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Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Fear & Loathing in LA



Over twenty hours before the revelation of Jesus' weather-changing powers I was in a bus leaving from Media Prima in Bandar Utama to the KLIA airport together with 31 other assorted filmmakers, actors, producers and crew members, the majority of them winners of the Anugerah Skrin (myself included) together with people from Melodi, MHI and the Breakfast Show. Part of the prize was a trip to Hollywood to check out how the big boys make movies, and perhaps be inspired in our next endeavours. We went, we saw, we gaped and awed, and if you think I'm going to write about all of it here in one sitting you must be out of your mind.

Besides, even if I wanted to tell you all of it, it wouldn't be wise. I've taken a step into the Industry, and in the Industry, certain things are kept on the hush-hush for fear of ignorant press write-ups, sensationilist rumours and gossip-mag bollocks. Thank God I'm not too steeped into it just yet, my identity still not well known enough that I can safely put up this picture of me hanging out in front of Denny's at three o' clock in the morning with a copy of L.A. X-Press, smoking a cigarette. These are good times, and if ever I take one step too far into the Industry this picture may be deleted, along with my numerous posts alluding to sexually deviant behaviour and Jo Guest.

But don't, for a second, assume that the trip to Southern California was a hedonistic 'girls gone wild' party of debauchery. Far from it. In fact, our tour was so packed up that I didn't have much chance to check out any of the things I wanted to. I didn't get to go to Taco Bell and I did not have any Twinkies. Besides, as you'll read on from the points below, L.A. isn't exactly a wild place...

Ten Things I Learnt In LA


1. Californians don't know how to party. Or, at least, they don't know how to party continously. Whilst the streets of KL are still rife with activity at two in the morning on a Monday, in Cali people go to sleep. They hang out at home and watch TV and the streets are a ghost town by eleven. Even in Hollywood. Example? This is Sunset Boulevard on a Tuesday night, the place where both the Viper Room and the Whiskey A-Go-Go reside:



Wow.

I asked a local about this. He said that the night only comes alive on weekends. In the meantime, people do their job and then they go home. Plus, it was Spring Break, and all the kids were in Tijuana.

But perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps they know how to party, but it's an exclusive party, one that an alien-with-a-visa is not welcome to unless he or she was connected. No matter. If the party was there, I sure as shit wasn't.

2. Taxi's in L.A. are extortionately priced. Example? From my hotel in San Pedro to Sunset Boulevard cost eighty six bucks. Eight six?! On my last day, when I took a cab from Camarillo to a guitar centre in Oxnard, on the same road and only 7 miles away, I got charged twenty five bucks. This is insanity.

3. Islanders rule. As do Hispanics and African-Americans. Perhaps it's because we looked similar, I dunno, but amongst them I didn't feel too much like an alien-with-a-visa. A big shout out to Stephen the Cingular cellphone guy and Omar the Peruvian construction dude, though you may never read this.

No offence to white guys, but seriously, y'all Californians were just starring at me. Just plain starring. Why? Have you never seen an Asian in the VIP queue for the Jimmy Kimmel show before?

4. Hooters is overrated. And the food portions are tiny. Although I hear this is not the case in the southern states.
5. Hollywood Boulevard is not glamorous. In fact, all the way down the sidewalks, adorned with big golden stars and famous celebrities' names in them, are homeless people, panhandlers, pimps and pushers. A Vietnam vet asked me for change, for God's sake. I didn't think Vietnam vets still existed on the streets, but there he was. I was so taken aback I gave the guy a couple of bucks.

6. Dinner's with a show are a strange affair. And I don't mean like having a dinner at the Copa with Frank Sinatra crooning centre-stage. No, I mean the Pirates Dinner Experience (or whatever it was called), where you are served chicken and shrimp whilst facing a mock-up pirate ship and struggling actors, actresses, singers and stuntmen try to entertain you by stopping from eating every five minutes to raise your glass of coke and shout "AARRR!!" Good for the kids, though.

7. Goofy's an asshole. For those who've been reading this blog, you'll know that my only intention for going to Disneyland was to punch Goofy in the face and make him tell me just what kind of animal he's supposed to be. But as we got there the magic of the, well, magic kingdom took over and I was enchanted once again by seeing Mickey, Donald, Cinderella and Woody walk around, life-sized and plush. So when I saw Goofy I obviously wanted to take a photo with him.

And the bastard mutant dog dissed me.

The evil fucker raised his paw in a 'talk-to-the-hand' kind of way and walked off. But I'll have my revenge. Oh, yes. One day, I'll have my revenge. And when Doctor Moreau gets Goofy back and sees how badly beaten he is he'll lament ever creating the sordid creature.

8. Hollywood lies. It's weird. I always knew that making movies is all about presenting a reality, regardless of how real everything is, but seeing the actual sets and studio lots made me realize just how much of what we see on TV and in the movies is fake, and how goddamn well they pull it off. We went to Fox, Paramount and Warner Bros and their studio lots and soundstages are incredibly. We got a long way to go indeed.

9. Warner brothers sounds like 'Water Bladder' when spoken by an Asian, non-English speaking tour guide. And there was much merriment about this.

10. Liquids are weapons in the hands of terrorists. As are shoes. This is what I discovered at LAX. All liquids had to be put into a plastic baggie for inspection and shoes had to be x-rayed. I suppose the fear is that a terrorist will combine different proportions of different ordinary household liquids inside their shoes to make makeshift napalm bomb. Or something.

Well, that's it for the LA trip. It may sound sarcastic, but in truth I had lots of fun and everyone I travelled with were really cool, kick-ass, down-to-earth guys, especially Afdlin, Sheema and Hasnul, the trio I spent the most time with down in Southern Cali. I may not have even had time to make any phone calls (sorry, Jess! I really wanted to call but I didn't even get to call my girlfriend and parents more than once!) or meet anyone I supposed to or blog about it whilst I was there or even have a Taco Bell burrito, but I had fun, no doubt.

Now all I have to do is win next year so that I can finally give Goofy the thrashing the dumb fuck deserves.



And if you think I'm gonna write about what happened at Mickey's on Santa Monica Boulevard, well, that's between me and Jose.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Carcinogen: And So It Begins...

Sat on the table next to me on this windy wet day outside Coffee Bean are two girls, probably between fifteen and eighteen. The one with braces is showing the one without how to smoke a cigarette.

And so it begins.

The soundbites alone are pure cliche. I have heard these words uttered by my peers when I was the same age. And watching it at this age is fucking hillarious.

"Suck it in."

"You're not doing it properly!"

"Cough... cough... cough...! Ewww...!"

"Awesome, isn't it?"

"Don't tell anyone I took a puff."

"You light another one and I'll try another one."

"I don't want to get addicted."

"You won't. I've gone a week without it. It's easy."

"I feel like there's something in my throat that's stuck."

"Isn't it cool?"

"Ok, take a deep breath... now release...! Feels good, no?"

"COUGH! My breath stinks now!"

"It's ok, you're still young..."

The one with braces speaks with pure teenage confidence. You know the type I'm talking about - the fake confidence of youth, bordering on pomposity and arrogance.

The type of confidence you can get away with at that age.

God, this makes me feel old.

Another question has popped up in my head: why am I not stopping this? Am I bad for not stopping this? Am I not doing my duty as someone who's gone through the same thing and am now stuck on fifty sticks a day?

No. I'm watching kids growing up. And it's their choice. I know this confidence/arrogance. I know this scene. I've lived it, and I know that if some tubby fuck came up to me and started giving me the whole "when I was a lad" crap I'd give him a dose of that confidence. And if they're as stupid as me, well, tough titty.

But if catch my brother with a pack I'm kicking his ass.

Monday, March 12, 2007

The Colonel, Cathodes and Corrupt Brain Cells

(Written during the early hours of this morning when I was supposed to be working. Could end up becoming something, another novella maybe, but for now it's just ramblings. Read if you dare.)

It’s almost one on a Monday morning and I have realized that I am too damn lazy and/or tired to do anything, least of all my work.

It could be the chicken that is causing this. The genetically engineered monstrosities designed by Colonel Saunders’ evil offspring, fried in a bucket of oil with secret herbs and spices that may or may not include diseased human entrails. We will never know the Colonel’s secret, but we can be sure that nastiness is afoot. A foul nastiness that has caused my motor functions to slow down and make my stomach yearn to release a shit my intestines and sphincter flat out refuse to help with. Perhaps they are lazy and/or tired too.

Perhaps it’s the lack of a television, the cathode tube that runs the huge Italian beast gave way through Austin Powers’ third and final jaunt, getting progressively darker till I couldn’t see a damn thing and hear nothing but the sound of someone pissing, either a scene from the movie or the evil gremlin inside leaving its mark before scuttling off to another electric appliance. The TV is my friend, and it often gets me into the right state of mind.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because the work in question is not immediate in its deadline. That’s usually one of the deciding factors when it comes to my… my…

Bugger me, I’m even forgetting words now…

…PRODUCTIVITY. That’s the one. ‘Productivity’. Or, in this case, a lack of. I have work to do. I know that much. But it is not really required tomorrow. It would be productive and pro-active and well managed of me to do it tonight, now, whilst the deadline is still far away, but I am none of these things. I live off the eleventh hour.

No. That’s not true. I THRIVE on it.

It’s the lack of immediate deadlines that has screwed me the most these past few opening months of the seventh year of the 21st century, a bright shiny new age where all the techno-fears will finally rear their ugly little heads. And as evil robots enslave humanity and we begin downloading information directly into our brains and genetic engineering reaches a point where we can all have gills if we want to, you’ll hear me in the background, talking to myself.

“Fuck me,” I’ll say, “the Doctor was right.”

But enough about the future. We need to talk of the here and now and why I’m typing this. Perhaps they are notes towards something greater, perhaps they’ll just end up as an entry on my blog, the 21st century way for people to write diaries in secret whilst telling everyone at the same time, with none of the actual facing-up involved.

What I do know is this: I have many things to write and design and create. I have no immediate deadlines, true, but there’s something I am lacking that is more dire and depressing than that:

I have no drive.

So that’s what this is, ladies and gents: my jumper cables. Writing about the here and now, inane gibberish in a style stolen from many other more successful and noted masters of the English language, because at least I’m writing.

That’s what’s important, that I’m doing something creative. That’s what my blog was designed for in the first place when I first opened the account – so that when all else fails, I’ll still be creating, even if all I’m doing is putting a different spin to the events that have or are happening in my life or the random thoughts of this nicotine and Colonel-fat diseased brain – at least I’m still using the ol’ noggin.

A lot of that drive disappeared around the first month of this year. After the Anugerah Skrin win, calls came from every direction with possible jobs for directing and writing a number of TV movies, shows, features, etc. It was my jump into the industry and it made me realize one thing – that working with dumb-ass clients was exactly why I left the advertising industry.

The whole experience left a bad taste in my mouth and most of all, it made me question the point in following up my first feature. I had forced myself, throughout that month, to squeeze out a bunch of nuggets on cue, only to be told they weren’t the right size or shape or goddamn color.

Now, three months after the win, I find myself a week away from flying to Los Angeles, California, part of the prize for the Anugerah Skrin. A week of Disneyland and Universal Studios, discount shopping outlets and the Malaysian Sambal Grill eatery.

But not for me: I’ve made up my mind when I’ll be taking my little detours. The Guitar Center in Oxnard is one of them. So is the nearest Taco Bell, as well as White Castle and the International House Of Pancakes (which is a strange name considering the outlet is not really found internationally, but then again, none of the other countries take part in the World Series, so I guess it’s an American thing).

Food. Goddamn food. Goddamn Colonel. I’m supposed to be on a diet, for God’s sake. I have grown at an exponential rate since the debacle in Egypt, where I first noticed the weight gain and took disgusting photos of my belly. That was also the first time I shat blood and began a crusade against a cow-headed goddess (we’ve since put our differences behind us).

Now I can’t fit into most of my wardrobe, and the insides of my legs have little pimples that sore from time to time due to the skin of my legs rubbing against each other when I walk. The fat underneath my chin is growing larger, and being of Asian descent and not having much of a chin to begin with, this growth is making me look more and more like my face ends at the bottom of my throat.

But, dammit, I love food to much. And once I land in the United States of America I intend to eat as many tacos, twinkies, square burgers and pancakes as I can fit in my mouth.

That is, if I manage to get in. It’s not a good time to be a Muslim, especially not a traveling one. Before 9-11 I was still an ‘alien with a visa’, now I’m an ‘alien with a visa who may be on a jihad’.

Hmmm… this may be too dangerous to post on-line. The FBI may have websites with the word ‘jihad’ flagged. They shouldn’t worry, though. I answered ‘no’ to the question ‘do you intend to enter the United States to perform acts of terrorism’ on my visa application. I answered the same to questions about being a prostitute, procurer of prostitutes and whether or not I have ever committed acts of genocide, so I must be a decent guy, right?

After all, if I wasn’t, I’d have answered ‘yes’. Isn’t that what any self-respecting Nazi-terrorist-whore-pimp would do? They may be evil, but dammit, they sure are honest.

The visa people even suspected my past trip to Egypt. “Where were you in Egypt,” they asked, “and what were you doing there?”

“Checking out the pyramids, the nile, that kinda stuff,” was my reply. You didn’t seem to mind that I’d been to Australia, Thailand, England or Singapore.

Hmmm… I wonder what would have happened if I had actually asked that?

At least I have my visa now… although, like my previous one, I look Mexican in the photo again. How does this always happen? Why is it I always end looking not just different from my passport photo but alsoMexican? On an American visa, of all things!

But yes, I have my visa, and I’ll be buggering off to the United States of America with all the other winners of the Anugerah Skrin, which is almost a sure guarantee that I’ll be the most out-of-place-feeling-motherfucker there. At least Afdlin Shauki’s my roommate. I heard he smokes, which is a bonus.

Then again, I’m about to enter a land where smoking is practically illegal. This should be interesting.

And you know what else is interesting? It’s nineteen minutes to two on a Monday morning, and I still haven’t got the fucking energy or drive to start on my work.