Man-ginas, He-Bitches, etc.

So I was going through random sites using StumbleUpon when I landed on a site with a bunch of interesting facts about the Human World. Interesting facts about famous people, mad kings, religion and cultures. For example, did you know that Elizabeth I put a tax on men's beards? Or that Iceland is the worlds oldest working democracy? Interesting stuff. Then I scrolled down and found this:

"In parts of Malaya, the women keep harems of men."

...fucking where?!

A Word From Bugsy Oldman

Those of you that know me know my stance on Rocky III: the one that you remember as being cool as a kid but watch again with one eyebrow arched when you're grown up after realizing how homoerotic and camp it is compared to the first two.

As well as how many times the words 'eye of the tiger' is mentioned.

(By the way, no: this isn't the one with the Russian and the robot maid).

On the Flixster application on Facebook, I may have mentioned this, because it's the only reason I can think of for receiving the following message from someone named 'Bugsys Oldman':

"Pin your scouse ears back and listen in you toerag.

I don't normally make it my business to converse with dirty little backstreet villains like you but I had heard several complaints that you had been badmouthing Rocky and to my disgust I find that this is true.

There is nothing homoerotic about 2 heroes grappling with one another despite what your warped mind may think. You have clearly never been in a fight, let alone gone 10 rounds with a true champion. A real man would only see the beauty in such a spectacle and get appreciate the emotion of the scene.

If you really want to learn the true meaning of the word homoerotic, then I might let Bungle and Wilding get double-naughty on you.

You have been treading a fine line and so until I hear better things, you will remain on my list and let me tell you, that is not a good list to be on, lad.

I'll be keeping my eye on you from now on to make sure you stay in check."

I've never been called a scouse before, and I don't think it applies.

The Other Door

[N.B. I haven't written any weird prose here in quite a while. I used to enjoy writing stories in my blogs because it feels like writing with a gun to your head - "make up a story and post it on-line within the next hour or you die". Enjoi. Or not.]

Ruprecht woke up, as he always did, from his comfortable bed with the comfortable sheets in his decently sized bedroom on the first floor of his modest house. The glow of the morning sun could be seen trying to peep through the light blue curtains, playing shadows on the hardwood floor. Ruprecht turned to his clock - 7:15am - which gave him 45 minutes to shower, get dressed and have a light breakfast before going to work.

Work was a job Ruprecht knew he could do, and do well, regardless of what he actually thought of it. The office had what any regular person would need to be an office and the job had what any regular person would need from a job. 9am to 5pm, two weeks leave a year and a Christmas bonus that never strayed between 7%-12.5%. Ruprecht wasn't an air pilot or a deep sea diver or race car driver, but he wasn't stuck in a demeaning job like so many of his friends, forced to endure the inanities of day-to-day stress and strife, office politics and corporate backstabbings. These things did not exist at Ruprecht's workplace. He could honestly say he had no complaints.

But then again, during drinks at the local drinking well on the first weekend of every month, whilst friends of a past life bitched and moaned about the lives they led and praised Ruprecht for being so lucky, Ruprecht only smiled. Smiled and nodded, before ordering another drink.

On the third Thursday of the second month, Ruprecht noticed the door.

It was during his light breakfast, whilst waiting for his toast to pop up from the toaster at 7:45am. He'd always known the door was there, under the stairs next to the kitchen, but he'd never paid it much thought. When he rented the place four years ago (with the option to buy) the house adequately fit everything he needed without resorting to looking for more storage space. Sure, there was some stuff he still kept in a storage house but he was quite sure he could live without those items for now. He'd never had a need to open the door under the stairs, and although he was sure he had no need to open it now, whilst waiting for his toast to pop up from the toaster, he couldn't keep his eyes off the door.

Slowly, Ruprecht walked to the door, perhaps curious, and turned the door handle with his right hand. He delicately opened the door and leaned in to take a peek. It was dark, but Ruprecht could make out the stairwell leading down to what looked like a basement. Above his head he noticed a draw string for a light bulb. He gave it a quick tug, then another - nothing. He was ready to go back to his breakfast when he heard something, a tiny little crackle, coming from the basement.

Ruprecht squinted his eyes and noticed a small glow at the bottom, getting brighter every second. The stairs leading to the basement began to illuminate, step by step, from the very bottom and quickly making its way to the top, building up speed. Although he was surprised by what he saw, a part of him felt that this was all ever so slightly familiar. The lights began to build up more speed as it went up step by precious step, racing up to Ruprecht like a path leading him to somewhere... else. Five steps away and Ruprecht began to wonder what was happening. Four steps away and Ruprecht's curiosity kept him from turning away. Three steps away and the lights began to take on an almost hypnotic quality as they came closer and closer... two steps... one...

POP! At 7:48am, Ruprecht grabbed his toast from the toaster and quickly made his way to work.

For the first time in four years Ruprecht couldn't concentrate at work. His mind wandered between his numerous meetings, his imagination caught up by the mysteries of the door under the stairs. During lunch, between bites of his prawn mayonnaise sandwich on rye and sips of his green tea latte, he thought about the door. During the estimated 45 minutes to an hour spent static in traffic at 5:45pm, he wondered what was behind the door, down the stairs, into the basement.

Ruprecht usually had his dinner in the kitchen with the small television on the counter on, watching re-runs of old BBC comedies which his colleagues never really understood, dining on whatever meal for one he could conjure up on the day. His dinners were usually at 8:00pm and lasted half an hour to 45 minutes.

At 8:32pm, Ruprecht arrived home with take away fried chicken. He did not switch on the television.

At 3:19am he'd had enough. He hopped out from under his comfortable bed with the comfortable sheets in his decently sized bedroom on the first floor of his modest house and made his down the stairs to the kitchen, remnants of friend chicken still scattered over the table next to an empty can of lager. Ruprecht ignored the state of the kitchen and went straight to the door under the stairs and swung the door open.

For a moment he thought he'd lost his moment. Everything remained dark as it was when he first opened the door, except this time it stayed dark. Ruprecht turned to draw string above him and pulled, gently. The light bulb came on and Ruprecht could see all the way till the bottom of the stairs. Nothing. No glow. No sound. No strange light. Just a basement.

Then the light bulb blew.

The familiar tiny crackle was the first thing he noticed before the glow began again, stronger than the morning before. This time, the lights didn't take so long to reach him, quickly making their way up the steps, stopping inches away from Ruprecht's bare feet.

Ruprecht turned to face the kitchen, then back to the stairs. Slowly, he lifted his left foot and gently placed it on the first step and watched as the glow on the step slowly changed color from the point where his foot touched, moving outwards. Slowly, he lifted his right foot and took the next step, and watched as it changed color again. Step by step he went down, watching the changes in lights and colors, vibrant and warm, colors he'd loved as a young man but no self-respecting adult would ever have in their home furnishings or wardrobe. Step by step he went down, faster with every step, till he was practically racing down what felt like an eternity, running faster and faster down the wooden technicolor steps, almost tripping at some points, but not giving a good goddamn till he reached the gl-

At 4:20am, Ruprecht stepped out from the door under the stairs and for the first time, everything looked different.

At 4:45am he sat on his bed and starred at the wooden floor till the sun came up.

At 7:15am he heard the alarm go off and finally, after 27 and a half rings, turned it off.

At 8:07am he made waffles, knowing full well he would be late for work.

At 9:08am he made up an excuse to his team-mate as to why he arrived at the weekly financial report meeting 23 minutes late.

At 2:12pm he told his superior that he wasn't feeling well and took the first sick leave since he'd started work at the company.

At 3:09pm he met up with Arnold and Jacobi, and told them what he saw under the stairs.

He told them of the stairs, the lights and the glow, and the world he discovered underneath. A world where anything could happen. An exciting world, where you had no idea what you'd see or hear or think or feel, a world without security, where the unexpected was to be expected, where foods and flavors and experiences and temperatures were never the same twice and your adrenalin was always on the go. It was a world he knew, had once experienced only fleetingly as a young man, and he'd forgotten how much he'd missed living so recklessly, without a safety net. Take the jump, hope the cord is strong enough and keep your eyes open otherwise it's not worth the bother.

But he didn't enter all the way, merely watched through the window, not daring to take another step.

Arnold was the first to speak.

"Ruprecht," said Arnold, "you've hit the jackpot. You truly have the best of both worlds."

"No, he doesn't," said Jacobi, "he's got to make a choice. I know the world he speaks of, and there are rules."

"What rules?"

"You're first visit is free, but the next time you enter, you have to make a choice. Stay, or never enter again. Those are the rules."

Just then, Ruprecht's phone rang. After seven minutes of uhm-ing and ah-ing, he put the phone down.

"Who was that?" asked Arnold.

"That was my landlord," said Ruprecht, "he reminded me that I still have an option to buy the property."

Ruprecht, Arnold and Jacobi drank their drinks and they changed subject.

At 5:12am it had already been 8 hours and 36 minutes since he'd opened the door under the stairs and sat down in front of it with a five bottles of water, reminded of something a friend of his from another country had told him - "there are so many drinks in the world with so many tastes and flavors and sensations, but in the end you always need water".

Ruprecht had been sat in front of the door for the past 8 hours and 36 minutes drinking the bottles of water, for he did not know if there would be any water under the stairs. There was no guarantee of water. There was no guarantee of anything.

At 5:14am, a floating shrimp came out from under the stairs.

"Are you coming?" asked the shrimp.

"I can't decide," replied Ruprecht.

The shrimp noticed the bottles of water.

"What's with all the water?" asked the shrimp.

"I'm thirsty," replied Ruprecht.

"Answer me this, then," retorted the shrimp, "are you drinking all that water because you're afraid that there may not be any water under the stairs, or are you drinking all that water to remind you, perhaps even convince you, that you can't live in a world where you're never sure that there's water?"

Ruprecht wiped his moist lips with the sleeve of his light gray shirt before looking the shrimp right in the eye and saying, "what do you think?"

And with that, Ruprecht finished the last bottle of water.

On the Subject of Religion...

...and other such utterances.

Lately, the religious aspect of my cultural background has been rearing its head more and more at home, and whilst I believe in God, I'm sure most of you out there know that I'm not exactly the most pious of people.

I'll be the first to admit it - as far as 'the rules' go, I'm a sinner. A big, fat, whopping sinner. I often think of myself as having the Muslim equivalent of Catholic guilt. Perhaps this is why I enjoy Martin Scorcese movies so much...

But the thing is, I have no problem with my religion. I could talk for hours about the subject, how it's perceived by the western media, the differences between the blindly devoted and the intelligently well-informed Muslim, the wars and what-nots, but it all comes down to this:

If there's one thing I don't like, and this doesn't apply to just religion but to life in general, is someone telling me what to do.

Now, this isn't plain stubbornness or an inability to take orders (although some may disagree). I should explain: what I don't like is being told to do something that I was going to do anyway in my own time and in my own way but instead be forced to do it in a way that is considered correct when you know damn well there's more than one way to skin a cat.

Ah. This may have made less sense than it did in my mind.

I don't like taking orders, especially when it comes to the subject of religion. As far as I'm concerned, religion is deeply personal, an individual exercise. One of the reasons why I will still call myself a Muslim as opposed to claiming agnosticity is that, from what I have learned, Islam is a religion where it is up to the individual to seek out and interpret it's meaning. Not some higher authority, not some institution, but you yourself, reading through the Quran and deciphering it yourself. Of course, this is a difficult thing to do, hence the reason for having Imam's and others to teach it to the masses who can't be bothered to do so.

And when these people, these people that hold so much power over such a large group of people, start teaching what they believe, there's always the chance that something might get lost in translation or interpreted differently (either intentionally or unintentionally).

And that's how the shit hits the fan.

So please, no more pointing fingers and telling me what's right or wrong, thank you very much. I don't claim to know it all, but I know enough to know that you can take that finger and stick it somewhere rather unpleasant.

When It's No Longer Fun to Slice n' Dice

Back in the days, before 'Ciplak' was released, I was contacted by a production company (name withheld to protect my possible future filmmaking career) who had heard about the rumblings of 'Ciplak' and asked whether they could see a showreel. I burnt the first ten minutes to a DVD together with some of my music videos and short films. All in all, a complete package of no-budget work. To this day, I will never forget what those people said after they watched it.

"You're not that good a director, but you're a great editor."

And to this day, I actually think that is a valid statement.

I still don't really see myself as a director. Not in the way most people see directors and especially after seeing how some of my friends direct. Some have crystal clear ideas as to how the film should look and feel, others spend hours making sure their actors are in the correct frame of mind and are really bringing out the performance.

I just shoot some footage and see what happens in the edit room.

This technique of 'filmmaking' really came out of necessity. From when I was fooling around with my mom's video camera onwards I've never had the means to get 'the shot' so I just don't bother. I shoot what I can and try and make sense of it in the edit, using editing techniques to control the pace, hide the flaws and sometimes completely re-write the entire movie.

And, for the first time, it's not working.

There's a scene in London Calling which I just can't edit. I have no idea how to make it work. Almost all the other scenes that have been shot can be cut into something that makes sense but, for the purposes of the scene and the story, this one fucking scene refuses to take form. It's like being a sculpture with a big block of marble, chiseling away at a profile bust of Julius Ceasar, only to discover that there was a big iron rod inside, protruding at exactly the same place where you were going to work on the nose, but you've chiseled and carved everything else around it.

Fuck.

I have a few ideas on how to make the scene work, as it's an important scene, and hopefully all be well.

And if all isn't well, I'm turning the movie into an animated musical.