The United Altered States of Maryam

So my offer to that one and only university that I applied to has been revised from conditional to unconditional but I have no idea what the difference is between the two. Nor, at this point, do I really care. To quote JD Fortune (new lead singer of middle aged band, INXS) who surprisingly, despite never having been to Malaysia, knows a Malay word or two, “I just want to put on my kasut and go for a jalan.” (For those of you that don’t speak Malay, kasut means shoes and jalan means walk)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Miss Bakar,
Our university is pleased that you have chosen to study with us and we are certain that you will find your experience at our University both challenging and rewarding for as long as you keep paying those tuition fees on time. Otherwise, you might find your experience here merely challenging and not nearly as rewarding. I am pleased to offer you a place as a full time international student in our Bachelor of Communication program at our Gold Coast campus. The reduced program length of two years is based upon your previous studies in the American Degree Program (Communications) at HELP University College, Malaysia where your transcripts have proven that you have been trained in the basic skills required for a Communications student – time wasting (including procrastination in all forms), bong-building, chain smoking, cutting class and getting someone else to take your attendance for you and the most essential skill of all, cock-talking which is divided into two sub-categories: i) the ability to bullshit your way out of trouble and ii) the ability to talk like you know what you’re talking about even when you don’t. We are also pleased to note your general lack of focus and absence of proper ambition – anything more and we might have to transfer you to a more “decent” program, like Accountancy or Engineering. This offer however, is conditional on undertaking and successfully completing our university’s courses –namely going for a concert by at least one Aussie band that at one point or another, could have been called “world-known”(lucky for you, there aren’t that many to choose from). Take note that you may encounter difficulty in Advanced Chain Smoking (unit code ACS 201), seeing that the price of cigarettes in Australia are as much of a killer as lung cancer but you could look at it as part of the “challenging experience” that we so gleefully promised you from the start. After your arrival, please submit your full academic transcripts and award certificate to the International Office so that we may have something to wipe our asses with.

We look forward to your money joining our university’s bank account and wish you well with your preparations for departure – we especially hope that you will not have gain too much weight by then to have to pay for two seats on your plane journey over here.

Yours sincerely,
(you know, not everyone in Australia says ‘G’day, Mate!”)
Admissions Officer
International Office – Gold Coast.

P.S. Yeah, we’re in love with the new lead singer of INXS too. Even if he is Canadian.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Posted by Maryam at 4:32 PM | Permalink |

This blog, this blog is my atonement. It’s the scarlet letter for the 21st century. ‘O’ for obsession.

Here’s one way to tell if you’re obsessed with someone: You want to push them down the stairs just so you can fall on top of them. Here’s another way to tell if you’re obsessed with someone: You go ape shit at meeting someone who is 2 degrees away from your object of obsession. Here’s yet another way to tell if you’re obsessed with someone: You forego a whole night’s worth of sleep to put together a 40 minute video/photo montage of them. Then you spend the next day watching aforementioned montage again and again and again. You change out of your pajamas at 2 in the afternoon, you shower, you go out, you see your friends, and you try to hide the fact that you’ve gone mad. But it’s just too easy to tell when someone’s obsessed. What is hard to do, is to take her seriously. Especially if the current manifestation of every obsessive bone in her body lives 10, 000 miles away from where she does, has never been to this side of the world, has never met her and she has never met him (though when someone points this out to her, she breaks into that awful Savage Garden song that she doesn’t even like that goes something like –I knew I love you before I met you…………) unless you count the times she watched him on TV, “Googled” him online or played his songs on the stereo. You think she’ll get over it in a week or two, just like how she got over that blonde guy from One Tree Hill whom she now denies all knowledge of – One Tree-What? Who’s Chad? Please, I don’t watch teen soaps……

You think, it’s alright, she’ll calm down, she’ll get over him when she finally manages to have some semblance of a real love life. Then you wonder if that’s ever going to happen. At the rate she’s going, the prognosis is so bad; she might as well have cancer. She doesn’t want a real love life. If what the world has to offer her currently is as real as it gets it then thanks but no thanks; she doesn’t want it.

See, it has been three months and my preoccupation with a certain new lead singer of an old band doesn’t seem to be fading. At all. It’s gone from barely-there to the only thing that’s there.

I am no longer myself. There have been days, long before this one in which I wasn’t completely myself, days when I was almost myself but not quite, days I was barely myself. But never before have I been completely unlike myself, until now, that is.

At this point, you, stranger, and you, friend, are more like myself than I have been lately.

Do you get what I’m saying?

In my place, is a Maryam-shaped message board-participating, video & music-downloading, JD worshipping drone. The drone opens its mouth and all that comes out is: JDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJD and friends of Maryam, they want to hit this drone with a 2 by 4, but before they can, their heads explode from having to hear this drone go: JDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJD.

Here’s another way to tell if you’re obsessed with someone: All your friends have exploded heads.

And another way: You memorize every quotable thing he has ever said. And to you, everything he says is quotable. “Pass the butter knife” is quotable. You know all his quotes like you know your full name. Except lately, you can’t seem to remember your full name. But you know his. And every stage name he has ever used in his career. You’ve forgotten how to use words yourself, but you know how he uses his.

And another way, this is a really good way: You think every song you hear is about him. Or you being obsessed with him. Or him being completely in love with you (Even though he isn’t. He can’t be. He doesn’t know you but you’re convinced that if he did, he would be. All it takes is a chance for you to say “Hello”. You think you’ll have him at “hello”. You’ll have him at “hello”.) Or him not being in love with you at all. Every song. Every song – the ones you love, and even the ones you hate.

You hear Superstar by The Carpenters (embarrassingly enough, you like that song) – and you think Karen Carpenter is killing you softly with this song (Killing Me Softly, she sang that too didn’t she) – especially the part where she sings about falling in love with this musician before the second show, something about – Long ago, and though so far away, I fell in love with you, before the second show- and the part where she goes: Your guitar, it sounds so sweet and clear, but you’re not really here, it’s just the radio…and you really start to tear (even though you’re not the teary-type) at the part where she belts: DON’T YOU REMEMBER YOU TOLD ME YOU LOVE ME, BABY, YOU SAID YOU BE COMING BACK THIS WAY AGAIN, BABY, BABY, BABY, BABY, OH, BABY, I LOVE YOU, I REALLY DO ……….
You hear your friend singing Whitney Houston’s Saving All My Love for You (you absolutely hate the song) and you start to wail and weep and sob. You’re saving all your love for your Object of Obsession. You go Whitney, you go girl, except why did you save all your love for Bobby Brown, of all people?

You sing Bonnie Raitt’s I Can’t Make You Love Me - it’s bad enough that even on a good voice day, you can’t hit any of the notes, you start to break down right before the powerful chorus – I can’t make you love me if you don’t, You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t, here in the dark, these final hours, I will lay down my heart and I feel the power but you won’t, no, you won’t – because deep down inside, you know that you won’t have him at “hello”, deep down, you know you’ll never have him (reality check, double check.) And the part where the song goes: Morning will come and I’ll do what’s right – you know “what’s right” means getting over your obsession.

You hear Eric Clapton’s Layla (you absolutely love the song) and though you essentially know that Eric Clapton wrote the song for the woman he was in love with back then, Patti Boyd (the “Layla” in the song, was then married to Beatle, George Harrison –wow, fun fact), some part of you believes that you wrote the song for the object of your obsession and you let Eric Clapton sing it (he begged) and replace “JD” with “Layla” instead.
What do you do when u get lonely, nobody’s waiting by your side, you can run, you’ve been hiding much too long, you know it’s just your foolish pride, Layla, you got me on my knees, begging darling please, Layla, darling won’t you ease my worried mind…………………. Like a fool, I fell in love with you……………fix this messed up situation, before I finally go insane……

You hear Joan Jett’s I Hate Myself for Loving You and you know you hate yourself for loving him in that so off-the-deep-end manner you do. You look at the phone, and you swear you hear him telepathically singing to you his own rendition of Blondie’s Call Me (yes, you enjoy Blondie songs) – Call me, my something, Call me, call me any, anytime, Call me, something something, you can call me any day or night… cover me with kisses, baby, cover me with love, roll me in designer sheets, baby, I can never get enough ……You see a car pass by and you want to call your Object of Obsession up and sing for him your version of Vehicle by Ides of March – I’m your vehicle baby, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go…………I love you, I need you, want you, I got to, got to have your child, great God in Heaven you know I love you…..

You hear PJ Harvey’s This Is Love – I can’t believe love’s so complex, when I just want to sit here and watch you undress – and you think “Word, sister”, you just want to sit around and watch your object of obsession undress (so far, you haven’t been given the chance.)

Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Fortunate Son reminds you of him, if only because the root word for the first word in the song title is similar to his mother’s maiden name.

You hear Nick Cave’s Easy Money and it reminds you of your object of obsession because O.O.O once did an awesome cover of Pink Floyd’s Money (Easy Money = Money, geddit? Love those songs).

Of course, every single song you have ever heard your object of obsession perform, reminds you of him. Of course.

You love the Rolling Stones. And he must love them too since he wants two of their songs played at his funeral. You love the Stones, he loves the Stones, according to fuzzy logic, this surely means that he loves you.

You hear a deranged-sounding oldie tune; the one about how much is that doggy in the window, *woof* *woof*, the one with the waggly tail and you think of him – there’s something about the way he looks sometimes that reminds you of a little “doggy”, a puppy. Also, you entertain thoughts about his “waggly tail”. ALOT.

You tell a friend, “Right now, he (your object of obsession) is every song in the world for me. Every song in the world for me.” And you wish you hadn’t because she’s laughing at you so hard for your absolute corny-ness. You explain to your friend that it’s a twist from a line from that Trail of Dead song which goes: I’m afraid, you’ll never be, every song in the world for me. Your friend still thinks you’re corny, that you’ve gone so far into the corn field, you ain’t ever coming back. Toto, we ain’t ever leaving Kansas no more. Keep in mind that this particular friend of yours thinks she has been married to Mr. John my-songs-are-so-boring-and-I’m-quite-possibly-the-sexual-offender-next-door Mayer for the past three years. Keep in mind that this friend of yours is a chick who’s actually in love with the corn dog cheese bucket that wrote Your Body is a Wonderland. Keep in mind that this friend of yours, is arguably, the Crown Princess of Corn for the Asia-Pacific region. And she’s telling you that you’re being corny. You must need help.

Oh, when I say ‘you’, I meant ‘I’. As in I need help. I’m being corny. I’m obsessed. It’s just easier to discuss the more pathetic aspects of your being in the second/ third person. Detachment neutralizes embarrassment.

But then,

This blog, this blog is my atonement. It’s the scarlet letter for the 21st century. ‘O’ for obsession.

I tell my friend that this obsession, it’s not without benefits. It has helped me rediscover my love for music. I might be obsessed with JD but I realize what I’m honestly, truly and plainly in love with is music.

When I grow up, if I ever do, I want to be a song.

Not a rock star, but a song.

Like “Layla”, like “Angie”, like “Roxanne”, like “Sarah”, like “Mandy”. Okay, maybe just “Layla”. Wasn’t Roxanne about a hooker? And Mandy, oh god, I hate Barry Manilow, and someone told me “Mandy” was actually about his dog.

When I grow up, I want to be a song.

Every song in the world for me. Every song in the world to somebody. And oh, nothing that Barry Manilow would sing.

----------------------------------------------------------------
Another friend asked me the other day, what it would take for me to fall for a guy in “real” life for a change.

Inspiration, I answered.

Inspiration for what, the friend asked.

I’ll know when it comes. Till then, I’m waiting to inspire. But most of all, I’m waiting to be inspired. I’m waiting for someone that inspires me.

And it would help greatly if he’s hot.

Posted by Maryam at 8:27 PM | Permalink |

Human beings give too much credit to themselves. They think the universe in itself would collapse without their presence when it might actually fair much better without our constant fiddling and meddling in things that have nothing directly to do with us.

There’s perhaps only one real reason as to why every living thing on this planet exists: to continue to exist. Procreation. To deny an animal the biological basis of its existence, we call it being responsible. We call it our duty.

Yes, and the White Man had this thing called the White Man’s Burden where they thought it was their duty and responsibility to “civilize” the rest of the world. Was that right? No.

We think we’re doing the “poor, helpless creatures” a favor by limiting their population count to a number that we could be bothered to live with, oh, I’m sorry, “care for”. We fail to see that we’ve made it ALL ABOUT US again. Animals, they’re not as helpless as we think they are just because they can’t speak the way we do, drive a car, grocery shop, take out a bank loan, get a job. If civilization should crumble tomorrow, we human beings would be the helpless ones. I don’t need to explain. Think about it. Survival of the fittest. Civilization has allowed weakness to prevail in our species, be it genetically or environmentally. And now we’re taking it upon ourselves to do the same thing to other animals. The difference is, we gave our consent. The animals, they don’t speak-a-de-English (or any other language in the human tongue for that matter.)

And if these animals are indeed helpless, it’s only because we did it to them. Or rather, our ancestors started it. Coop them up in little cages, put little sparkly collars around their necks, take away their ability and drive to procreate (indirectly, limiting their own inbuilt survival instincts) till they become subservient, breathing stuffed dummies. Who taught the monkey to dance in the first place? Us. And our egomaniacal, selfish need to become Masters of the Fucking Universe (there’s a He-Man in all of us). Just because we’re on top of the food chain, doesn’t mean we’re on top of everything else.

Just because I don’t believe a 100% in cutting the balls of a cat, doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.

Just because I don’t believe in playing the God of Population Control, doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.

That said, if you agree with what I’m saying, and you also happen to have a pet cat, and your pet cat gives birth to a kitten, don’t be a fucker and separate the kitten from its mother when it’s only a day old and dump it on someone’s driveway to die. If you are principally against spaying Fluffy but at the same time, you couldn’t be arsed to handle mini-Fluffys or at least, find a good home for them then, you are an idiot.

If you disagree with me, if you think spaying / neutering is in the best interest of an animal then good for YOU.

Apparently, I hear the best thing about the internet and Democracy is that we are all entitled to our own opinions.
--------------------------------------------------------
“ Tu entre todos los seres tienes derecho a verme débil ”
(You among all beings have the right to see me weak).
El Dano (The Hurt); Pablo Neruda
At least I think that’s what it means.

Posted by Maryam at 1:48 PM | Permalink |

Girl I Know: Is your mom afraid of getting sun cancer?
I’m taking a wild guess here, but I think she meant skin cancer.
Still, a verbal slip is always a thing of great beauty, especially when it’s not you that’s doing the slipping.

My old college mates will attest to this. We mercilessly make fun of each other and the world around us. Accents and verbal slip-ups are our specialty though we don’t like to limit ourselves. I think we do this because we find that Existence as a whole deserves to be laughed at. The world we often end up living in when we get together is the world of Absurdist plays. It’s the only world in which one can live in and not slowly start to lose one’s mind since mindlessness is probably a prerequisite for entry. You can’t lose something you don’t have, that’s what they always say. Nothing matters, nothing is sacred, everything is funny. If nothing matters then there’s really nothing worth holding on to which makes it entirely easy for everyone to just relax and let go. Kick off those shoes. Those shoes don’t matter. It hits someone in the face. That someone doesn’t matter. The shoe in the face is funny. We’re not cruel. We’re funny. Just like everything.

Or maybe this is just the way I see things. They might not agree. They might be thinking – “What is she on and can I have some?” I might tell them I love them but no, they can’t have some. This is my personality. Go get your own. Make sure it’s a perfect balance of 50% genetic and 50% environmental factors with none of that funny rat poison, crushed glass / mothballs, sugar powder shit thrown in.

But don’t forget to put on sunblock when you’re out. Think of the sun. It might get cancer.


I dropped by the old college the other day. Noticed that things haven’t changed much, they seem to have just sort of dissipated. Wait, that’s change thing too, I guess. When things are less than what is used to be it is no longer the same hence it can be said to have changed, right? Only, I would much rather think of change as a shift in character than a shift in volume or intensity but then again isn’t volume and intensity part of character (I’m doing it again, I’m confusing myself!)? Why did I drop by? I guess because I’m your closet sentimental-type. The 2 1/6 years I spent there as a bum with a student I.D. (good for movie ticket and karaoke discounts and not much else) were to me, the most fascinating chapter of my life yet (which really is a testament to how dull my life has been thus far). Maybe “fascinating” is not the most accurate word to describe it but it’s the first and the simplest that come to mind. The next description that comes to mind is eye-opening. I feel like in those 2 1/6 years, my eyes have gone from being fully shut to being three-quarters shut. It’s not so much the place or the institution per se that I treasure (again, not the most accurate word, but it’s the first and simplest that comes to mind) -When I say the 2 + years I spent there, what I mean is the 2 + years I spent officially enrolled there. Admittedly, I wasn’t in class very often, college was more often than not, just a rendezvous point for spontaneous mini road trips and traveling without moving trips – I guess, what I mean to say is, the only reason why I’m all sentimental and somewhat fond of the place is because of the people I met there – in one way or another, directly or indirectly, they helped in making those 2 1/6 years a memorable (“memorable” really isn’t the right word, but I can’t think of a better one unless “curiosity-satisfying” is indeed, better) experience. Also, the friends I’ve made there really helped in getting most of the partying (which I swear, I never had a lot of) out of my system (Ha-ha. To those who know what I’m talking about, please destroy all incriminating photos/ video footage / any sort of evidence. Do not use for blackmail. Please.) To sum things up, I think I had fun (or it might just be really late at night and my memories have been warped by lack of sleep). Sure, I occasionally complained that I was bored, and sick and tired of the routine – but now that I’m finished with the place, I sort of miss the routine – on the whole, I’m pretty sure, in a foggy, i-can’t-be-sure-till-I’ve-lived-at-least-70-years way, that I had fun.

Fun is good. Fun is the best you can expect out of anything. Nothing truly goes deeper than that. Not really. At least, I don’t think so. You might disagree. You might be right to do so. I might be wrong. You might be no fun.

That said, I'm glad I'm done with the place.

So I finally received a reply from Griffith U yesterday. It has no mood altering effect on me whatsoever. At least, I don’t think so. What a fucking waste of time. The reply starts with a “We are pleased to inform you…” and then natters on about me getting a “conditional offer” from them – I’m not exactly sure what that means in plain English (and neither does the seemingly incompetent Education Australia officer in charge of my transfer, for that matter) but I guess it’s better than being offered an apology as in, “Sorry, our crappy university doesn’t want your crappy ass” (of course, I’m sure the good people at Griffith rejects with more tact, if they reject at all). I know, I’m such a bum, while most people send their credit transfer application out to at least three different universities, I only bothered sending mine out to one. My criteria for selecting a university: i) it must be somewhere near a beach.(check) ii) there must be at least one friend going there with me (check) iii) and at least one friend already there (check). Seriously. That’s it. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll be starting the final year (or year and half or two) of what I can foresee would be my entirely useless Comm. Degree in February next year. Until then, I’ll be doing what I’ve been doing since July this year- absolutely nothing. Well actually, I’ve always done absolutely nothing but before July, at least I used to pretend to be doing something even when I’m doing absolutely nothing. I plan to start pretending again next February, that’s the plan.

And I plan to keep pretending until the Cosmic Order decides to make me a rock star (although I hear crazy rumors that you kind of have to make these things happen for yourself). I figure I’ll actually be doing something then. Music, for one. Other rock stars (Ha-ha-ha. Not entirely kidding).Speaking of rock stars: “happy” isn’t the most accurate word to describe how I feel about JD Fortune becoming the new lead singer of INXS but it comes pretty damn close (see also: pleased, glad, joyful, ecstatic, delighted, cloud 8 ¾). Note to reader: refer to previous blog entries to gain better understanding of why this is so. Now I no longer have to be torn between my love for good, old, cheesy INXS and my love for JD Fortune. Now I can love them as ONE (though I only lust for one of them, no points for guessing, genius). But Michael, this all doesn’t mean that I, or any of the fans have forgotten you. You will always be in our hearts – plenty of space, plenty of space.

I don’t know why, but I think I hear the Scorpions’ Still Loving You (I’m still loving youoooo….oowooooooooooooo…oowooooooooooooo…oowooohoooo – wasn’t that done by The Scorpions?) coming from the trees outside my bedroom window. I must really need to go to sleep or something. Real soon. Before the trees end up going through the whole Scorpions discography. While it’s still cozy and quiet and most importantly, dark.

The sun will be up in about 2 hours or so. Let us hope it doesn’t have cancer.

Hah. Hah.
--------------------------------------------------
“ Tu entre todos los seres tienes derecho a verme débil ”
(You among all beings have the right to see me weak).
El Dano (The Hurt); Pablo Neruda

At least I think that’s what it means

Posted by Maryam at 9:18 PM | Permalink |

Dear INXS -Andrew, Tim, Jon, Kirk, Garry Gary AND JD FORTUNE

God, it feels good to say that.

Much love 448,
Maryam

Posted by Maryam at 4:27 AM | Permalink |

Dear INXS – Andrew, Tim, Jon, Kirk and Garry Gary,

As I write this, I’m literally writhing with agony and anxiety over whom you’ll choose as the new frontman of your band tomorrow, to the point where I can barely even think, sleep and type properly dfhfihisghighighkn/.. Kjhgg... see?

I have loved your band since I was a toddler. Of course, at that age, I also thought I was in love with Rick Astley. The difference between your band and Rick Astley is, Rick is like the unregistered bastard monkey-faced defective child that I dumped in the drain long ago and deny all knowledge of, your band, however, cheesy and sell out-ish as you guys can be, I still cherish (even now, at nearly 20 years of age) like a first born prince. You should know that you had the honor of creating the first song that I ever wanted to shake my booty too (Need You Tonight. Actually, it could’ve been that Vanilla Ice song. Ok, one of the first songs) and baby, I don’t shake my boo-tae to just any tune (actually, I do, when no one’s looking, of course). Sure, I forgot about you guys for a bit when my siblings were doing the whole grunge-thing. Sure, I forgot about you guys for a bit, when I was into the whole boyband thing (and for that, I can assure you, I have been duly punished). And sure, I forgot about you guys for a bit when I was in my angry 13 year old ghroaaawr bubblegum rock phase. Then, 4, 5, 6 years ago, while snooping around my sister’s room, I found a copy of your album, took a listen to it, and fell in love with your music all over again. Three years ago, my sister moved out and took her whole CD collection with her. So what I did was, I sacrificed smoking 8 and a half packs of cigarettes to have enough money to buy myself a copy of Definitive INXS (yeah, yeah, a real fan should have ALL your albums, but I’m broke, you bastards). I played your songs everyday for a year in my car while driving back and forth to college (my car now has no stereo. It also has no air conditioning. Pity me). One day, I was giving a classmate of mine a ride home from college, one of those hard-core-so-called-Goth-metal-purists-types. I played him Need You Tonight, Suicide Blonde, Devil Inside, Elegantly Wasted and The Gift, and he absolutely loved it (Of course, he also confused you guys with Jimi Hendrix whom I love even more, but that’s another story. What matters is that you guys and Jimi have entirely different musical styles. Anyone, especially a self professed “true rocker” like this dude should be able to tell and the fact that he couldn’t, well… I really don’t know if his opinion counts). I also converted this bubblegum pop loving friend of mine into being a fan of your band. The whole point I’m trying to make here, is that the fact that you guys are able to connect with people of such diverse musical inclinations is something truly remarkable and that I truly respect. And the fact that I’m introducing your music to people that are otherwise too young or stupid to have even heard of you, shows that I’m a real good fan, right? Right? You should also know, that I included at least one of your songs in every mix CD I have ever made for a friend (and that’s a lot!). So believe me when I say that I love you guys and I only want the best for your band.

I was apprehensive, even disgusted when I heard that you guys were on the look out for a new lead singer (you’re replacing Michael????! No one’s good enough to replace Michael!), and that you struck a deal with the Devil himself (that’s Mark Burnett, you do know he’s Satan, right?) to help you in your search. But now I realize that your intentions are somewhat noble, that all you really want to do is to continue to make music, and reach people all over the world with your music. And yes, true enough, even the noblest of deeds, most of the time, require dirty methods (like a reality show) to accomplish. One can’t deny the value of publicity generated by a show like Rock Star. And understandably, a band with a much loved, deceased lead singer that hasn’t come up with a new album in about a decade or so, needs all the attention they can get (and a new singer, doh) to release a new album. I am comforted by the fact that you guys have continuously assured us that you are not seeking to replace Michael; you’re not seeking to replace his memory, his voice. You’re merely seeking a new lead singer. Yes, I get it. I appreciate the fact that you allowed yourselves and your fans generous time –eight years to grieve and mourn. After all, it’s not like you guys kicked Michael out of the band. He died. You guys didn’t. You have every right to carry on. It ain’t over till the fat lady sings, in this case, it ain’t over till the fat Farriss (sorry Andrew, you’ve always been a little chunky but at least you're the most talented brother, eh?) lays down his guitar. INXS, as long as there’s music in you, keep on truckin’, for in silence, there is only death. You live, your fans live, by God, there shall be music!

Some may call your band cheesy, corny. Others might denounce you as sell outs. Losers (my sister called you this!). Wash-outs. One-trick ponies. Sometimes, I agree, but always, I love. Don’t ask me what you know is true; don’t have to tell you I love your precious heart.

And what do you know; Rock Star makes for much better viewing than American Idol. For one thing, the song selection suits my taste to a tee (INXS, Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd, Rolling Stones, Jefferson Airplane, The Police, The Clash, Patti Smith, Nirvana, Joe Cocker’s The Letter, Queen, Black Crowes, Aerosmith, Bob Dylan, David Bowie….no painful renditions of Celine Dion or Barry Manilow here, god bless). Plus, unlike American Idol, I actually care about who ends up winning this “talent search” because like I said earlier, I actually care about your band.

And that brings me to your final three –Marty Casey, MiG Ayesa and JD Fortune. When I said that I only want what’s best for the band, I meant it. And what is best for your band, as far as my humble fan ears can hear, and my humble fan eyes can see, is JD Fortune. I say this with utter faith, conviction (and a touch of fanaticism). Remember what Ty’s group did to that track of yours, Andrew? They murdered it in the womb. They made it into a jingle for band camp. For god’s sake, Ty was from Dakota Moon! But JD, ah, JD, strange and left-field as he may be, made Pretty Vegas out of it – now that’s something you want to hear from INXS! I could write you a 50 page-long dissertation on why JD should be the lead singer for INXS but a line from your own song, Mystify would be much more powerful, should do all the talking that needs to be done – Why should JD front your band? Because he’s - *cue music*…..Eternally wild with the power to make every moment come alive!

Please don’t pick Marty. I don’t want to be yelled at by what sounds like an axe murderer with Ty’s Mohawk up his ass everytime I listen to your songs. You don’t want to shake your booty to Marty’s screaming, you want to cower in a corner under a blanket, calling out for Mommy. You don’t feel much of anything when Marty sings, except for maybe absolute fear for your fucking life (and the last time I checked, that isn’t what INXS’ music is all about). That song of his, Trees, is catchy alright, but in the most inane way possible. He’s lying when he says he can bring your band into the future, the dude sings and write just like your run of the mill post-grunge modern rock joe. I would rather you guys be doing your same old 80s tricks then go down the Creed/ Alterbridge/ Nickelback road (80s dance-rock is back in vogue anyhow, although I’ll take you guys over those new posers The Killers and The Bravery any day. Actually, I kind of like The Bravery’s Fearless but you guys don’t really need to know that, do you?) Also, why choose MiG? I thought you guys were looking for a rock star, not a leprechaun (just give him a pot of gold, a rainbow, and a green suit and he’s good to go to Ireland). He turns almost every song into a weepy ballad. How the hell did he manage to turn the Stones’ Paint It Black (one of my favorite songs, of all time) into a song that sounds like Richard Marx wrote while redecorating his kitchen and be proud of it? The only time I ever saw him perform one of your songs – What You Need – he same across as Barney on speed mimicking the moves of a nervous and horny high school cheerleader, on speed. I swear, if he takes off his shirt one more time, someone is going to press charges. Also, don’t just choose MiG just because he’s Australian and you’ve been suddenly overwhelmed by an intense bout of patriotism. There are other ways to serve your country.

Admittedly, JD has his weaknesses. His rendition of ‘We Are the Champions’ bombed. ‘As Tears Go By’ was weak but it’s one of my least favorite Stones songs anyway. And sometimes, yeah, his Elvis impersonator past gets the better of him. And sure, he comes across as a jerk to the other contestants but that’s probably just Burnett-editing (he’s Satan, doh, twisted yet subtle are his manipulations) , and sure he’s bit odd and unpredictable, but like you said yourself, Tim, JD could bring a much needed ‘edge’ to your band. I mean, seriously, I don’t mean this as an insult but lets face it, since you guys are close to 50 these days; you’re about as edgy as the rubbery back end of a pencil. And Andrew, didn’t you say you like how JD thinks out of the box? And remember when Dave Navarro said he would watch JD for two hours! JD is the only contestant to perform the same song (Pretty Vegas) 4 times on the show and he has shown each time that he’s able to keep things fresh and new and thrill the fuck out of the crowd (a handy skill to have on a world tour, don’t you think? When you’re playing the same set of songs night after night). And dude, guys, listen, JD has stirred up a response in me that no frontman or potential frontman of a band has been able to do in a very long time. He connects and that’s what a good frontman does; he connects the band to the people. Hate him, love him, you always feel strongly about him because he connects. People care enough to love him with a passion and others care enough to hate him with a vengeance, the point is everyone cares in one way or another. And you guys, you guys want to continue to connect don’t you, you guys want to keep being a band that people care about, don’t you?

I don’t particularly care for Marty and MiG (actually, in Marty’s case, I care enough to be afraid but that’s about it). The only reason they’re mentioned here is because I care about your band. I care about JD fronting your band and tomorrow, you might pick one of them over JD instead. And it scares me to think that from then on, I will be indifferent towards your band. I don’t want to be indifferent, I care about you guys, you cheesy, sell-out bastards, remember?
With Marty or MiG-who? fronting your band, you guys will be dead to me, DEAD, YOU HEAR ME? In fact, you would be better off hanging yourself in that Sydney hotel room with Michael in ‘97. At least I would be grieving and not indifferent.

With J.D. as your new frontman, you can be sure that I’ll continue the tradition of sacrificing 8 and a half packs of cigarettes (and god knows, how I love my cigarettes) to buy your album.

But if tomorrow, you should choose scary Marty or MiG-who, I might have to resort to smoking all 8 and a half packs of cigarettes in a day to ease the pain and disappointment. And I’ll send you the bill for my lung cancer treatment. That’s not a promise.

It’s a threat.

Choose JD. Do it for me. But most importantly –there’s no time to waste, you just do it for yourself (Listen Like Thieves, INXS; 1985- the year I was born, baby!)

Much love, your No. 448 fan, Maryam.

P.S. Yes, I admit it, it doesn’t hurt that JD Fortune is one helluva of a sexy thang. But I want to make it clear THAT IS NOT the main reason as to why I think he’s right for your band, and that’s not the main reason as to why he connects. It’s the fact that he connects that makes him sexy. Oh, and when you see JD tomorrow, tell him that he’s right for your band and that I’ll drink off his toes for his birthday, in fact, for any day, anytime, bay-beh. Dream on in the name of love (Original Sin, INXS; 1983). I will follow you, JD. I will follow The Dream. Now dance, monkey, dance!

P.S.S. If none of the final three works out for you, not that I’m saying JD wouldn’t but just hypothetically speaking, would you consider having me as the lead singer of your band? Two people told me the other day that I do a pretty mean rendition of ‘Mystify’. Of course, they were drunk. And they’re my friends. But they weren’t deaf so their opinion should count for something!

P.S.S.S Yes, I do understand that INXS will probably never read this letter. And I do realize I sound positively crazed if not completely boring. But you have to understand, I’ve been PMS-ed for the past few days (Mental Instability thy has Ovaries), and I haven’t left the house since Saturday (seeing that I’m more or less homicidal when I’m PMS-ed and I care about the safety of the general public. Also, I don’t want to go to jail or be sent to the gallows.) which means all this lack of sun and fresh air has caused me to turn a rather unsightly shade of pale green, like an anemic version of Kermit the Frog. (It ain’t easy being green…Hah! Try being female you amphibious muppet!) - Not ideal conditions for achieving the optimum state of mental and emotional health.

----------------------------------------------------------
“ Tu entre todos los seres tienes derecho a verme débil ”
(You among all beings have the right to see me weak).
El Dano (The Hurt); Pablo Neruda

At least I think that’s what it means

Posted by Maryam at 7:11 PM | Permalink |

If you are a goldfish and you find yourself floating or sinking in odd positions, you may have a Buoyancy Disorder. Your swim bladder may be obstructed or altogether defective. The good news is, it can be fixed rather easily: swallow a single green pea (canned or cook and lightly crushed). If that doesn’t cure the problem, your next best option is to have a tiny stone surgically inserted into your abdomen by a fish veterinarian. This however, can set you back anything from US$ 150 to US$1500. If the problem persists, it’s alright, you’re a goldfish, you’ll forget about it every three seconds.

If you’re a goldfish, and you claim to have feelings and a personality just like a cat or dog would, I might laugh at you (but then again, I might laugh at myself for laughing at a talking goldfish). If this offends you, don’t worry about it, you’re a goldfish, you’ll forget about it in three seconds.

I was sitting on the bowl (toilet and not goldfish) last night and found an old copy of the New York Times sitting in my bathroom. There was a rather amusing three page article on vets who specialize in treating fishes – not the huge, endangered kind, but the run-of-the-mill-live-in-a-bowl-in-your-living-room-type, the kind people used to just flush down the toilet when it goes belly-up. The article mentions Lucky, a one and a half pound koi with a two and a half pound tumor; Sunshine, who was impaled on a branch during rough fish sex (ow! You big slut, you); Betta, with a fluid-filled abdomen and the perpetually upside down goldfish, Belly Bob – all these fishes had surgery performed on them.

I guess the idea of fish vets sound funny now, if not a little crazy, but like the article said, back in the 1900s, the idea cats and dogs receiving human-quality medical care was ridiculed too. Back then, you didn’t treat Lassie and Salem. You shoot them.

Speaking about pets, “the mother” is threatening to give the new resident cat, Jebat Derhaka (J.D. for short – haha!) away which pisses the hell out of me, for lack of a better, more eloquent phrase to describe the feeling. She was the one that said ‘yes’ to the cat being here in the first place. I wasn’t fond of the idea at first – was still grieving over the loss of Pico (he died years ago) and my first cat, Badul (disappeared way before Pico came onto the scene). Besides, since I plan to leave the country in a few months, I figured there would be no point in me getting a pet now. Anyway, J.D. arrived at my doorstep (god, I get such a kick from saying that – refer to previous blog entry) and to cut a long-ish story short, J.D. and I bonded (god, I get such a kick from saying that) and now “the mother” wants to send him away. THANKS LADY.

Mothers, they give you a taste of the cake but never let you have the whole fucking thing. So you’ll always know what you’re missing out on. Actually, when you think about it, it’s not just mothers that do this; it’s the female gender in its entirety (and no, I’m not saying this because I’m a male chauvinist pig, I’m female myself ). And that leads me to the conclusion that the Cosmic Order and Life in general must be feminine in nature – it gives you a taste of the cake but never lets you have the whole thing, so you’ll always know what you’re missing out on. And then Life lets you miss out on it anyway. THANKS LADY. Cock teaser, you (there is no such term as “pussy teaser”, is it? Of course, that might be because we live in a paternalistic world.)

Some may argue that the Female Being is based on the principle of moderation. My big, womanly round ass, it is. We live for deprivation. Our whole existence is based on the concept of deprivation. Why do you think women are the biggest suckers for diet programs (and don’t blame it entirely on men, although they are partly, if not mostly to blame for all the world’s ills, women put the most pressure upon themselves to be thin. Right, Anna Wintour?)? Why do you think for hundreds, and hundreds of years, despite the advances the Feminist movement has made for women in recent times, the majority of women are still more often than not, stuck in a position where they ultimately have to choose between an extremely high flying career and a happy family of their own (even though in recent times, they are expected to have it all, tell me, how many women out there actually do? If you’re one of them, I would like to meet you and shake your hand. Hollywood celebrities don’t count). Deprivation, deprivation, deprivation. And if in a fleeting moment of clarity we allow ourselves to indulge and be indulged, we beat ourselves up over it in guilt, hence depriving ourselves of that simple feeling of satisfaction and contentment.

And if you disagree with me, if this entry makes you want to send me hate mail, makes you want to denounce me for being a sort of Judas to my gender, or if it makes you think that I’m actually a guy, then I truly hope that you are indeed, a goldfish, and will forget about it all in three seconds. 3…2…1…

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“ Tu entre todos los seres tienes derecho a verme débil ”
(You among all beings have the right to see me weak).
El Dano (The Hurt); Pablo Neruda

At least I think that’s what it means.

Posted by Maryam at 5:21 AM | Permalink |

A whole lot more people could do great things if they could just tear themselves away from the television. But why make the effort of changing the world when you can just change the channel? The world is different on The Discovery Channel than it is on MTV. So go ahead, take control of that remote and change the world.

You set out in search of your destiny. You end up watching TV.

Soul-searching is easy when you have satellite (good, old ASTRO). 93 (100, who cares what the exact number is) channels, 24 hours a day, your soul’s bound to be in there somewhere though you might find it dubbed in a different language. Or you might find that it comes with subtitles that aren’t entirely accurate. Occasionally, you might find your soul interrupted by a five minute commercial break selling everything you don’t need that you must have. Occasionally, you might find your soul interrupted by commercials telling you that your hair is not good enough, that your laundry detergent isn’t good enough, that your health insurance plan isn’t good enough, that your soft drink of choice isn’t good enough, that your skin, your waistline, your car isn’t good enough that YOU aren’t good enough. But it’s all done in a manner so amusing, you don’t even realize you’re being insulted. And they offer you solutions to not being good enough. Buy this and your life will be better which is more than you can say about the people in your life who tell you that you’re not good enough and leave it at that. And if all this doesn’t hold true, you can always change the channel.

And the beauty of TV shows is, no matter how ‘fresh’ or ‘new’ the idea it is said to be, at the end of the day, it always adheres to some kind of formula. Even if there’s a ‘surprise twist’ to the plot, you’re not surprised that they put in a ‘surprise twist’. Which means it always turns out at least somewhat like you expected it to. Which is more than you can say about real life. And if all this doesn’t hold true, you can always change the channel.

On TV, time has no meaning. A whole season worth of episodes can add up to only about a day, an hour can be half a life time, three days can be collapsed into half an hour. On TV, you can be 30 and be the hottest 17 year old in high school. On TV, you can be 45 and have the body of a 20 year old with a driver’s license that says you’re 50. And if all this doesn’t hold true, you can always change the channel.

On TV, there is no dirt on people’s faces unless there is suppose to be. Sometimes, even when there’s suppose to be dirt, there isn’t any. On TV, people are only ugly if it’s pivotal to the plot. Even on the news or a documentary, ugliness is intentional. It’s never just there. And if all this doesn’t hold true, you can always change the channel.

Or you can turn the damn thing off.

And finally listen to your own thoughts. The TV is off – now is the time for reflection, introspection. Get spiritual, ya’ll. But you don’t want enlightenment. You want radiation. You don’t want to listen to yourself. You have nothing worth saying now that you have the television to say it for you, think it for you, do it for you. You want to watch TV till you’re blind, you want to hear the endless cornucopia of sound created in a studio that are readily available in real life till you’re deaf, till you yourself forget how to make any. Until then, you want to watch TV. You organize your social life around your favorite TV shows, you skip classes (where you live, there’s no such thing as TiVo), you sabotage real romantic prospects because you already have a rather fulfilling (albeit entirely fictional) relationship with the hot potato on Mark Burnett’s latest reality TV show even though he looks like Elvis and you hate Elvis, and he’s a Virgo and you hate Virgos. Hey, if he’s on a reality show, he’s real enough; at least it’s not some hokey soap opera character. You pick a major like Communications in college because you want to work on TV but all you end up doing is watching TV. You put off college for six months; you put off getting a job while you’re putting off college because you feel that watching TV is a full-time job. Your family, full of eager, rat-racing professionals considers you to be the black sheep of the family but it’s alright cause you can still be shaved and made into lovely black wool sweaters, you can still be milked, you can still be eaten, you’re just a stand-out part of the flock, which on TV, is a good thing. You put off going to the toilet because you want to watch TV. You surf the net only to Google things that are related to TV, your e-mail inbox overflows with TV updates and you put off reading that one-off email from a long-lost friend because the need to find out what’s in store for the next season of so-and-so show is more urgent. You talk on the phone while watching TV, you don’t care who’s on the other line because you’re not really listening since you’re watching TV, and during commercial breaks, you only talk of TV, till your friends don’t bother calling “just to chat” anymore unless they need a recap of what happened on so-an-so TV show last week (they do however call if they have a karaoke session – your other guilty pleasure – planned, or, they’re asking you to get stoned in which case you say no since you’ve quit that shit a while ago since your parents would string you up on top of KLCC by a single nose hair if they were to catch you doing so, which is really, not really the main reason at all – you say ‘No’ because a) you’re broke from SMSing votes for JD on Rock Star: INXS, b) the stuff has lost its appeal now that you have satisfied your curiosity regarding altered mental states, c) TV has already killed enough of your brain cells and d) YOU WANT TO WATCH TV oh, and for political correctness sake you should probably say e) cause it’s apparently bad and illegal ). Once, you tried moving the TV into the bathroom so you could bathe and watch TV at the same time but you damn well nearly gave yourself: a) a hernia b) electrocution – it’s not so much the bodily harm that you mind, it’s the damage to your television set that you dare not risk. If you lived alone, and had a bathroom that faced the TV room, you would shower with the door wide open so that you could watch TV. If you had the moo-lah (wait, what am I saying? I mean the money) you would have one of those MTV Cribs worthy TV installed in your bathroom, the kind that would pop out of the foot of the bathtub. In an ideal world, where you actually lived alone and not with your parents (one of which is bathtubphobic), you would have a bathtub. You put off sleep because you want, no you need to watch TV, anything on TV, even if you think its rubbish. You say cigarettes are your only addiction, but in truth, if you had to choose between giving up smoking and television, you would choose television, although you hope that the Cosmic Order would never let it come to that. Heck, you put off your whole life because you’re watching TV and you realize, without TV, you have no life, no, wait, you do, and too many it seems a good enough life but without TV, you don’t want it.

And if all this doesn’t hold true for you, then CONGRATULATIONS – you are not me.

You probably have your television set turned off. You probably have a great degree and a great job and a great freaking retirement plan (which involves a cruise around the world). You probably have had at least one real be it bad or good, romantic relationship. You probably have a bathtub. You probably don’t give visiting your poor grandma a miss because she doesn’t have ASTRO. And if none of this holds true for you, then you might as well be watching TV.

You would think that I have the kind of parents that used TV as a parenting device but I don’t. Reading was greatly encouraged (started reading, if not entirely understanding Shakespeare at 11, along with Sweet Valley Twins (haha!) and am no better for it) And my brother was genius (wow, look, I’m giving him a compliment) at coming up with games – indoor football (there goes mama’s photo frame), indoor volley-balloon and elaborate TV-worthy plots involving Lego pieces, one in which my Lego man (name: Kurt Michael, don’t ask why) killed my brother’s Lego man (name: don’t remember) and was imprisoned for it (prison was at the top of my brother’s closet, which at that age, I was to short to reach – not anymore, sucker!), subsequently released but rejected by the rest Lego society and landed in prison again. My sis also built a Lego spaceship with a giant ironing board on its roof (don’t ask why) which provided for countless hours of TV-less amusement. My cousin (milk-stealing freak) used to come over a lot, and him, my sis (the one that didn’t build the ironing board spaceship) and I would jump on my parents’ bed while yelling at the top of our lungs: Jingkari! Jingkari! Jingkari! (no, I actually have no idea what Jingkari means). Yet, despite the abundance of time-consuming, amusing and TV-less activities that I was privileged to be a part of, I do remember finding the time to watch a lot of TV as a kid: 21 Jump Street – Johnny Depp, Johnny Depp, Johnny Depp set the basic model for almost every guy on TV that I’ve had a crush on ever since, give and take a few temporary insanity exceptions –Chadwho?- and also ‘Nam Tour of Duty which I actually remember most for the chubby sergeant which my mom may or may not have liked, a cute lieutenant, and a really great soundtrack –the song Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones has been a favorite of mine ever since – and to my siblings and old friends, shut up, the boyband thing was a temporary phase and it was YOUR fault. Come to think of it, I wonder what effect watching a TV series on the horrors of the Vietnam War had on my 6 year old psyche, and if it did have any negative effect, was it neutralized by also watching Captain Planet (I can still sing you the theme song) and the oh-so-sweet-and-fuzzy My Little Pony & Friends and the I’m-fuzzy-now-but-I-want-to-grow-up-to-be-a-cocaine-snorting-former-child-star Full House. There was also Doogie Howser (yuck, stinking ginger), Satria Baja Hitam a.k.a Mask Rider Black (Japanese superhero series where guy wears black leather, rides a motorcycle and fights rubbery alien monsters with names like Gorgon in miniature Tokyo) and ah, MacGyver, man who gave Swiss army knives and mullets such a good name (and for that, Richard Dean something, your career has been condemned to death). Oh, I must not forget to mention the He-Man and She-Ra cartoons (I also had the books) and Thundercats (I can still sing you the theme song, and the spoof version, and I am Mambra, THE EVER LIVING *insert evil cackle here*).

Anyway, all this reminiscing has made me lose my point. What was the point of this whole entry?

The point of this whole entry is……. to reveal to you how much of a dork I really am – I don’t know if this may come as a surprise or not to you – different people view the same splotch of ink on a card differently, don’t they? – but actually, no, that wasn’t the whole point. The whole point, the whole fucking point as to why I watch TV, and listen to music, and watch movies, and read, and am only able to say certain stuff on a stupid blog when it might serve me better to say it in real life, or not to say it all, the whole fucking point as to why Art and Entertainment exists, is not because it is a reflection of life, but because it’s really a remarkably good way to avoid real life altogether, and WE ARE ALL FUCKING AFRAID OF REAL LIFE to some extent or another (and now, this whole issue has made me swear like a 15 year old boy at a snooker center). In my case, it’s to a large extent. Because I am an emotional retard (I would like to elaborate on me being an emotional retard, but because I’m an emotional retard, I can’t. Also, if you haven’t stopped reading this entry by now, or, if you’ve known me for at least 2 years and has spent at least more than 8 hours talking to me, you would already know this fact and fully understand it, hence no need for me to explain).

To use a cliché: Real life is messy. It also smells. What I like about immersing yourself in the carefully controlled world of television: for one, things don’t smell, you can’t smell the things on TV. There is also the fact that if things get dull, you can always edit it out. But mostly, it’s because you’re able to be both completely involved and entirely detached from something at the same time with little complications (unless you’re remote control is not working), basically, YOU are pretty much in control of your level of involvement, which is more than you can say real life – half the time, you’re not as involved in someone’s life as you would like to be because they won’t let you, and at other times, you can’t get away from someone as much as you would like to because they just keep coming after you (no, I don’t want to be your best friend, I already have one so fuck off and go watch TV or something.). You can love something on TV to death, take in every single detail of it like oxygen after a jog uphill and when you’re sick of it -change the channel. You can always change the channel. And even though I say it would positively break my heart if JD doesn’t win Rock Star: INXS and I never see him again; I know it wouldn’t, not really (although, I would be upset that I spent 150 bucks worth of SMS only to have to listen to Screamy Psssyyyycho Marty or MiGget the all dancing, all nasal, girlie leprechaun singing for INXS) because there will always be another face, personality, character for me to fuel my delusions with. All I have to do is change the channel. Change the channel. You can always change the channel.

And if this doesn’t hold true, then maybe it really is time for me to turn the damn TV off. Throw it out the window like a real rock star should (did I also mention that I want to be a rock star? I have three pairs of underwear with the word ‘Rock Star’ printed on it. Like you needed to know that. And no, my wanting to be a rock star has nothing to do with JD. It goes a loooong way back but that’s another story.)

And what do you know, right now, at this very moment, the TV is turned off.

Welcome to real life, baby.

It ain’t pretty, after the show…… (Stop it! Stop it! Stop quoting from JD!)

P.S. (pardon my stupid question, but what does P.S. stand for anyway, and can you use P.S. in a blog entry?) To the three friends I went to good, old murky Port Dickson with last weekend: I HAD A FUCKING GOOD TIME GUYS! (And didn’t watch a single minute of TV, at that). Who knew you could have so much fun by a seaside shit hole? Also, to that one very drunk friend – umm, please explain how you can say that I suck and that you love me at the same time – do you love me in spite of me sucking, or do you love me because I suck? If it’s the latter, my friend, you have issues.


Also, to end this entry, I should probably apologize to everyone that I have caused great boredom to by my endless talk of my latest TV/ music/ movie/ literary/ sport/ *insert random topic here* obsession which you do not share. I’m sorry to have imposed my love for someone else upon you. Hey, all this love (or as Celine Dion would say it – laaarrr, no offense, Canadians- Go Canada! I laaaarr JD) I have inside has to be channeled somewhere, and it seems such a waste to let it go to someone in real life.

Oh, and Mr. Jason Dean Bennison @ JD Fortune, will you live in sin with me, in mental sickness and in physical health, till my next obsession / delusional fantasy do us part?

Turn off the TV; it’s time to do great things.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“ Tu entre todos los seres tienes derecho a verme débil ”
(You among all beings have the right to see me weak).
- El Dano (The Hurt); Pablo Neruda

At least I think that’s what it means.

Posted by Maryam at 3:17 PM | Permalink |

Here’s one for a first blog entry: How do you accidentally cut your lip with a Gillette Venus razor while trying to shave your legs? I don’t know, but I did it. Now my lips look like Sylvester Stallone’s. All I need now is a speech impediment and I’ll be all set for Rocky: The 100th sequel. Great. Thanks, Cosmic Order for making me a klutzy Sagittarian. The archer- hah! I’d probably end up poking my own eye out with an arrow.

Also, in regard to the conversation I had with The Alia the other day: The Alia, my friend, Elton John IS NOT COOLER than Freddie Mercury, he never was, never will be. In fact, he never was, never will be, even as cool as Freddie Mercury. Not even close second. Although yeah, Tiny Dancer is a good song.

And only my mother can turn an argument about Josh Hartnett having a stupid-looking face into one about my future. She fancies Josh Hartnett like a schoolgirl, probably for the same reasons I did when I was 14 (I have since learned the error of my ways). I said that while his face may be symmetrical (hence, technically attractive) he seemed to lack a certain something behind the eyes. He seems to lack substance (need I remind you of Pearl Harbor, the movie?). I called him stupid-looking. My mother vehemently defended him. She claimed he has a degree (in what?). Of course, I said, being in possession of a degree is in no way a testament to how intelligent one is. A degree doesn’t necessarily give one substance. One can have a degree and have no soul. Soul, baby, soul. The mother then tells me to “stop talking nonsense”. To paraphrase her: “Get your degree, first, Maryam. Until then, shut up.”

The wall in the living room is filled with pictures of my siblings but none of me. My dad says, only degree holders are given the honor of being on THE WALL. It doesn’t explain why my niece, who is barely three years old, is up there, though. Maybe because she’s cuter than I am and makes for more pleasant viewing. Maybe the whole degree-thing is just a baloney excuse. Maybe only the cute and photogenic are allowed up there and sorry, dear, you didn’t make the cut, especially with those new Sylvester Stallone-style lips of yours.

Oh yeah, and to everyone concerned about my future – stop. I’m not bumming, I’m ‘searching for inspiration’. (Actually, it sounds funnier when I say it in Malay, like I did to my mom: Ma, bukan menganggur, mencari ilham…)

Also, it’s funny how the Malay word for being unemployed/ bumming literally translates in English as grape-ing. What do grapes have to do with it?

The future isn’t bright. It’s dark. But it has a night light.



------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“ Tu entre todos los seres tienes derecho a verme débil ”
(You among all beings have the right to see me weak).
- El Dano (The Hurt); Pablo Neruda

At least I think that’s what it means.

Posted by Maryam at 2:32 PM | Permalink |