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The Visitor |
Recollections
My Life In Cameras
I'm sick and fuckin' tired of taking shitty photos. Let's be honest: I don't claim to be a photographer by any standard, but I do enjoy taking photos. It all started with my uncle, who is a photographer and has been for quite some time. Armed with my dad's Canon AE-1 SLR camera, he showed me the ropes of manual photography. I used to snap away with that fucker for ages. I'd keep taking photos till everyone was used to the little 'snap-whrr' of the camera and they'd start acting naturally. I almost always had that camera at an f-stop of 1.8, never using a flash (I also always framed my photos horizontally as opposed to vertically. Seems like I could only see things in 4:3 or wider). Unfortunately, one day the Canon AE-1 escaped me (or rather, I misplaced it and haven't seen it since) and replaced it with a 1980's Zenith SLR from the days of communist Russia (complete with Olympic symbol on the top) which I bought for ten pounds at a charity shop. Ten pounds, and it had a 50mm Carl Zeiss lens. Heheh. I used that one up till it couldn't take anymore. In the end, sand got into the lens and screwed it up big time. But no matter. It was time to take the next step. It was time to go digital. One of the things I've always noticed with the advent of digital cameras was the framing. Now that people were free from the eyepiece and instead looking at a screen, images were framed unlike before. I'm sure the standard high-angle self-shot MySpace profile pic wouldn't exist without digital cameras. My first digital camera was locally made, shaped like a sea shell, and full of shit. The less said about that fucker the better. But then I got myself a Canon Ixus V3, a real beauty. And the photos were surprisingly good. To me, that camera had a certain color temperature which current Ixus cameras don't. I took loads of photos with that one, particularly band photos in the underground scene. When I was a writer and editor for Dragon Music Magazine, all the photos I took for that mag were with that camera, including some of the pin-up posters. And then, one trip to Sidney later, it was fucked. For some reason the screen became utterly screwed for no apparent reason. Goodbye Ixus V3. For a while I used another shitty el-cheapo digital camera, this time made in Hong Kong, with terrible results. After that it was a Canon powershot A430, which was better, but it still didn't capture pics like my old Ixus did. One quick browse through Cash Converters later, and I bought myself an old 4 megapixel Canon Ixusi and gave my powershot to my girlfriend. She's happy with the camera. Me? I'm pissed. This second hand piece of shit won't last. The battery keeps dying after only a few shots. And this is a new battery I bought just for this damn thing. Fuckin' Cash Converters. And now I've reached my last straw. No more el cheapo digital cameras. No more second hand bullshit. I want a good camera. Not as big as a digital SLR, but with the same manual functions yet still able to fit in my pocket. Something, say, like the Canon Powershot G9...?
I will own this camera. Oh, yes. I will. And I will be trigger happy once again and snap photos of unsuspecting couples ready to bermaksiat. Oh, yes.
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Stick It Up Your Nose!
I have snorted tea by mistake. I wouldn't recommend this. I, myself, wouldn't even think about it, but somehow I choked whilst drinking my tea and accidentally snorted a good gulpful. I now feel dizzy. Of course, this wouldn't be the first time I've snorted someting I shouldn't up my nose (and I'm not talking about coke). I don't know why I keep snorting stuff up my nose that I shouldn't. Perhaps it's because, apart from breathing, I don't see the nose's function as important as the other bits of my face that sense things: I value my ears highly, being a musician and sound engineer, and being a filmmaker I value my eyes. Both require my voice, the ability to sing (although this is much disputed) and/or act (even more disputed) requiring both. And then of course there's my hands. But the nose? Don't use it that much, except to breath. Perhaps that's why I snort so much crap. Like MSG. Somewhere out there, on someone's computer, lies a video of me and a few friends snorting the contents of the 'flavouring' packet usually found in a packet of Mamee. This stuff is MSG to the max and for some reason it became a bet to snort the stuff at a Valentine's day party at my house. And what's it like? I don't even like the stuff down my mouth. Up my nose? Nasty. A bit tingly, too. And yet, not as bad as sugar. No, not the fine powdered sugar. Granulated sugar. It physically hurts, that stuff. And the weirdest bit? From then on, every breath, every bite you take, it's all sweet. And for some reason I woke up the next morning with sugar in my pockets and hair. I bet my nose hates me.
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My Life In Bytes
 You see that picture on the right? That was my first laptop. I've always had a thing about computers, in general. When I was in prep school (junior high to some), I discovered programming and made my own beat-em-up using BASIC (it was pretty crap, but it worked).
When my dad bought our first Windows PC, the damn machine saved my life by allowing me to write at a speed my little diaries and notebooks could never catch up to. I hadn't handed in any coursework for my English class for a year and a half. In two months I submitted dozens of essays, poems, scripts and short stories, all thanks to the computer. This laptop lasted me through my A level college and university. It's strange how, in this photo, there's so many visual clues as to the person I was back then, and the person I am now. I used to use that laptop for watching VCD's, as a jukebox, and of course, recording music. The very first Khaimano demo was done on that laptop, right after my finals, when all I had to do for the summer was chill out, write music and attempt to skate. Surrounding the laptop you can notice a couple of things: 1. Two Aiwa monitor speakers - used to playback my recorded music. 2. A Marshall overdrive pedal - I'd occasionally use this as a semi-pre-amp, of sorts, when I'm not churning out the 'Sleep Now Under Fire' riff (which the pedal does very well). 3. A Jay doll - I shared a birthday with another guy in our group, Neil. In the first year the guys bought us Jay & Silent Bob dolls. Without argument, I quickly grabbed the Jay doll and he quickly grabbed the Silent Bob doll. When my brother was two he'd play with the doll, which had a button at the back which would make him say Jay-isms. I feared my bro would walk up to his teacher on his first day of school and announce to her that he was 'all about the brown, noonch'. He then pulled the head off by accident and freaked out. 4. Selotape - This wonderful sticky material has been a part of my life for quite a while. When I was a kid I'd use it to make all manner of things with cardboard and paper. By this point I was mainly using it to stick up posters of Louis Nurding and Gil Elvgren pin-ups. 5. Palm Pilot - Yup. Used to have one. Lost it. Then a hotel in Segamat called and said they found out, must've left it during one of those 'retreats' that companies often have. Never picked it up. Too many bad memories in that hotel. I'd use that Palm Pilot a lot. Wish I still had one. 6. Hoegarden pint glass/ashtray - The inside of that thing used to look fucking disgusting. 7. Crap camera - I think, by this point, my Russian Zenith XLR which I bought for ten pounds had finally decided to die. 8. Toilet tissue - There was free internet in the dorms. What do you think I used it for? 9. Cassettes - A whole bunch of mix tapes were in those cassettes. Now it's the realm of CD-R's. 10. Pennies - For poker. We'd always have these poker nights with whatever leftover pennies we had. Sometimes the pot would rise up to five pounds if things went well. Then you'd try and figure out how the fuck you're going to take five pounds of pennies down to the pub. And what do I work on now? Yet another laptop. I use my desktop more for recording music and heavy design, but laptops are still my babies. Windows run laptops, to be exact. This one right here is turning into a piece of shit but I know how to fix it. And till such time as Apple makes a machine that's affordable that I can understand, I'm Bill Gates for life.
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My Uncle Bong
I've always found Malay nicknames funny. Like my old flatmate who I bumped into the other day. His nickname? 'Bob'. When I asked him why he replied, "well, look at my body."
Sure, the guys quite big and chubby, but I have met many a Bob who wasn't. Why Bob? His real name (which I shall not mention) isn't even remotely close to the word 'Bob'. Where do they come up with this 'Bob'?
One of my uncles also had an odd nickname. His name was actually similar to mine, but no-one called him that in the family. In Malay tradition, different sibblings have different 'family' names according to their order of birth. For example, 'Pak Ngah' means 'Pak Tengah' meaning 'the kid born in the middle'. There re seperate names for the eldest, second eldest, youngest, etc.
This particular uncle, however, was never called by any of the proper family terms.
Everyone called him 'Bong'. I called him 'Uncle Bong'.
'Bong'.
The reason for the name, apparently, was the same as why my flatmate Bob was called Bob. Because Uncle Bong was big and tubby. It's not like he was hitting up mad reefer through a bong at the back of the room, they called him 'Bong' because he was fat.
Weird logic.
When I was younger all the other uncles and aunts agreed on one particular thing: Uncle Bong was the genius. No doubt about it. Uncle Bong was on scholarship at a prestigious university in England studying engineering or something. The guy was a maths wiz, a chess wiz (not to be confused with 'cheese whizz') an every-whizz.
Uncle Bong used to doodle semi-nude sketches of Samantha Fox.
Uncle Bong used to do complex mathematics for fun.
Uncle Bong would watch 'Goldfinger' with me on TV and he'd always have a sly, dirty smile whenever Pussy Galore's pilots got off the plane in those tight sweaters and incredibly pointy bras underneath.
Uncle Bong would enter chess and crossword tournaments and kick everybody's ass in the district without thinking twice.
The only difference between Uncle Bong's real name and my own was one letter. Back when I was a real young kid I was quite the chubby choder boy too.
Uncle Bong came back, studied some more, got a job.
Then things went bad.
Uncle Bong lost it. Something happened.
Uncle Bong couldn't take the stress, they said. He never passed his exams, because something happened. He lost his job because something happened. Clever man, but he can't take the stress.
Uncle Bong took special pills.
People said Unlce Bong was 'sick'.
Uncle Bong never had a job again.
Uncle Bong got tubbier.
Uncle Bong started smoking: 50 JPS cigarettes a day. Deep fucking drags.
Uncle Bong was set up for an arranged marriage. He had two kids. Or was it three. Three kids and not a spark of romance between them.
There he was, tending his father's properties and assets, staying at the same house he grew up in with his arranged wife and kids. All his other brothers and sisters had moved to the city. Not him. He'd smoke his cigarettes and slowly waddle around the house.
Uncle Bong had a heart attack last week. He's still alive, but hearing of the incident made me think back.
Uncle Bong: the genius, the mathematician, destined for greater things and he's the one that ends up getting a heart attack clutching his pack of JPS cigarettes, belly fat and round, lying in a house that was once full of energy and family.
I tell you all this because ever since I was a kid I always thought Uncle Bong was the one uncle I could actually relate to. Both our paths were quite similar. But after the something that happened, after the pills, after people saying 'that kids sick', I'd like to think I took a much different path on the road of life than he did. I'd like to think I took the high road.
Because, as much as I love Uncle Bong, I'll be fucked if I end up like him.
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Flirting With Aristocracy
So Man Method calls up to tell me of great works of music and informs me that he'll be spending the weekend on a boat with his family. There'll be butlers and strawberries and repeated use of the words "I say". He's probably going to wear a Polo shirt with a jumper tied around his neck, light brown khaki's and matching loafers. Maybe even a pipe. On the phone I laugh. Deep down I am jealous.
I never did get to experience that whole upper crust of society thing in England. Aristocracy. Ascot. Rolls Royce's and eyepieces. I've never met a butler. And if I did, the first words from my mouth would probably be "to the batcave, Alfred!"
The butler would probably say, "very drole, sir. I've never heard that one before."
And I would say, "you haven't? Shall I say it again?"
And the butler would give me a sound thrashing.
When my parents were working for the Malaysian government in England, every year there would be a dinner where all diplomats and ambassadors were invited to Buckingham Palace for dinner. Every year I'd watch my dad in his tuxedo and my mom in a beautiful dress board a horse drawn chariot and have dinner with the Queen. My mom got to say hi to Princess Diana, although she's probably more impressed and thrilled about it than I am. My dad got to meet Prince Albert. Whooptidoo.
And they both got to meet the queen, and I'd keep asking in my younger years,
"When do I get to wear a tuxedo?! I wanna meet the Queen and eat peasants!"
"You mean pheasants," my father would say, "but you can't come yet because you're too young. You can only come when you're sixteen."
Some of my older friends got to ride that chariot down to Buckingham Palace and courtsy and bow to the Queen or whatever it is you do. They'd tell me about it. I'd wait. Wait till I was sixteen.
And what happens when I hit sixteen? The year where I'd finally, finally, FINALLY get to wear a tux and shiny shoes and ride a horse drawn chariot and smoke a fag with Prince Harry round the back? What happens? What fucking happens?
My dad resigns.
That was my last chance to see what that side of England was like, to experience this whole 'aristocracy' thing, and at the mothership, too. The fucking Queen fucking Buckingham fucking Palace fucking fuck. After that I was gently deported to Shropshire to be surrounded by corn and sheep for two years and discover that playing a guitar is much more fun than attending classes followed by three years living as one of the lowest forms of 18-21 human's in England: a University student.
Man Method, you must do something for me. I beg of you. I'll never be able to meet a butler for the rest of my life, so you must do something for me.
You must call the butler 'Alfred'. And every time you go to the toilet you must exclaim 'to the Batcave!'
Do it for the Khaiser. Do it, and do it good.
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Your Favourite Guest
Anyone remember Jo Guest? Sure you do. Well, if you've lived in England between the mid 80's and mid 90's you should. Page 3 in the Sun for quite a bit? She was in that video with Blur. Country House, I think it was.
Go on! You remember.
Just got thinking about her for some reason. Well, actually no, I was thinking about the current perception of sexiness and beauty in models, and it got me thinking about Jo Guest.
As you can see from the photo, Jo's not incredibly stunning in a traditional super-model/pornstar kind of way. She's hot, very hot, incredibly hot, but she's not...
I dunno.
She's not super-duper-uber-hot.
And I mean that in a good way. She looks like the hot chick you knew at uni. The one everyone was clamouring for. Not the drop dead gorgeous Californian exchange student, no. Not even the French psychology student with the really pert breasts who would have you erect everytime she said 'excusez-moi'. No. She looks like the one you were friends with, the hot little lass from Hackney or Embankment. Or Sheffield.
She looks attainable.
I guess that's her thing. She's hot enough to stimulate your senses from just a mere visual, but that look on her face, the way she smiles (I like her smile), the expression... she's not from another world. I like that. I remember many an enjoyable moment in puberty holding a newspaper page of her in a french maids apron (I'd say outift, but I don't know where the rest of it went).
That's kinda rare these days, though, that look. I haven't seen it in awhile. Trying to look like your from another planet (or LA, which could be deemed another planet) has become the norm. Girls don't want to look just hot, they want the whole shebang. More human than human. Uberbabes.
But if all the babes were uberbabes, they wouldn't be too uber, would they?
Uber. Kinda like udder. Except not.
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My First Real Friend in London
I was 12 when I returned to England after 6 years in Malaysia, and I wasn't prepared for it.
My adolescense was spent in the sunny climates of KL, riding my bike through the empty streets of Damansara Heights, playing Super Mario Bros 3 and Megaman and watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on TV. At first I didn't fit in, but by the time I was 12 I was finally fitting in. A regular Malay kid. I was a boy scout, I was taking Tae Kwon Do lessons, I was in Standard 5 and my mother finally allowed me to wear trousers instead of shorts to school so I'd never have to put up with my classmates doodling on my legs with a biro pen. I was being accepted, I was becoming confident, and I was ready to ask that girl Nadia who used to be in my class whether she'd want to go out sometime.
Two weeks from hearing the news, I arrived at Heathrow.
I remember the taxi cab, black and cold. I remember the sky a stone grey, clouds drizzling icy drops of rain on the window. The ancient buildings of London almost blended with the dark sky and the cracked pavements.
I remember not wanting to be there.
I remember the Holiday Inn where we spent our first few nights, a small room nowhere in comparison to the Holiday Inn's in Malaysia with their huge, sprawling rooms and mega sized pools. The mini-bar fridge was clamped with a padlock and Sky TV wasn't the norm yet.
I remember the apartment we lived in for the first few months. I remember my mother trying to save money by very rarely switching on the heating. I remember watching the Adams Family movie at the Odeon. I remember the toy museum. I remember sitting in Hyde Park with watercolours trying to paint.
I remember being alone.
I remember buying an Ed the Duck puppet. I remember flipping through some of the old newspapers in the apartment belonging to the past tenant and discovering page 3 of the Sun. I remember stealing photocopied ads for prostitutes offering O-levels in phone booths. I remember calling one and hanging up the second someone answered.
I remember when I got my uniform for Hendon Prep and feeling elated, implanting my love for suits and blazers. I remember making friends with Ramteen, Pradeep, Tamer, Yoshi, Simon, Harun and Misha. I remember spending break in the quad talking about last night's episode of Red Dwarf. I remember all of us having a crush on Dana. I remember the look she used to give me, like I was the equivalent of a used cum rag.
I remember the first time I lost it.
We were changing after PE in our classroom, and Ramteen Shariat and Simon Rossenblatt noticed my vest (or as I used to call it at the time, my singlet) was full of holes, a natty little vest, and they started taking the piss. I just kept quiet as they kept on and on and on.
That's when I grabbed the wood-saws.
I crept up behind Simon and slowly placed aimed them above is shoulders as he was doing imitations of me. Or my mother. I can't remember. Ramteen was laughing, then he saw what I was doing and yelled for Simon to move. I then tried to get at Ramteen. Whatever happened next is blank but there was no blood and I was outside the classroom crying as one of the teachers came up to me and consoled me.
I remember talking about how things at home weren't great. I remember talking about my problems as I unpacked my stuff from my locker as Ramteen stood at the side, silent after a good telling off from the teacher. I broke that silence with my ramblings. Ramteen had had enough.
"You think your life is shit?! That's nothing! My dad left the house when I was a kid!" he yelled.
It's amazing how a the hardship of others puts your life into perspective.
Ramteen and I were close friends after that. We'd hang out at his house, watch Red Dwarf or Lawnmower Man or Knight Rider: the Movie and eat Iranian rice his grandmother would prepare. Birthday parties. Water fights. Talking about whether or not we caught a glimpse of Dana's panties.
When we went for our GCSE's, most of us went to the same school, Mill Hill, and most of my Hendon Prep friends changed. Adapted. Before you knew it, they were listening to jungle, carrying vinyl bags to school and saying 'wicked' a lot. Even Ramteen.
But he never was a prick when we hung out. He never tried to pretend he was above me. A straight up mate through and through.
Last time I saw him was during the Mill Hill reunion. I wonder what that fuckers up to these days?
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In the Interest of Sleep...
...I have procurred sleeping pills.
The last time I had these little red pills was in 2003, when I was not a happy bunny. Now I am a happy bunny, but a happy bunny that cannot sleep, and a happy bunny that cannot sleep will soon cease to be a happy bunny.
However, even with the sleeping pills, it was still tough. I was expecting to be conked out about a half hour after I'd taken them, but noooo. The mind still fights, imagining weird scenarios involving dancing muffins and Mandy Moore. Unfortunately, these did not materialize into dreams.
However, the little red pills, known in the professional world as Xanax, have reminded me of those unhappy bunny times (but not in an unhappy way, otherwise I would cease to be a happy bunny). There was a point in time where pills were part of my daily routine. Doses of chemicals that did their best to numb any form of emotion and in the end, I had to ween myself of them.
Why? Because I couldn't write.
Interesting how a lack of a wide range of emotions in varying degrees of mania hinders the creative process. From it, only three songs emerged, and interestingly enough, they were about the events that lead to the pills as well as the pills themselves. Apart from that, I was pretty much creatively useless.
So once the events of my life were less in turmoil, I put those little pills away and resorted instead to DVD's and fast food, a wonderful cure to help rid the body of depression, albeit one that will leave you a tubby little bitch. Of course, DVD's and fastfood were not enough. Loneliness is an unhappy bunny's worst friend.
Enter Yaya.
Now, for me to say that Yaya and I were the perfect couple would be a lie. We were intensely different in almost every aspect. But underneath that veneer of silence and occasional punk-rock-emoness was the heart of a very caring person, someone who I honestly didn't expect to love me and care for me as much as she did when we were together. She was my companion, my friend, my lover and my carer at a time when I needed one most.
Interesting fact: I started this blog at her house.
Sure, we had our bad times. What couple doesn't? Our differences often lead to fights of the silent but deadly variety. There were raised voices and tears. The silent treatment used to bug the shit out of me, and there'd be times where I'd be completely fucked as to what the hell she'd want from me and what in the world I was supposed to to make her happy.
But there were also times where she stood by my side and made sure I was ok. The times when she took care of me when I was depressed, or sick or just in need of some comfort. And those rare moments when I'd see exactly what was going on inside her and realize the times when she's upset when she things I'm not appreciating all the things she's trying to do for me would remind me of how much she was trying to make me feel better. She always did her best and I will always remember her for that.
Strangely, it was when we broke up where there were no tears, no raised voices and no silent treatment. We'd just grown apart, and I am eternally grateful for all the times we spent together.
No matter how supremely Emo her look gets.
And for the interest of not having my ass whupped by her, I shall not post her picture. Unless it's ok by her. Although I doubt she reads this.
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"Yeah, can I get your order?"
"Yeah, can I get a reservoir dog and a coffee n' butterscotch milkshake?" Whilst I am now no longer insanely missing the streets of London as much as I did when I first arrived to my mommaland, there are still quite a few things I long for. Student prices at the union pub. Leicester Square. BBC2 and Channel 4. All very British. But there's one thing I miss about London that is as un-British as can be in a land of all things British.
Ed's Easy Diner.
Goz introduced me to the place. He introduced me to a lot of other things too. He'd always call asking whether I wanted to check out some weird-ass show, like Shockheaded Peter or the UK premier of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, which is another story I'll write about one day for it is funny and you shall laugh.
Unless I wrote it already. My brain is dung. Nonetheless, I shall continue about Ed's.
Right slap bang in the middle of Soho are not one, but two Ed's Easy Diner's: a slice of Americana plonked into the land of fish & chips.
It had all the stereotypical fifties pap you'd ever want: rollerskating waitresses, 20p jukeboxes, booths, shakes, the works, and I've always been a huge fan of fifties Americana. I fell in love with it the second I heard rock n' roll in it's pure, unadulterated original form when I bought the soundtrack to 'Lipstick on your collar'. Bak to the Future part I also had a profound impact on my love for all things Americana. Happy Day's too. I love the Brunswick design, I love the jukeboxes, I love the fact that here was what was in essence a bar, but the beers have been replaced by super-thick milkshakes.
One of the main reasons I popped down there was for the hotdogs. It was the only place I knew where I could get a 100% beef hotdog. Whilst I'm not the most strongly devout of Muslims, I have always told myself that no matter what happens, I'll never eat pork. At least I wouldn't have broken that rule.
But what a fine hotdog it was. My usual order would be a 'Reservoir Dog': one beef hotdog covered in a chilli minced meat kinda thing, topped with cheese.
Oh, hells yeah.
That would be topped off by a milkshake, which I'd never be able to finish. Their milkshakes were a meal in itself: thick pint sized motherfuckers in a metal glass. You'd have to go through the bastards with a spoon and I loved it, especially my favourite mix - coffee & butterscotch.
Shit, I'm drooling.
I'd bring my girlfriend at the time to the Trocadero one for a bite almost everytime she came down, then maybe hit up the bar next door which served kickass strawberry daquiris (she ordered them, honest).
So here's to Ed's Easy Diner. It may be more expensive than McD's, but after 'Super Size Me' are you really gonna complain?
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Past Infatuations With a Piece of Wood...
...with four urethene wheels and a really cool graphic.
 There was a time when all I could think about was skateboarding. Actually, there were two distinct times when skating was the only thing on my mind.
The first was when I was a wee little kid in Malaysia, when I had just moved in to Damansara Heights. I used to hang out with all the other kids on the street and we'd switch between riding our bikes and our skateboards. Since there was no real way for us to be properly exposed to all the latest in tricks and decks, we just did what we could: roll around all day, bomb down hills, whatever.
I remember once some kid trying to tell me what a rock n' roll was. Since we weren't on a ramp (and since the kid seemed to think that it was a flatground trick) it looked really odd.
Sometimes we'd do the Back to the Future thing and ride behind other people's cars. I remember once during raya (eid) one of the houses on the street was having a gathering, and one of the guests drove a Ferarri. We waited until the guy was about to leave, snuck up behind and hung on with a grin.
Unfortunately our parents spotted us before the guy could even get into 1st.
There was one time where we actually went out looking for a skatepark. We heard about a park somewhere in the middle of the national park. Bearing in mind that our country is rainforest based, it was kind of weird in retrospect, finding a cement park in the middle of a jungle. We had no idea how to skate the thing, and it was the first time we discovered how steep a half pipe was.
When I left for England, I left my beloved board and pet turtle with a friend of mine. Last I heard, he broke the board in half and my turtle died. Then he moved out. Bastard.
The second time skating took a profound effect was a couple of years ago, towards the end of my final year. My flatmates had bought me a cheap imitation board from a toy store. Nothing proper, but it rolled. I went out with Andreas to a basketball court nearby trying to learn how to ollie. Then he snapped it.
But the thirst was reborn.
After that, I bought a really cool deck at a discount price with venture trucks and powell wheels. I can't remember the name of the brand of deck, but it had a hentai chick tied up bondage style and a steel grind plate. The grip tape was santa cruz and had a very hot chick printed on it. After awhile the hot chick got covered in mud. I named the board Anna May (anime, geddit?).
Myself and Andreas would go outside in the soon-to-be-summer sun and practice ollies for hours. Then our finals came, and we both had our last exam together, so we thought we'd celebrate together down at the union pub. After a couple of drinks, Andreas thought he'd skate in the pub. We got told off, so we went out to skate. Then he bailed pretty bad and whacked his head.
After that we went down to the some Aussie pub in Angel and I was in the midst of chatting up some fine looking blonde from Texas, when her friend pops over.
"Dude, you might wanna check on your friend."
"What's wrong with my friend? He's perfectly f..."
I looked out, and saw him trying to pop ollies in a very drunken state.
"...Fuck."
The bouncers wouldn't let him back in, and we walked home. On the way, we were accosted by Scotsmen. Andreas kept taunting them, I got on Anna May and rolled away.
A beat later, I saw Andreas running for dear life past me.
"What the...?"
I turned around, and saw the three Scotsmen running at me, fists in the air.
A few moments later I picked myself up from the floor in front of Angel station, slightly sore but thankfully not bruised, and Anna May was gone.
When I confronted Andreas about it he was too drunk to make a coherent sentence. I found out later he punched one of them in the face, then ran like fuck.
Wonderful.
Time for another board. This time, a Danny Wainwright Powell mini logo. Since there were no graphics I took to it with the marker pen and drew a sumo guy attacking a city godzilla style. Then I tried boardsliding one too many times and the dude got erased. Why I never took a photo of it I have no idea.
There was the time when Kul and I went to the Playstation skate park during the beginners session and got upstaged by seven year olds.
Then there were the times when we attempted ollie-ing twigs.
Or the time we made a make-shift ramp from bits of plywood at a construction site.
Before I knew it, it was time to go back to KL.
When I came back, I didn't know that many people, I didn't have a job, I didn't know what to do.
But there was a huge indoor skatepark in Mid Valley.
I spent at least three days of the week in that park, not skating well, but having fun. At one point I could even ollie two traffic cones on top of each other (sideways, obviously). Either way, I enjoyed it.
And once I got a job, I went buckwild on the proddy.
In 2002 alone, the amount of shoes (especially Vans) that I bought was more than I ever spent on shoes within a year before. Every couple of months, I'd grab something new. And new bearings, even new decks. I remember my 22nd birthday, Nadia and Maya bought me a Daewon Song Deca deck. They picked it because of the hawaiian print and red color. Little did they know who Daewon Song was.
When I started the band, I got Ariff, my drummer, into skating too, and we'd hit up Paramount (after Mid Valley's park closed) every other night, skating when no-one was around.
Slowly, work (and other stuff) ate up my skate time.
After awhile I didn't even touch my deck.
And I could feel the difference.
For a couple of months, my legs were jelly from lack of skating. Walking stairs was the weirdest experience ever.
The lack of constant excercise also did amazing things to my waistline. All the oversized pants I bought for their bagginess are now either a perfect fit or tight as fuck.
It's been almost two years since my last decent skate session.
And I've just bought another board.
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