Blast from the Past

I'm a bit disenchanted with music currently. Well, I guess I should clarify and say that I'm disenchanted with most bands currently making music. Simply put, it's fucking boring. Last year was quite possibly the worst year in recent memory for good music. It was fucking grim. Really fucking grim. So, to keep my ears happy and my mood up, I've been turning to the old stuff for pleasure and boy has it been rewarding. Last night, in another fit of insomnia, I turned to some late 90's Machine Head and it did the trick.

'The More Things Change'came out in 1997, I'm quite sure I bought it the day it was released (yes, we still bought CDs then) and I probably played it non-stop for a month. Yes, I was a huge Machine Head fan in high school. I remember reading a review for their debut 'Burn My Eyes' in Metal Maniacs (yes, we actually bought magazines then) and I made my mom take me to the record store where I promptly purchased the CD for $9.99. I remember the price because it was on sale and I had $12, which was just enough to secure the purchase. Yes, my mother usually made me buy my own CDs and didn't mind. However, my father used to chide me constantly for "blowing all my money on worthless CDs". Consequentially, I thought he was an idiot.

Anyway, I loved the debut, played the piss out of it and couldn't wait for the next album. It took a few years, but fuck me was I glad when it hit the stores. And what a great album it was and still is. Listening to it last night took me back to another time—even if it was only for about 53 minutes. Start to finish, it's heavy metal bliss. In my eyes, it's Machine Head's magnum opus. It's more polished and refined than 'Burn My Eyes', much heavier and better than the two albums that followed it, it was the last album with Logan Mader on guitar, the first with Dave McClain on drums (who is an absolute stud and best experiened live) and has the perfect balance of thrash, melody, riffs and solos. There's no filler, everything is done with a purpose, the songs are unbelievably strong and it has stood the test of time. If I had my iPod with me, I'd be listening to it right now.

So, I'm not so sure what the point of this post is other than that I feel mildy inspired for some odd reason and feel the need to gush about my childhood. Ostensibly, this is about music, but it's probably much more than that. Some albums hold special, sentimental meanings to them—songs as well I suppose—and this is one of those for me. When I hear this album, I'm transported back in time to being 15, rotting away in high school, dealing with my conflicting teenage angst and all that other shit we experienced as naive teenagers. I wouldn't change it for the world though. It's not as if I need an album to remind of that, but it damn sure doesn't hurt when it's this good. Cheers Machine Head!

Oh Christ: Back to the Grind

Honestly, what the hell was I thinking? If I ever accept another job where I must get out of bed at 5.30, someone please shake me, kick me or whatever it takes to make me see the light. Aside from a few drunken antics, it’s probably the worst decision I’ve ever made in my life. Every day that I roll over to silence my alarm, I curse myself for what I’ve done. And it won’t end until at least November—fuck.

There are a few good things about being up early: it’s not hot; traffic isn’t so bad, I feel mildly more productive and I finish in time to enjoy the afternoon. However, is it worth the struggle of rising just before the sun is up? The answer is a resounding “fuck no”. I thoroughly enjoy staying up late and sleeping late. While on holiday, I didn’t get up before 10.00 on any day unless there was a train or bus to catch. Sorry, that’s just how I am. Some things you just can’t change.

I’m finding it a bit tough to readjust this time. It’s not just the sleeping, but a lot of other things as well. It really became clear to me how restricted, tied down and isolated I feel. I guess I never thought much about the insane and archaic immigration laws here until I was gone. Chatting with people working other places really put things in perspective for me. It makes me wonder what the hell I’ve done and why I’ve done it. Not that I anticipate problems and what not, but still. Life can change quickly. You just never know.

If things were to take a drastic shift for the worst, I could potentially be supremely fucked and out in the cold (figuratively of course since it’s anything but that). Anyway, I guess in my periods of boredom, frustration and drunken thinking, I’ve thought of a few thousand scenarios to improve my life—none of which would be so easy all things considered. To make a long story short, I’m stuck for a bit no matter how many ways I try and trick myself otherwise.

Now, is that to say I’m unhappy and looking for a way out? Well, yes and no. On a positive note, my personal life is in the midst of making a massive swing into the positive and if things go well on that front, I’ll probably scrap all this nonsense and everything will be fine. However, if disaster is imminent, it won’t be so easy to sit idly by for much longer. November is a long goddamn way off and I don’t get another long holiday until June. Can I hold out that long? Fuck, I hope so.

I guess meeting some new friends and hearing their experiences got my blood pumping a bit. The excitement has been ramped up, I return and now it’s just a major letdown. Thinking about the future is really all that’s keeping me together at this point. The thoughts of once again living somewhere that hasn’t been brainwashed by religion and how sex, drugs, drinking, rock ‘n’roll, showing some skin and being yourself is inherently a bad thing— you can smoke till your fucking silly, but have a beer and fuck your neighbor, well, your going to hell for that—is supremely enticing.

How happy would I be if I could sleep till 10.00, work in the afternoon or early evening, pop off from work after dark, head out for dinner and some drinks and then come home and do as I please? Man, I’d be as happy as a pedophile at the playground. With any luck, this will happen soon. For now, I guess I’ll settle. Well, until I run out of books to read. I’m fucked after that—and with any luck, literally.

 

Asian Haircuts and Other Odd Bits

There's just something about getting a haircut. For me, it's this rejuvenating, almost spiritual experience. For twenty minutes, I can relax in sheer bliss while my shaggy mop is transformed into something that makes me look presentable. I open my eyes and poof: I'm still ugly, but just a bit less so. It's money well spent.

Now, the best part of an Asian haircut is the obligatory massage that comes afterwords. Now look, I'm not gay, but when it comes from a man, it's just nicer. They are stronger, their hands are bigger (I'm not exactly tiny you know) and it just works well. I felt like shit today. My neck was still aching from the stone mattress I had to sleep on a few days ago. However, after I got my trim, which was absolute perfection I might add, I got the back, shoulder, neck and head massage and now I feel like new. 10 ringgit well spent I'd say and now, maybe something with tits will associate with me since I don't look like a fucking bum.

Anyway, it's raining again. Predictable I suppose all things considered. However, even in this tiny blip of a town, I did manage to do a few cool things. I met a super cool German guy who's banging around SE Asia for three months. With his extremely limited vocabulary and extensive use of 'Mama Mia', we were still able to get on okay, have some laughs and pore over his immaculate maps and find nice places to visit. Fuck me the Germans know how to make a map! They were big enough to use as tablecloths and had every train track, side road, waterfall, cave and museum you could imagine. Absolutely immaculately crafted. I need these.

I somehow found a cheap hotel—not a fucking hostel this time—that was quiet, clean, had an attached bathroom and had a mattress that was long enough for me to sleep on and wasn't made of concrete. The fact that I negotiated the price down to a mere 25 ringgit (~$8) was just brilliant! Fuck, Asia is just great. There was also wonderful food in this tiny town. I ate a few Malay specialities for lunch, had some relatively cheap beer at a Chinese spot and then had the best murtabak I've eaten for dinner. I woke fairly early and found a small roti canai (sorry, I don't know what these translate to in English) shop and had breakfast for a whopping 3 ringgit with a huge teh tarik (pulled tea). Once again: fuck, Asia is just great!

Okay, one more time for good measure: fuck, Asia is just motherfucking great!

Rain...ugh!

It's raining—a lot. I could handle just a bit, but a full day and sleepless night of non-stop, pounding rain is just too much. I'd rather it be sunny and hot. At least I could walk around without fear of drowning and sleep at night. Last night, it sounded like the whole building was going to come crashing in when the rain picked up. It was just sheets of rain. There were no raindrops.

That said, I did get a good walk in around painfully boring Kuantan. For a rather large city, there was nothing going on except the usual. I tried to find somewhere to have a drink, but failed miserably. The only place I entered had no customers, horrendously expensive booze and the music was so loud, I couldn't have talked to someone had I wanted to. Not that there was anyone to chat with, but still. So, I met two Indonesian guys, finally had some proper smokes (Malaysian ciggies are just shit), went for some beers and it was all good—until the heavens opened and ended my decent sleep.

I say decent because I actually managed to get that way. The night before, the pillows were so fucking hard, I thought my neck was broken in the morning. It took me five minutes and stretches before I could move it around. It's sad because that was the only bed I've slept in that has been long enough for my body. They had to ruin it with the fucking petrified wood pillows. Same last night. The bed was just too fucking tiny. I scrunched up, put on some music and was out in no time. I probably would have stayed that way if it weren't for the fucking rain. Of course, once I awoke at 4.00, it was hell getting back to dreamland. So, I feel like ass today, it's still raining and there isn't a goddamn thing to do in Mersing except bang around in the cheapest Internet cafe I've found, eat, walk around a bit and hope I get some decent sleep tonight.

However, I guess I'm getting what I deserve since it is monsoon season and it's supposed to rain a lot. Maybe, but I wasn't going to leave the east coast untouched monsoon season or not. I met one German in my hotel, but so far, that's it here. I guess today is another rest day, laundry, reading and tasting the local specialities. Booze looks like a no-go, so I'll have to try and enjoy it sober. Fuck.

Banging Around Rural Malaysia

Honestly, I think I've enjoyed relaxing and just strolling around these quiet, quaint places more than anything. Well, the jungle and the highlands were amazing, but this is different. I quite like this languorous pace and way of life. I don't give a shit about fancy museums and art galleries, beaches, tacky tourist attractions and cheesy city tours. I just enjoy experiencing a bit of real life and this is fucking great. Walking around aimlessly, stopping for a drink and a smoke, having a chat here and there, giving a smile and a wave—this is where it's at.

Along the way, I've also hooked up with some fellow travellers that make it all worthwhile. I'm young, but there is something about the fifty-year-old, long-term expat that I'm drawn to. They've always got an interesting story about seeing someone decapitated in India, mysterious suicides in Thailand, drunken shenaningans and what not. Most people my age, well, we just don't have that perspective yet—with 'yet' being the key word.

Imagine it: a guy buys a huge Land Cruiser in Australia, ships it to Malaysia and plans to drive it all the way to Kristianstad, Norway. Now, that's balls enough, but taking a route through Myanmar (Burma)—fucking Burma!—Pakistan, Iran and places like that: now that's fucking ballsy. I was half-tempted to ask to join in on the fun, but the Burma part put me off a bit. It sounded wonderful drunk, but now, not so much. Anyway, I wish him the best of luck and hope he makes it unscathed. And remember: write that fucking book!

If there's a bad side to all this, it's that it's quickly coming to an end. Four more days and I'll be back in my big, boring, polluted, chaotic city—which I also strangely adore—and all this will be a fading memory. Yes, it sucks, but that's life. No more heaping plates of delicious Indian food, no 'teh tarik' (pulled tea) unless I make it myself and pork will once again be a rarity—damn it! While we're on the topic of food, on the east coast I've finally been able to get proper, fresh coffee and not the shitty Nescafe and what not in sachets. Christ, that stuff is terrible. Anyway, they roast the beans in palm oil and sugar. It sounds disgusting, but the resulting flavor is distinct and quite nice. It's got a powerful, thick, smoky flavor and I'm beginning to adore it just to be honest.

Kota Bharu didn't have much going for it in terms of being lively, but there was some wonderful food, I met the most interesting travellers there and I just enjoyed hanging out and taking it easy for two days. I also met a diehard Malaysian metal fan too, which was just great. I don't remember the last time I had a proper chat about which band is heavier, what genre do they fall in and who is the best metal guitarist of all time. Just fucking great!

Kuala Terengganu, where I am now, is about the same. There isn't much going on, but I'm enjoying myself nonetheless. "But why are you writing blogs in an Internet cafe" you ask? Well, it beast meandering around in the pouring rain that's for sure. Anyway, I already had a wonderful Indian meal—spiciest and cheapest one thus far—and the food courts and stalls in Chinatown are apparently going to be hopping tonight, so I can't wait for that. Pork guts and beer—yummy! I love the Chinese.

Dripping with Piss

Penang—fuck me. It's the first place I've really thought that sucked. And to think, I was looking forward to there as much as anywhere I had planned. Just as an aside, the town names there just fascinate me. You've got Butterworth and Georgetown, which are both unbelievably non-Malay. I didn't visit the museums and what not (sorry, museums are just painfully boring), but I'm sure it has something to do with the British. Maybe it's holding on to that heritage, but you'd think the place names would be updated. Anyway, it's not as if it matters; just something I noticed.

Now, as far as Penang being a bit more Asian and more what I expected Malaysia to be like, it definitely fit the bill. The traffic was chaotic, sidewalks were either nonexistent or just disappeared, people drove every which way and seemed not to obey any traffic laws, there were open sewers (got to love that), sleeping too late was impossible without earplugs and livestock roamed the street. In that respect, it was just brilliant. However, it was too touristy, tacky, the food extremely over-hyped and I just didn't enjoy myself all that much. As with most things though, there is always a reason.

First, my hostel/guest house. It was sickeningly cheap, clean and well-maintained. The owner was nice enough at first and I thought all would be well: that was until I tried to charge my iPod on the provided computer. This mope went apeshit. He starts ranting about "the signs that say 'no downloading'" and I'm explaining that I'm not downloading a goddamn thing. I just want to charge the battery on my iPod so I can listen to the fucking thing while I spend the next day in gridlock traffic to the jetty, sit in the bus station for for hours and then sit on the bust for six more. I thought it was clear, but apparently not.

Then, to make matters even worse, it just had to piss down the rain the day I decided not to carry an umbrella or my rain jacket. As expected, I was soaked to the bone. I saunter up to the entrance, where he was sitting as usual, and make a comment about getting stuck in the rain—what else can you say, right? I step up on the perch, which is right by the road and was subsequently getting wet as well, and he tells me not to come in as they've just cleaned. No problem for me. He brings me a towel, tells me to dry off, wipe my shoes and take off my shirt and ring it out. I do as told and he goes fucking bananas when I ring the shirt out. "Oh no! We just cleaned. You're getting the floor wet. Oh no!". Well, for fuck's sake mate, what is my option? I could step back out in the downpour and ring it out, but then it will just be wet again. I just shook my head, went for a shower and had a lie down. What else can you do?

Now, this was all on New Year's Eve mind you, but I wasn't about to let it go down the shitter just because of some rain and a bitter, old cunt. I did the sensible thing which was to go eat and get drunk—always works wonders. The best thing about going to a massive food court—which was the best food I had—and drinking alone is that you don't stay alone for very long. Sure enough, in no time I had two Germans that were more than willing to imbibe with me. We ate, we drank, they ate some more, I drank more and then we moved on to an open-area bar for more drinks and to see the fireworks.

We ordered a three-liter tower of beer—ostensibly to look cool and manly, I guess—which was absurdly expense by Malaysian standards. Never mind though; it was New Year's and I just said, "fuck it". We hammered through a good chunk of it and then got up to see the fireworks. It was just to the right at an intersection with a clear view to the hill. Everyone else—that could still walk—got up and went to one side or the other as well to see. We came back and there were three fat, sloppy, obviously drunk slobs (Malaysian slobs I might add) in our seats—and the fucking beer was gone. Before I could say a word, the German woman went mad on the poor waitress. I don't think she understood anything she said which probably didn't help. There was a fair bit left and considering the price we paid, we weren't finished drinking. I was rather pissed already, but more beer just seemed appropriate.

Anyway, the one brain dead twat didn't do anything and neither did the other slut we pleaded our case to, so we decided to leave and let things be. The three drunks were oblivious to it all and probably couldn't have told us what day it was. In the ruckus, the German guy disappeared and just for the record, we didn't find him even with his bald head and bright yellow shirt. Sad really as he was super fucking cool.

Now, I might be an asshole—actually, I am—but I think my revenge was justified. Hell, I was drunk, so anything seems justified. Anyway, in the back of this bar, there were massage rooms. Don't ask me why, but I'd say it either doubled as a whorehouse or was a legit business during the day. I had to piss horribly as you do when you consume copious amounts of alcohol. Instead of pissing in the toilet, I wet their beds. It was amazing. Full stop. Fuck you for nicking our beer.