Youngest kid of six with an inferiority and black sheep complex, but determined that God saves not just his soul to heaven but the remainder of his manic-depressive life, so others won't say he became a Christian and remained a jerk.


On identity
i won't be transparent before i'm opaque. and you'll get to know me starting from the small things: who my favourite bands are. what kind of movies i like. who are my heroes.

On Christianity
I’m convinced that when confronted with sincere, real love, the Jesus factor will become obvious. But let’s not plant the cross before we carry it. I’m not trying to con you.

On dreams
Some dreams are meant to be achieved. I know that. But maybe other dreams are meant to drive us, privately. Never known to anyone but ourselves.


On melancholy
It is a sadness that, when choosing between crying and sighing, will choose sighing. I'd almost say that melancholy is being sad about sadness itself.

On memory and nostalgia
It saddens me when life moves forward and people decide that certain things are worth forgetting.

On language
I've learnt that the word irregardless is filed as a non-standard word in the English language. That's a lexicographer's way of saying it's not a real word.

On politics
Crowds are fickle things. So when we stand in the thousands and cry against the present government, do we know who we're actually crying for?

On society
People always want the best for themselves. But I want to sometimes take second or third or fourth best, just so that the loser down the road doesn't always have to come in last. It must feel like shit to always come in last.

On growing old
Leasehold property make me feel sad. It doesn't matter how old the family photos are that you put on your wall. It's your family but it's not really your wall.

On philosophy
I ask you, if God loves everyone, and if God is also incapable of loving evil, how can there be such a thing as an evil man?

On a daily basis
One line quips, like this.


Friday, November 24, 2006
My new craving is half-boiled eggs.

I bought a dozen eggs and brought them to work last week, hellbent on reproducing them at the comforts of my desk. But it's not so easy.

First, my assumption that the hot water from the water cooler was hot enough was horrendously misplaced. That water couldn't have half-cooked an egg if you let it sit for an hour.

Secondly, if you boil your water once and you let your eggs sit in a mug at office air cond temperature, what should be a 20 minute job too will fail. I have little clue if it would ever have worked, but one cup of boiling water is not enough to work the magic here.

And so it turns out that in order to successfully make half-boiled eggs in the icy climate of my workspace, you'll need to boil the water once, dump the eggs in for about ten minutes, then swap the water for new boiling water at about the halfway point. It was only in my attempts where i boiled the water twice that i succeeded in reproducing a breakfast that remotely resembled half-boiled egg.

In one of my attempts, i ended up with one egg that was overcooked and one egg that was undercooked. contrary to what i hope you're not thinking, mixing them together does not necessarily balance textures out. they just kinda hang out together. on another occassion, i had undercooked an egg via conventional means, and so i stuffed it into the microwave to finish up. tricky one - what the microwave does for your half-boiled eggs is that the yolks cook really fast (in a matter of a few seconds, they were pretty much well done) while the whites took forever. granted that you won't want to spend your entire morning labouring over a couple of bloody eggs, i've deduced that a decent half-boiled egg can potentially be cooked entirely with the microwave, first by separate the yolk from the white, then by cooking the whites till they're almost done, then by dumping in the yolk for the last lap.

But all this is just crap if you don't actually have the rippling passion for a couple of eggs in the morning. which left me with only one ultimate conclusion: nasi lemak. yes, stick with the good old fashioned nasi lemak and everyone and their makcik will be happy. until i buy myself one of those yellow and white container/half-boilers for the eggs, i'll have to concede that half-boiled eggs is my obscure object of desire.

And as for today, i came in at 4am so it's now 7.10 and i'm ready for a meal break in the next hour. a drive down to the mamak, where they make half-boiled eggs to perfection, would be real sweet.

and then what? and then, not so obscure anymore.

Labels: ,

Genusfrog [ 2:43 pm ] | 0 comments

Thursday, November 23, 2006
The other day, mel told me about how she saw a flasher hanging around near where she worked, and how she thinks she saw him flash. Just now, i was thinking to myself, what would i do to this guy if i was there at the time?

And then it happened - like those badass guys from sin city, i saw myself exacting horrendous punishment on this guy. sure, unlike those guys, i'm nowhere near being as big as a truck, but i sure as hell felt like it. and i wanted so much to bash this flasher guy up. i wanted to break his nose so bad, he would have to walk the remainder of his days with a hole in his face. i wanted to stomp on his groin so bad, he would just literally die of the pain. i just wanted to pound him into an unrecognisable form. and every day, when he sees himself in the mirror, his disfigurement would remind him of the day he decided to pull his dick out in public.

I caught myself in those thoughts. i realised how cruel and how utterly violent i was becoming. not just violent but wrathful. not just wrathful but vengeful. and i knew in that one instant, i was full of hate - like absolutely FULL of pure, unadulterated glistening hate for this guy. and i'm so filled with mixed feelings.

The Christian in me immediately knew it was wrong. who am i to consider bashing up a man whom God loves? sure, i bet God isn't impressed with his perversion but God still loves the person and if i gave him a really good whacking - the kind described above - each blow would be like breaking Jesus' nose. not just that, but i too am a sinner. a sinner beyond your imagination, so who am i to judge this man? just because his sins are so public, does that necessarily open him up to more justifiable judgment?

But all the while, running parrallel to these thoughts is this: this guy is a sex deviant. there is no way i'm gonna let him flash at my girlfriend without smashing his face in the name of civic propriety. anyone who's got any standards of decency will not tolerate flashers. in fact, on a purely practical and behavioural level, all these flashers need to be messed up so bad they will have no choice but to negatively associate their public indecency with a really solid rearrangement of their faces.

The man is a sex deviant. i keep telling myself that. you can't let these guys off easily. i know a few girls who let off some flashers really easily. they just laugh and skip along the footpath. their response was so tame, it scares me. no, it angers me that any girl who has just been flashed can respond so apathetically. and then they go cry bloody murder whenever there's a rapist in a carpark. some things are just not acceptable. and this is just one of them. and if i were to ever catch a guy pulling out his pieces at my girlfriend, God have mercy on the both of us, because it's gonna be one long night of repentance lying ahead of me, and reconstructive surgery lying ahead of him.

The bible says that one of the fruits of the Spirit is self-control. i ashamedly confess that i have very little self-control in this respect. and if i ever catch that flasher doing his thing, i will bash him up so bad, it might just kill him.

Labels: , ,

Genusfrog [ 12:30 am ] | 11 comments

Wednesday, November 22, 2006
I don't know that I don't know what I don't know
- Fergus, 22 November 2006

I had a good chat with vernon today, about growing up, buying apartments, getting married and doing the whole thing. Or was i really talking about growing up and not buying apartments? I think i was talking about not doing the whole thing.

I'm still wondering if this middle class life with two cars, a condo and some investments tucked away is what i want in life. i'm serious when i say that i'm closer to considering it's not than a lot of other yuppies who threaten the same tendencies.

I get really scared of the tied-down life. it's not fear of marriage. i dream of being married. it's not fear of kids - i dream of that too. it's the whole life that tends comes along with it: the labour. the overseas education funding. the loan repayments. the cars. the life insurance. the business. the utterly boring rat race. i'm scared because that kind of world is calling me and i don't know if i dare to answer

And now with large door pictures up and soon to be running, i already feel tied down. now you know why i'm afraid of my bourgeois future. it's already got one foot in my living room.

I still haven't decided if i want the malaysian dream. and everything around me is nudging me towards taking it. it would be so irresponsible of me to take it and then realise i didn't want it after all. how do i answer to everyone: wife, kids, my dad? i could never answer them. the shape of my life would be set. and i would just have to live it. why? because at 26 i had no balls to make a call. maybe no balls. maybe no maturity. or maybe no foresight. i always bite off more than i can chew. maybe this is one more bite.

I want a simple married life. not this complicated urban monster.


Genusfrog [ 3:14 pm ] | 0 comments

Tuesday, November 21, 2006
I am seriously stressed out right now. I'm shit scared and seriously stressed out, because i just walked out of the cinema watching Martin Scorsese's The Departed and throughout the film, i kept catching myself jaw-dropping at the master at his craft.

i mean, mr scorsese comes about as close to being technically a perfect director as you can find anywhere in the annals of filmmaking history. his films are so precise, and his shots are so tight and effective. not just that, his shots still have room to be sweeping and extravagant. everything in a martin scorsese film looks correct, moves correct and sounds so absolutely mindblowingly bang out of my ears awesome.

all of which makes me feel damn downright stressed out, because i just wrapped my shoot this past saturday, been worrying about how good the whole thing actually was, and then what do i go and do on monday? i go and see a cinematic master walking through the park. how can i even dream of dreaming of dreaming of emulating a guy like martin scorsese? i know he's got millions of dollars and as much time as he wants, and compared, all i have is a one bullet gun and a fiesty-ass gang of debutant gunslingers, but that is where i wanna pitch myself.

i told jan in an email that many of my shots, to me (then), felt world class. i sincerely believed they looked and felt world class. i dunno now man. i mean, marty - that's world class, you knowwhatimean? me, i'm just trying to hustle my way out of a two-bit provincial independent scene into whatever film festival that's willing to give a precocious young punk his day in the theatre.

and i know it sounds really silly for me to get stressed out because martin scorsese is only the greatest living american director and i'm just a muar boy with 24 dv tapes. but i refuse to calm down. how the hell am i gonna edit The Red Street Diner so that it looks like it can sit on the same shelf as The Departed? how do i make it sound as arresting as marty does his film? come on man, somebody give me a shout, cos there'll come a day when all your dvd peddlers are gonna be pushing you stashes of dvds and right next to The Departed will be The Red Street Diner. and then you'll go, ah, just another local film that tried hard. eh, look - leonardo di caprio man. buy.

why am i comparing myself to great martin scorsese? because i will not lower the bar with which i pitch myself. sure, there's a pretty damn good chance i'll miss the bar so bad, you won't even think i was trying, but i will know i was trying. when i started writing this blog post, i was thinking of ending it with a moral of the story: that was, do not watch a martin scorsese film immediately after shooting your own film. it's not good for both your mental and physical health, and if taken wrongly, it can make you feel about the size of a nanoparticle.

so, mr scorsese, if you're out there, please spare a thought for me. i'm just a hero-worshiping kid who sometimes thinks that as long as you still make movies, the rest of us can just stay at home.


Genusfrog [ 1:07 am ] | 0 comments

Monday, November 20, 2006
Being a movie director brought out not just the best and worst in me, but also my neighbours. These past four weeks churned out two very contrasting responses.


Amy: Wah, banyaknye botol air!
Fergus: Yeah.
Amy: Banyak you minum?
Fergus: Haha. We're shooting a film.
Amy: Oh! What do you do?
Fergus: I'm the director.
Amy: How lucky of me!
Fergus: Haha. Yeah, so this is to feed my crew. (beat) I'm Fergus. What's your name?
Amy: I'm Amy. Amy for Amysomething something something.
Fergus: Ah.
Amy: Well, good luck for your filem.

Shake hands.


Man neighbour knocks on woman neighbour's door. Woman neighbour opens door.

Man neighbour: Ey, they're shooting filem in that house. Go see! Go see!

Door slams.

Labels: ,

Genusfrog [ 5:25 pm ] | 1 comments

"I shall return when the heat melts away my cubic icy encampment and inspect the carcass of your sabre-tooth tigress."

- GCB 20 September 2006

Hello. The ice has melted on my so-called cubic icy encampment. I have lots of stories to tell. But I'll take my time telling them. Much thanks to Jan for holding the joint up - ciao ciao amigo. Two months is a long time. And I've aged.

- GCB 20 November 2006


Genusfrog [ 3:41 pm ] | 0 comments

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Ciao Ciao.
When I was in Venice, I learnt that Ciao Ciao can both be Hello and Goodbye. You see someone, you say Ciao Ciao, you proceed to converse, and in the end, before departing, you say Ciao Ciao again. So in effect, Ciao Ciao is both the beginning and the end.
Thanks for reading folks. I stop here.
Ciao Ciao.


oomoo [ 7:43 am ] | 0 comments

When you have arrived at Phyllis, you rejoice in the observing all the bridges over the canals, each different from the others: cambered, covered, on pillars, on barges, suspended, with tracery blustrades. And what a variety of windows looks down on the streets: mllioned, Moorish, lancet, pointed, surmounted by lunettes or stained-glass roses; how many kinds of pavement cover the ground: cobbles, slabs, gravel, blue and white tiles. At every point the city offers surprises to your view: a caper bush jutting from the fortress walls, the statues of three queens on corbels, an onion dome with three smaller onions threaded on the spire. "Happy the man who has Phyllis before his eyes each day and who never ceases seeing the things it contains," you cry, with regret at having to leave the city when you can barely graze it with your glance.

But it so happens that, instead, you must stay in Phyllis and spend the rest of your days there. Soon the city fades before your eyes, the rose windows are expunged, the statues on the corbles, the domes. Like all of Phyllis's inhabitants, you follow zigzag lines from one street to another, you distinguish the patches of sunlight from the patches of shade, a door here, a stairway there, a bence where you can put down your basket, a hole where your foot stumbles if you are not careful...

Millions of eyes look up at windows, bridges, capers, and they might be scanning a blank page. Many are the cities like Phyllis, which elude the gaze of all, except the man who catches them by surprise.

-Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities


oomoo [ 7:30 am ] | 0 comments

At the end of three days, moving southward, you come upon Anastasia, a city with concentric canals watering it and kites flying over it. I should now list the wares that can profitably be bought here: agate, onyx, chrysoprase, and other varieties of chalcedony; I should praise the flesh of the golden pheasant cooked here over fires of seasoned cherry wood and sprinkled with much sweet marjoram; and tell of the women I have seen bathing in the pool of a garden and who sometimes- it is said- invite a stranger to disrobe with them and chase them in the water. But with all this, I would not be telling you the city's true essence; for while the description of Anastasia awakens desires one at a time only to force you to stifle them, when you are in the heart of Anastasia one morning your desires waken all at once and surround you. The city appears to you as a whole where no desire is lost and of chich you are a part, and since it enjoys everything you do not enjoy, you can do nothing but inhabit this desire and be content. Such is the power, sometimes called malignant, smetimes benign, that Anastasia, the trecherous city, possesses; if for eight hours a day you work as a cutter of agate, onyx, chrysoprase, your labor which gives form to desire takes from desire its form, and you belive you are enjoying Anastasia wholly when you are only its slave.
-Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities


oomoo [ 7:19 am ] | 0 comments

Piazza St Marco

Leaving there and proceeding for three days toward the east, you reach Diomira, a city with sixty silver domes, bronze statues of all the gods, streets paved with lead, a crsytal theater, a golden cock that crows each morning on a tower. All these beauties will already be familiar to the visitor, who has seen them also in other cities. But the special quality of this city for the man who arrives there on a September evening, when the days are growng shorter and the multicolored lamps are lighted all at once at the doors of the food stalls and from a terrace a woman's voice cries ooh!, is that he feels envy toward those who now believe they have once before lived an evening identical to this and who think they were happy, that time.
-Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities


oomoo [ 7:14 am ] | 0 comments

The ancients built Valdrada on the shores of a lake, with houses all verandas one above the other, and high streets whose railed parapets look out over the water. Thus the traveler, arriving, sees two cities: one erect above the lake, and the other reflected, upside down. Nothing exists or happens in the one Valdrada that the other Valdrada does not repeat, because the city was so constructed that its everypoint would be reflected in its mirror, and the Valdrada down in the water contains not only all the flutings and juttings of the facades that rise above the lake, but also the rooms' interiors with ceilings and floors, the perspective of the halls, the mirrors of the wardrobes. Valdrada's inhabitants know that each of their actions is, at once, the action and its mirror-image, which possesses the special dignity of images, and this awareness prevents them from succumbing for a single moment to chance and is not so much their copulating or murdering that matters as the copulating or murdering of the images, limpid and cold in the mirror.
-Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

oomoo [ 7:07 am ] | 0 comments

Belgian Burger. Hard crust with typical Ramlee-burger-type patty.
Reason for starting with burger- Cheap flight from Brussels to Venice. Travelled from Delft to Brussels by train.


oomoo [ 6:50 am ] | 0 comments