Enjoy Responsibly

Enjoy responsibly. A simple yet loaded message to drinkers across the world. What is responsible drinking? First that crosses one’s mind is to not drink and drive, to appoint a designated driver. Two very responsible things to do. But it is beyond not operating heavy machinery, is it not? Drink responsibly could also mean to not drink to a point beyond which one loses control over one’s actions, emotions, and ability to reason, not only with people around but with oneself… as well as being in control as to not hurt any beings around deliberate or not, physically, or otherwise. It is all fun and games until it is not. But that is drinking. What about enjoying the other things the world has to offer. Like art, entertainment, music. I am not speaking of pirating copyrighted works of art. The law has that covered. I am speaking of the sense of responsibility between the entertainers and the entertained. It has been mostly a commercial relationship. The entertained pay some sum to the agents of the entertainers, and the entertainers entertain. Fair and simple, everybody walks home happy… But does that arrangement create a sense of mutual responsibility between the two that goes beyond monetary gains and temporary spike in dopamine? Because some four years ago, we all saw an example, whether realising it, of an extremely lopsided relationship between an entertainer and the entertained at a scale of a global proportion where both sides ended up on the losing end. Chester Bennington. His passing means there will no longer be more melodic screams, no more poetic renditions of a man’s suffering and no more songs edgy middle-class teens in the suburbia could (try hard and miserably fail to) relate to… and this void he had left saddens me more than I had expected. The sudden implosion of his stardom had created a supermassive blackhole that even after nearly four years, it yet gravitates all light of joy towards it. We have not been enjoying his work responsibly. From Linkin Park’s first album Xero in 1997, Hybrid Theory in 2000, to Meteora in 2003, all the way to One More Light in 2017, two months and a day before his passing, our beloved Chester had been not secretly crying for help. Over 20 years of being at the forefront of the global pop-culture, he had been literally touring the globe crying for help. It was all in his songs. It was in all of his songs. Their albums are sold across the globe, pirated by everyone, bought through iTunes store by all gen Ys, added to Spotify playlists of the millennials. We paid hundreds of moneys to see him begging to be heard. What did we do? We sang along and thought “this song is so me, OMG I can sooooo relate to this song, and that song”. 20 years of entertaining us, and none of us got to him in time. And now he is gone. The person, who had been suffering for so long that he made a career out of it, he even gave interviews about the darkness in his mind, how it was a dangerous place to be alone in (there’s another story form another conversation here, but next time), one, merely days before the fateful day of his passing and no one amongst the millions of fans and family and friends got to him in time (yet another conversation that threw my assertions here out the logics train. Aren’t you the wise one)... If the millions of us can overlook/ignore the reality behind the renditions of a dark mind of man we claim to be so dear to us, what of the silent screams of all the nobodys amongst us? Look around. Notice. Care. When you meet someone you know, even only barely, ask “how have you been?”. Say “hello” with a genuine smile. You will be surprised how much someone will open up to you. You would probably be the very stranger that that someone needs to release some of the troubles in their dark and dangerous minds. Notice the slightest of change in another’s behaviour, outlook, choice of words, choice of clothes, the shape of their smile, the sorrow in their eyes, even the strange way they cross their T’s and the dot their I’s. They could be oddly wearing their wristwatch upside-down or on the wrong hand one day. Notice and ask. They could be walking to the store when they usually would drive. Notice and ask. They could have hugged you for that extra second that morning, or have taken that one extra turn towards you just to see your face again, just for that one last time, before driving off. Notice and ask. They could just call you on the telephone at a random hour of the day like never before. Notice and ask. Most of the time, it is probably nothing. But what if… just what if, after all the “nothings” that followed your every noticing and asking, what if the day you decided, “nah, he’s fine, he’s just weird like that”, is the day he swallows that bottle of pills, or the day he pulls that trigger, or the day he leans forward out that opened-window sill of the 13th floor flat farther just by that extra decisive degree, or the day he presses that razor blade harder into his wrist only ever so slightly,? What if? Notice and ask. After all, if we are not here for others, then what the fuck are we doing here?

A Clean Square One

Microsoft’s Windows operating system allows one to restore one’s computer system to an earlier restore point in case part of the hard drive gets corrupted. But one must first identify such a point. It is a good practice as one will never know what could happen to the computer down the line. Of course, now there are countless ways the ensure all - important files, work stuff, digitalised personal documents, precious memories, those precious photos, and clips, own and shared - remain secure no matter how bad one’s computer has been plagued by viruses for their user’s indiscrete online activities. Many of these cannot be reproduced and once gone, are forever gone. Sure, there are cloud storage options one could pay some money for to keep those safe. But what is more convenient, and almost sentimental, than saving them in your own hard drives? So, system restore point it is. This is my first attempt at penning a raw, unadulterated, and unfettered piece in nearly 10 years. What I had written in the past had been truly raw , unadulterated, and unfettered version of all that were in this troubled mind of mine. Some were readable, some were outright cringy. Recently I found myself re-reading them, post after post, paragraph by paragraph, line by line, word by word, and on repeat. The prose was generally flawed, the trains of thought were patchy at best, and the grammar was simply appalling. But they were my very own raw, unadulterated, and unfettered version of all that were in this troubled mind of mine. And as I read and read, it dawned on me that I may have lost it… the ability to write a raw, unadulterated, and unfettered piece. One may think that with the overwhelming darkness reigning upon oneself, one may be inspired to start creatively writing. But there are simply too many of what seemingly the key theme of the subject matter; simply too many timelines, some overlapping; too many roller coasters of emotions, partly due to the pseudo-honest life that one may be living. Or perhaps, it has simply been too long that no one theme seems to be the overriding story. Whatever it is, it sure does not feel like riding a bicycle. Not two days ago, I had a conversation with a lovely soul, dearest to me, with a special place in my heart… or what’s left of it. About starting to pen things down again. We agreed on one thing; that the best and most effective method of bringing out the raw, unadulterated, and unfettered version of our current or past thoughts and emotions, fears and joy, and achievements and disappointments… unfiltered, uncensored, unhampered by familiar, social, or religious boundaries, the no-holds-barred version of all of them… is the good ol’ pen and paper. And not two days ago I was gifted by that very beautiful soul, the very instrument I needed to get me started. You have to see it. It is brilliant. If you think a retractable spoiler on a Ferrari is impressive, you have seen nothing. The instrument is a million times better than those sold in a 7-Elevens that I was going to get that morning…. but I digress. Now, I need an empty journal, a blank canvas if I may, that is worthy of this brilliant new instrument, to really get going. So, until I find a worthy blank journal, this will do. So here is my first attempt to identify an earlier restore point within the system of this troubled mind of mine, my first attempt to pen yet another raw, unadulterated, and unfettered version of all that is going, my first attempt of coming out if this Plato’s cave and back out there and say, “This is me. This may not be the me that all ones that mattered once knew nor this is the changed me. This is simply… me.” What I am attempting here is to articulate a journey through this long-abandoned mind palace. A place where I must find a system restore point that meets most, if not all, criteria to draw me a clean square-one. The mind has been taking in things without due process. Pieces of causes and effects have not been labelled and paired accordingly since early 2012 due to a sudden (forced) change in personality; the way of life as I knew it vanished into the horizon in the rear-view mirror and I did not see it coming (or going). Actions and reactions have not been rightly matched since 2013 for the continuous, and largely unnecessary, impromptu firefighting had rendered the process of giving a reciprocal reaction to an action, any action, dysfunctional. A pile of consequences in the far corner of the court jester’s quarters has not been reviewed and addressed since 1999 for not a single page had been turned without having fully closed the previous chapters. This place is a complete quagmire, a hoard of unaddressed feelings, unattended emotions, ignored warning signs, all guarded by an egotistical monster of a swiss guard. So, where do I begin??? Fuck…. To be continued…

It Was Her

She was not in the mood to make love. I cannot blame her. We were up by five, attacked the first RyanAir flight out for tha extra legroom, rushed through the quick transit at Stanstead, land Milan at noon, got lost in the web of Italian railroads for hours before finally arriving at the surreal reviera. The last thing she wanted was to get on all four just to get disappointed five minutes after. I stepped out to the balcony, lit up a cigarette and observe the laid back atmosphere the Mediterranean beachside has to offer. She got into her bathing suit. It was a one-piece. For a split second I thought ‘whoever wears one-piece anymore these days’. Then I realised she’d fit in very well. The alfresco coffee shop that sprawled along the marketplace, cars from the 70s sped through the narrow roads and the art-deco buildings that stood out amongst the classic Italian stone structures and of course the pebbled beach and hundreds others that were too wearing one-piece. She belonged there.

We spent the whole week swimming in the beach in mornings, making love in the afternoon in the mild summer breeze, walking along the marketplace trying every single pizza place there was. Dinner time was especially beautiful; most memorable being the evening that they served two blocks of mozzarella with olive oil (being the only halal option available). Who eats two blocks of cheese for dinner?? Luckily enough the wine suggestion was perfect.
However, looking back, the trip was only memorable and almost perfect because she was there. She was spontaneous, funny and full of life. She was Life. To think of it, Genoa wasn’t that great after all. The people were rude and racist, the beach was painful to walk barefoot on and the humidity was just overwhelming. She, somehow, turned it into heaven.

That was almost 10 years ago. When i thought of Genoa, there is not a single image that she was not in and without her cheerful face in it; my memory of the trip serves merely as a huge collection of postcards.

We met last week. The build up to it was exciting. Old flame. The actual occurrence was rather awkward. She seemed to try to avoid the reminiscing of memories while I tried and fail to act cool.

I asked for the checque. It was over.

Quotes. It doesn’t really matter where they came from. They could have been uttered by famous and influential people, picked up from charming characters in movies, even shows like Family Guy. More often than not, they do make sense. A couple stuck in my head and are very much applicable to my day to day dwellings.

I once had a rather uncomfortable conversation with a friend’s father. He said, “Taufiq, when there are problems or conflicts surfacing within a family or any intimate, if not romantic, relationships, the man is ALWAYS to blame. Never put the blame on the woman… NEVER” How we ended up talking about it, only god knows. However I couldn’t agree more with that wise old man. He had the hands on experience. In the beginning he did not anticipate how much damage his misdemeanour would cause and the eventuality of things blowing out of proportion (shit hitting the fan) as it should. When they did, hell broke loose. He had almost lost all he had. It has gotten better for him since but left an ugly scar in his marriage. While he was lost in the world of infidelity he always had in mind, justification to his deceitful behaviour. There was always someone to blame and point fingers at. However once the real demon unearthed, the fingers were all pointing back at him. It was he who distanced himself. It was he who succumbed to the seduction of that hideous stray bitch and it was he who brought himself to believe that what he was doing wasn’t wrong. Little did he know, his whole family, the people who loved him unconditionally, had been, all that while, suffering. The wife had nobody to turn to, and the kids, longing for a fatherly guidance were lost “seperti kapal kehilangat nakhoda”. Despite the absence of him, the family, with whatever they have left, each other, pulled through. They patiently waited for the man of the house to come to his senses and rejoin a what-used-to-be a perfect family. And, unlike many of the similar instances, fortunately, he repented, and salvaged whatever that was left of his family and more importantly, marriage. It was however, never the same. The trust lost is never regained. Nobody could put humpty dumpty together again. It, he said, is like driving a car that has been fixed from a nasty crash. Not as good as new and far from being better. Never the same.

One fine summer evening during the last days of my student life I was hanging out with my two best friends in the back yard of our rented home in - effortlessly chugging a crate of Stella Artois (each) – when one of them said something quite surprisingly wise. It was more of an open ended question. He asked, “Guys, if there was someone who has, all these while, provided you with everything you ever needed that you feel forever indebted, and one day that very same person murders your mother, would you still be indebted to that person?” I sat there and thought, ‘wow, that is probably the best way to define the love a boy has for his mother’. That is one line that NOBODY, under any circumstances, should ever cross. No external factor, not even divine intervention, can ever disrupt that sacred bond between a son and his mother. The nature made it that way and that’s just the way it is and that how it should be. When I said NOBODY, I literally meant NOBODY without any exceptions. Those who hurt my mother, in any possible way for any possible reason, deliberate or accidental, are pieces of shit and do not and will not ever deserve my respect for what it’s worth regardless all the good things they have given me. Give me all the money in the world and beg for forgiveness, you will still be a piece of shit. And a piece of shit will always be a piece of shit.


-Tau

p/s: don't mess with my mother

CEOs, Sweage and Civilisation

An integrated sewerage system is one of the most important yardsticks in the history human civilisation. In Paris, France, the idea of an integrated sewerage system was coined, or promoted, by King Philippe Auguste when he ordered drains to be built along roadsides in the city during his reign in the 13th century to channel household wastes into the river. However, the open-drain system was found disastrous as it contributed to the rapid spread of the bubonic plague in 1346 which believed to have wiped out up to 60% of Europe’s population. It took 150 years for the continent’s population to recover. The cleaner and more effective solution was developed by a man called Bruneseau, under the rule of Napoleon Bonaparte, construction of which took seven years from 1805 and 1812. Bruneseau also disinfected and purified the entire network of the subterranean sewer. In 1850, Victor Hugo further improvised the system as he separated the underground passage of sewage and drinking water using techniques made possible following the industrial revolution.
In London, the introduction of flush-toiled backfired as it overwhelmed cesspits, London’s primitive and inefficient sewerage system. This has led to two major black spots on London’s history; the widespread of Cholera disease and the infamous Great Stink. Addressing the gravity of the situation and to avoid the shame these civil blunders could bring to the ‘greatest empire in the world’, the Parliament decided to built a network of enclosed sewer as proposed by a civil engineer, Joseph Bazalgette in 1895.
Many major European countries followed suit and the ingenious technology was later introduced all over the world. The integrated sewerage system provided people with comfort and convenience. It also helped technological advancement. For instance, Elisha Otis’s invention of safety elevators would have been left in vain had occupants still had to travel to the ground to answer nature calls or Londoners still yelling “out the window” to rid their biological discharge.
Quite amazing the sewerage system, really. Developed in 1800s and until today, the basic concept of leveraging on water flow and gravity still works perfectly. The breakthrough, however, is always forgotten. We treat it as if it had always been there; as if nobody had to suffer or even die before it was perfected. It seems, many is taking it for granted and some is going backwards against the flow of civilisation.
Now, to the point I’m to make. In my line of work, i get to visit a number of office buildings to meet clients and most of the time I would meet with the top management of large corporations. Typically, the elite group (those holding higher position) would occupy the higher floor of the building while the working class; lower. As the meetings require high level of focus and professionalism I would hit the loo before the meetings commence. There seems to be a strong correlation between cleanliness of toilets and class of people utilising it. The executive floors are always clean while the working class ones, more often than not, covered in filth. Same apply to airplane lavatories. Business and First class WCs are always cleaner than those of coach.
I began to question. One: Did the likes of CEOs and CFOs become aware of toilet ethics, personal hygiene and common courtesy after they made their way up the corporate ladder? Or two: was it their in-built toilet ethics, personal hygiene and common courtesy that propelled their success? I think it’s the later. What do you think?
You can argue on volume and frequency of cleaning. But it’s not about numbers. It only takes one irresponsible bastard to spoil the comfort of an efficient sewerage system for everyone.

Unconditional love. Say what???

Woman: Love and emotional support? One at a time mister. Show me the money and body-convulsing orgasm, and then we talk love and emotional support.

Man: Love and emotional support? You have a pretty face? You have an epic pair of bosoms? If the answers are yes to both questions, let’s talk love and emotional support.

Men and women. We are all the same; messed up in the head and incapable unconditional love. We do try, all the time, to prove otherwise, using many different methods. Be it self help books, retarded friends’ advice and even religions. But we’re fooling no one but ourselves. We are very particular, have preferences, and more often than not, will jump at the first glimpse of a better option.

I will be polite here. Ladies first.

Yes, they can provide men with support and love and are vital components in the pursuit of the continuity of mankind. But these services do not come free. Quality of service depends entirely on how much men are willing to spend. I’m not talking love, protection and care of a man; I’m talking dollar and cents (preferably dollar of course and with a lot of zeros excluding decimal points). It does make perfect sense if you look at it. Like buying a car, if a customer walks into a Proton or Perodua showroom, the only questions worth asking for the sales person to the potential - and most probably eventual – customer would be which model, transmission type and color. Because there’s no point promoting the cars for there’s nothing to promote and the only reason the customer walked into either of these showrooms is that they know they can’t afford anything else. Once the car is sold, the sales person would say, not out loud for sure, “it’s your problem now”, with a smile in his face. After sales service? What after sales service? In fact, the soon-to-be dissatisfied customer probably does not even expect any after sales service. He knows, considering the amount he paid, he doesn’t deserve any. Now if we relate to men picking a mates. They know very well that with the little money that he had, could afford to or was willing to spend(t) that’s all he is going to get… Junk. If we look at the other extreme, say you bought a prancing-fucking-horse (that’s Ferrari) the after sales goes on forever. They’ll build you a car that fits every part of you perfectly. They’d measure the length of your thighs and width of your hips and even the diameter of each of your testicles, to the nearest millimeter to promise comfort. You decide what color, which part will come in. Your wish is indeed their command. Try buying your woman a RM20,000 Channel bag. I bet on my mother’s house, with my mother in it, they’ll fulfill your sickest, most disgusting sexual desires right outside the KLCC boutique. You will never ever have to tug your sorry self while she’s busy tugging someone else’s anymore.

Now we move on to the gentlemen.

They are a bunch of cheating, lying, and deceitful sons of bitches. Never trust them. Here’s the conundrum. You can’t trust men with money but you don’t even look at men without. What does that leave you with? Ponder that. You may be the hottest, foxiest, woman he knows now. You probably have the sweetest rack, round, firm arse and vertical lips as tight its neighbor an inch away that he couldn’t tell the difference at times. You think he’s not going to go anywhere… forever. Let me break it down to you missy. The moment a wrinkle appears on your used-to-be pretty face, tits and honka-donk sags, and your verti-lips down under gape perpetually like a dead Indonesian volcano, he’s out the door. First his mind, then his heart, and eventually, sooner rather than later, his physical self. Unless you’re lucky enough that he dies before he could find your replacement.

For women, it’s always money first, sex second and the rest later and for men, its face, boobs, cunt, ass, and the rest, in that order. Strip off all our self-righteousness, men are just a bunch of lonely lowlife, housing long-term prostitutes, masked by the politically correctness of self dictated economic success and women… well, you get what I mean.

There’s no such thing as unconditional, and forever love. Terms and conditions always apply…. Always.

Poor Men and Smelly Calloused Feet

It happened in the year 2002, as I was going around looking for a decent pair of black lace-up Oxford shoes. Nothing fancy, nothing outlandish, no fashion-statement making pair of shoes. Just a good ol’ pair of comfortable black leather shoes for me to wear on a medical school interview (yup, medical school, but that’s another story for another day).

First, I walked into Penney’s on Henry Street. Well, who was I kidding… So I tried my luck at several department stores and shopping malls, Arnott’s, Roches, Blanchards Town, Illac Centre, Jervis Centre, St Stephen’s and the list goes on. Constrained by tight budget, I went into, among others, Sole Trader, Burton’s, Mark and Spencer’s, and even Dunnes Store. The day of the interview was inching closer and I had yet to find a pair that meets my requirements, which after all, are not at all farfetched.

The shoes must be black, made of leather, lace-up, flat with 1-inch heels and gently tapered tip. There, barely a line of simple prerequisites. But what I found was mostly, well, crap. Bulky looking ones were ruled out at first sight. I don’t have the built or height to pull it off. So were ones with ridiculously thick soles. Some had too many stitching on them, supposedly to distinguish between one and another. They’re missing the point. Men’s shoes aren’t meant to be distinguished. They should look plain, simple and classy while giving the master the deserved comfort and support.

These affordable shoes are made by a bunch of accountants who leverage on ignorance of the masses. They don’t know what they are doing and even if they did, they didn’t know how to. For instance, nobody wears patent leather in daylight, so why make them? Some copied designs worn by models for catwalk events. These shoes were designed such way (extravagant, outlandish, exaggerated) so that viewers and critics can see their design directions. For this purpose (catwalk), the shoes may be extra shiny and extra pointy for instance. But when the products actually reach the shelves, the extravagance, outlandishness and exaggerations had been very much toned down. The designs are so much subtle so the masses can absorb little changes they’ve made. This is the process that these ‘accountants’ missed. Thanks to ignorance, their eye-pokingly ugly products are still bought and people’s awareness in self presentation subdued.

Disappointed by the little choices I had, I walked into Brown Thomas on Grafton, hoping there’ll be some ‘lonely’, slightly scratched, Size-9 black Oxford available on sale. Luck of the leprechaun was not on my side. So I made another round at the malls and the stores. To my surprise, I ran into a pair, decent enough to my liking, affordable enough to my bank account. Plain black leather Oxford lace-ups, 1-inch heels with gently tapered tip. But boy was I disappointed. To keep prices low, the brand opted for thinner, less superior leather and lined the inner soles with synthetic ones. Result? A pair of rigid structured semi-leather shoe that do not mould into the shape of the master’s feet the way a ‘real’ leather shoes would. The moment I stood up, I knew, walking in those will be painful. And as the linings were made of synthetic material, my feet will not be able to breathe. Walking an average of three miles a day in woollen socks and shoes with ‘fake’ linings may and will lead to the feet producing some sort of a stench, thanks to super active sebaceous glands (especially in summer). I gave my gratitude to the shopkeeper and walked out in despair.

So I called up my funder, asking for a budget raise, and explained the gravity of my situation, and got it. I went straight into a small real shoemaker store and got myself a pair of plain black lace-up Oxford with 1-inch heels and gently tapered tip. I was indeed the happiest man that day. A few days later, I went for the medical school interview, walking tall filled with pride and confidence... and didn’t get a place.

As for the shoes, they are so comfortable and durable that it has been eight years and I still am wearing them. But eight years is indeed to long even for a pair of beautifully made yet robust British made Oxford. I realised it is about time I looked for another pair, and I thought, “Fuck”.