona to meet with nineteen-year-old swagger, for the screw is tightened and we’ve followed the velvet rope of convention to the summit of disrepair where we will each die in our own time, having forgotten to live.

On the morning of January 15th, the cycling portion of my journey ended. I had known it would potentially happen a few days before as I had used all but one of my spare inner tubes along that vicious westbound stretch of Interstate 10, and the harsh desert had receded the tread of my back tire to total baldness. A final bounce over a jagged rock deformed the shape of the same tire, and a tiny hint of its guts were wearing through. I knelt in the blazing afternoon that day, staring at the damaged rubber, trying to conjure the future while remembering the past few days. Frustration dripped from my eyebrows and beaded at the end of my nose, and in the spirit of the South, I squatted there like all the other knuckle-dragging denizens in their cages, confounded and angry at nothing and everything. I stood and looked toward the wavering horizons of the east and west. Nothing. Nothing near and nothing far, so I changed my inner tube and nervously continued riding on a tire whose life expectancy I accurately predicted to be two more days.

It wasn’t just the tire, however. I had burned through more savings than originally projected. Food was a big deal. Sometimes granola, fruit, and dried meat just wasn’t enough, and no matter how awful an omelet and stack of pancakes made me feel after a day of digestion, my imbecile body demanded the calories and whenever the opportunity presented itself, Rocinante the Third was leaned against some mom and pop cafĂ© while I unapologetically stunk up a booth, juice, coffee, and a buffet of licked-clean plates piled strategically around my book and hunting knife. I also stayed in motels more often than anticipated. The mind is a curious thing. The complete mental resistance I had to sleeping in outside discomfort was unexpected and I can only attribute it to the fact that I wasn’t a springy youth full of milk and sweetness. My insides had soured. I perspired more and consequently, I smelled like hell. I ached more, and I was 1,000 times more concerned with monsters. What’s funny is that as soon as I was completely without a choice, I wasn’t bothered by it at all. Who knows? Had I been riding across country at 20 instead of hitchhiking, perhaps I’d have been just as averse. We’ll never know.

At a rest stop in the days following, I sat on a bench with a casino cup of hot chocolate, reflecting over my predicament, when an elderly traveler materialized at my side (as old ladies tend to do) and kindly bombarded me with a series of personal questions that culminated in a final and tremendous “but are you enjoying your ride?”

I didn’t have an answer.

For the full account go HERE.