Arabian Coffee-fuelled Post

So I was out with the family earlier to Bukit Bintang. Haven't been out like that for a while, seeing as how I've been in the jungle for a month and a half straight. So it was pretty nice, having dinner together again.

So it was Arabian food night, and we scoured the land for shawarmas (Google it), finally finding some in a little hideaway restaurant near Pavilion. I kid you not, that place is like... A Lebanese mafia hangout or something. You've got these big Lebanese dudes hanging out in groups outside the restaurant smoking cigarettes with their shirts unbuttoned down to the third button, and their chest hair showing and when they catch you staring at them they stare back really scarily and you kick yourself for staring and you just go in and order your damn meal.

We managed to finish dinner without getting shot or beaten up.

The shawarmas were pretty good, though.

So what now?

Coffee?

Coffee.

Now we wanted coffee.

Where to go, where to go.

Starbs?

Nah, says Dad. Let's go find some authentic caffeine. How about we look for Arabian coffee?

I traded unsure looks with my siblings.

Arabian coffee?

We walked around for fifteen minutes. We found a coffeeshop that sold some. We ordered. They got it wrong the first time (We said COFFEE, not TEA! No, COFFEE! C-O-.. No, KOPI! KOPI!! Yes! KOPI! *'drink coffee' motion*), but it eventually arrived. In a medieval torture device.

Fig 1: Medieval torture device masquerading as a coffee pot.

Off-balance but undaunted, my intrepid father poured us each a cup of the cinnamon-scented, spicy liquid.

Fig 2: Arabian Coffee

This is a cup of Arabian coffee. Yes. Coffee. Not used dishwashing liquid. Coffee. From coffee beans. Spicy, hot and uber-caffeinated, all in a convenient shot-glass size measure. I looked at my family members uneasily. The looked back, waiting for someone to take the lead. Oh, hell. I picked the cup up with a finger and thumb. I swirled the liquid around, watching it. This was weird. Coffee's supposed to smell like coffee. It's supposed to have sugar, and milk, and occasionally vanilla. The Arabian coffee watched me back. Screw you, biatch.

I downed it. It tasted a bit like a really watered down Maggi Hot Cup Kari broth.

Two seconds later, it went straight to my head. Holy crap. It felt like a muscle in my head was reallllly tense, but it wasn't painful. It was. I dunno. Tight.


We finished the pot in about ten minutes (how?, now that I look back) and left.



I saw this on the way back on a wall in Masjid Jamek.

Fig 3: Aww. He wuvs Vadal's ideas.

Silly rempits. = D

Also, the above launched my mum (not coincidentally an English teacher) into a 15 minute lecture on why education in English is so important. Apparently of you wanna 'vadalise', 'vadalise' correctly. Go figure. Haha.

Til next time.


P.s Okay, I know the quality of the above pictures were crap-tacular, and I now fully realise the neccessity of a decent camera phone. Effing 1.3 megapixels. My 60 ringgit webcam has better resolution. *mutters darkly under breath*

Largely Useless Post Lamenting My Substandard Bass Abilities.

Fuck.


Paranoid Android is DIFFICULT. My calluses are COMING OFF!!!



Dammit. You're not gonna beat me, you... You.... Agh.

...

I am going to learn this song.

...

I will master this song.

...



I WILL master this song.




DAMMIT, I WILL EFFING OWN this SONG!!!



AGGGHHH!!!


*charges into Paranoid Android in Viking Armor and axe-shaped bass guitar*

First Post With Photos.

See, almost every magazine/newspaper article (don't ask which ones, I'm not sure if they're real) that surfaces extolling the virtues of starting a blog (It's therapeutic! You'll be more confident! Beautiful women will want to sleep with you!), gushes about how important it is to have photos on said blog (To keep readers interested, you know!). And I suppose they have a point there. I mean. Who wants text fullstop for every single post? Besides you. And you. And you.

So, despite the fact that I feel like I'm selling out my literary integrity (like I had any to begin with), I am gonna post the following pictures. Partly because I wanna keep my reader(s) interested in this particular blog, especially after the last post's fiasco (I still like it, dammit!). But mostly because they're pretty funny. Haha.

The following was taken about twenty minutes ago. Adlan was in my room, trying to convince me to let him use the laptop. I denied him access, and he countered by saying that I was a dictator and that I'm actually Mussolini in disguise and, using the Left4Dead cardboard case as a hat, proceeded to imitate Mr Mussolini (me?) himself (myself?). ... But that hat actually looks Napoleon-esque, dontcha think?

Mini-Mussolini

A Close-up.

Okay. No more lame photos. I promise. *crosses fingers*. = )

Not a Pilot Episode. More Like A Pre-Pilot Episode.

The following was written by myself at 2 am.

Observe, if you will, the strange yearnings and subtle messages a zombified Aiman has (and how they seem to have appeared in convenient, bite-size form).

Also thinking of making these characters the main ones in a running series I'm thinking of starting up.

So, enjoy (fingers crossed).

Part 1

The pressure in my stomach grows, and it’s as if all my internal organs are going on strike. I can taste metal in my mouth, and my tongue seems to grow an inch longer. I try to hold it in for as long as I can, but the shocks that travel up by legs every time my feet pound the cement of the chalet walkway don’t help. Soon, able to bear it no longer, I slow to a halt and lean over the side of the path, holding on to an upright beam for support.

I vomit violently on the dark grass, but I am thinking that it sounds worse than it is. The metal beam feels cool, smooth and sticky under my hand. My jeans feel rough under the other.

I finish and wipe my lips on my sweater sleeve. I check my wristwatch. 3.07 am. I shouldn’t be out here at this hour. But whatever. I want to. I need to. At least I’m making better progress than I did yesterday. I kneel down and retie my jogging shoes and start off again at a fine pace.

Part 2

“Baby, what time is it?” she asks, looking up. I check my wristwatch.

“3-oh-seven. Go back to sleep.”

“Oh. Okay. Wake me up at four.”

“I know.”

She settles back down with me, her arm across my chest protectively. The bare skin of her arm is under my fingertips, and electricity sparks every time they touch. I feel her smiling against my side, and I smile too, but she falls asleep very quickly.

I lay there, silently. Her hair smells so cleanly unique. I’ve tried asking her what shampoo she uses, but she will not tell me. Just as well. I wouldn’t like to associate this scent with anything except her.

I pull the throwover tighter around us. It is cold tonight, and the sharper stones on the slope that we are lying down on have poked through the mat under us and are digging into my back. But I don’t mind. I look at her, and brush a stray lock of hair away from her face and tuck it behind her ear. I don’t mind at all. It’s such a nice night tonight, anyway.

Part 3

Without fail. Without fail, I will wake at 3 a.m. every morning. It has been like this for so very long. I cannot explain it. It is not a conscious thing. It just happens. And tonight, right now, it is no different. I get up silently and dress.

Previously, I would just stay in bed and wait until sleep reclaimed me. That would usually take at least an hour and a quarter. But since then, I have found a much better use of my time and energy. I find my kopiah, put it on, and leave the chalet, taking care not to wake the others.

It is humid tonight, but cold too. I shiver slightly and wish I were wearing something thicker. It is a beautiful night, though. God’s Universe reveals its true self only at the break of dawn and at 3 in the morning. I rub my arms, preparing myself mentally for the cold water that I know will soon come. But I don’t mind. It is good for the heart.

There is no one in the surau when I arrive. I slip my footwear off at the stairs, and enter. I perform the necessary ablution and step into the main hall of the surau.

It is dark. I find the light switch. It is no longer dark. The sight of the surau always warms me, and I smile gently to myself. The wall clock reads 3.07 am. I pray, silently, fastidiously. I never feel closer to Him than in these moments.

Comments would be greatly appreciated. Except you, Kesh. You only get to comment if you promise not to swear at me. Haha.

Quick Newsflash.

Okay, two bits of news I wanna tell whoever reads this. = D

1st : Honda F1 is now Brawn GP, having been bought over by the former Honda F1 team principal, Ross Brawn. Rubens Barrichello and Jenson Button will be driving (Sorry, Senna. = ) ), and super-rushed testing has begun (with only 3 weeks left till Australia!).

2nd : The following caught my eye as it ambled past on my RSS ticker.

'Going Galt: Everyone's doing it!'

Being a self-proclaimed Rand buff, naturally, I clicky-clicked, and you should too.

Here's the link.

One bit really got to me:

"The point is that you are not John Galt. The point is that you are, at your best, Eddie Willers. You’re smart, hardworking, productive, and true. But you’re no creative genius and you take innovation — John Galt — for granted. You don’t even know who he is! And this eventually leaves you weeping on abandoned train tracks. "

- writer Will Wilkinson on 'Atlas Shrugged', Quoted from an article by Eric Etheridge, The Opinionator, NYT.

Whoa, deep.

Is it possible?

The point of a novel that has probably shaped me more than any other is that, no matter what I do I'll end up, at my best, 'weeping on abandoned train tracks'?

...

Really?

...

Nah.

...

It also served to make me wonder what would happen if the Eddie Willers went on strike? Would the effect be as dramatic as when the John Galts go on strike? (I smell an essay which noone will end up reading.)

...

Anyway. To end this post.

I do think the author of the passage, in arguing that the point of 'Atlas Shrugged' is that 'you are not John Galt', is rather misguided.

Nope.

Instead, I take Atlas Shrugged as, ultimately, a tale of hope.

Yes, hope.

Hope that John Galts are possible and that there are minds out there worth the effort of communicating with.

And, watching MTV and E!, and reading the paper, that hope is what gives me a reason to get up in the mornings.

Third Post In Twenty Minutes!

I'm on a roll, people! Or. Whoever's reading, anyway.

Just a really short one. I'm off to Seremban in a bit.

Here's a little rant on my inability to finish books.

Now, I realise that ranting about it isn't going to solve anything, and who wants to hear me talk about my hamster-like attention span, anyway?

But I know for a fact that this ailment (Cannotus Finishes Bookius Syndrome or also known as Ooh-Lookit-The-Shiny-Thing-itis) plagues a great number of KYUEMians, and indeed, normal people, everyday.

Take today for instance.

I was in my room earlier (chalet room, not... room room. Hmmm. But isn't your chalet room your room room now, you've been in it for so long? But whatever, I digress. Okay. I'm gonna end this parantheses thing now. Ha, fooled ya. Okay, okay. Now. .. Hah! Fooled you again. Hahaha. Okay, okay, I'll stop. Continue thy reading -->), waiting for me mum to pick me up and take me back to the real world. So I thought, Hmmm, Whattodo, Whattodo. Oh, right.

Let's read a book.

*picks up A Farewell To Arms*

Ten minutes later...

Zzzzzzz.

*beepbeep*

WAKE UP.

Time to go.

Dammit.

Exact same thing happened at least three times in the preceding two weeks.

And get this.

I bought that damn book LAST YEAR.

JUST AFTER SPM RESULTS.

AND I'M HALFWAY THROUGH.

Gahhhh!

I must've started and stopped that book at least 20 times! And it's not cause the book's boring! Hell no. It's great. (pretentious Lit snob alert) But I think either the book or myself (or both?) are cursed to never. Fully understand each other. Sigh.

Anyway.

I'm starting the book again tonight. And I know I'm gonna stop just after the narrator comes back from the hospital. And I'm gonna forget the whole thing. Then I'm gonna start it again in two weeks. Woot.

Coming up: Stuff I Did To Help Me Finish The Goddamn Book.

Aiman's Long Overdue Commentary On Bangsawan.

Hmmm.

Bangsawan. Bangsawan. What’s that in English, eh? *searches in vain for Malay-English dictionary*

Hmmm. *contemplates*

Well.

Since Bangsa = Nation, and Wan = ‘ist’

Bangsawan = Nationalist? Wait, that doesn’t sound right.

... And I don’t think Wan = ‘ist’ either. Damnit, man.

Whatever. The point is it was pretty cool, if a tad overblown. Just a tiny, itty, bitty tad. Insane respect to Aainaa, Luttphi, Nonnel, Bandung, Luqman, Aidid, hell, the entire Bangsawan committee, though. It's not easy to pull off something that big.

But there seems to be a significant number of people in KYUEM, juniors mostly, who believe that Bangsawan should be at least controlled, if not outright abolished. Bangsawan takes too much time, they complain. Bangsawan is too expensive, they say. Even the faculty don't seem very keen on Bangsawan, which I'm not surprised to hear after a quick personal estimation of the Maths Pre-Entry Test average grade (which I'm guilty of bringing down by at least 2 million points. Ha. Ha.).

All the above are valid points.

But so are the arguments for Bangsawan.

Which I'm sure my dear reader(s) is/are familiar with, judging by the amount of lecturing we've all received from the Directors. Cooperation, Brotherhood, Sisterhood, Woodwrking Skills, Painting Skills, yaddayaddayadda.

So the question remains. To Bangsawan or not to Bangsawan?

I am ostensibly neutral on this. I wouldn't mind if Bangsawan were scrapped, and I wouldn't celebrate should it be continued. What I know is that either way, I'm gonna do my best to win it for Sapphire, whatever the definition of 'win' may be.

…

Although I must admit, I do have some warm, fuzzy feelings for Bangsawan.

I mean, i suppose i’m biased towards it cause Sapphire won Best Technical, Supporting Actor, Actress and Choreography (which, I would just like to point out, is equal to the number of awards won by Topaz, although purists would argue the only award that counts is the Best Drama award, but to them i deliver a realy big, wet 'Pffft'.).

But still. Democracy. The fate of a College institution should not rest on the gut feeling of a single awkward, unsure, hormonally-charged college student. It should instead rest on a really big group of awkward, unsure, hormonally-charged college students.

The jury's out. All we can do now is wait.

Superly Old Post Recycled for the Benefit of an Unclear Readership.

Hey. Okay. The following two posts are about two weeks old. Freaking chalet connection won't let me post the goddamn thing. So, call me petty, call me small, but, hell, I am GOING TO GODDAMN POST THIS GODDAMN POST! *Hyperventilates*

Enjoy. = )

"Aiman apologises for his really overdue post. Aiman is repentant. Truly he is sad that he has disappointed all 0.1 of his readers. = (

Anyway.

See, I’m writing this up while listening to the blues. No, I’m not particularly depressed (which i’m telling you in the off-chance you’re asking), but i am feeling sorta.. Contemplative. Yeah. I get this every so often. It’s not particularly pleasant, but most of the opinions/philosophies/mottos/hippie bullcrap that pull me through everything that happens (which is not much, i guess) have been formed during moments like this. And I suddenly, randomly felt the compulsion to record this particular session, so, yeah. = )

Hmmm.

Might be ‘cause everyone in this damn college blogs, so i suppose i sorta don’t wanna be left out.

Haha.

...

Damn, the song changed. Crap. My mood’s lifting. Noooo! My fee-lo-so-fees!!!!! AGH!!

...

Great. Oh well. Time for the great blogger’s backup; chronicling past events! = D

Now this has been a truly bizarre month and a half into the semester. In about 5 weeks, I have (I swear

i’ll try to make this list more interesting than the previous one):

· Run for and lost a Student Council post (gasp! He mentioned it in public! Burnnnnn himmm!)

· Built stuff for, acted in (if you can call sitting in a bench looking smug acting) and experienced the Sapphire Bangsawan 2009

· Failed to qualify to take my AS Mathematics in May/June (which I have convinced myself is a good thing. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully).

· Been elected to take care of Sapphire for a year. (Yes. I know. O_o)

Ah, KYUEM. Only you can make the world weigh down upon us like this. = )

First things first, though. Huge, massive, monumental and really big ‘Thank You’s to all Sapphireans for picking Haq and myself for these jobs. God bless you all.

And please, please tell me when i’m screwing things up. Or at least whack me across the head with something really big and heavy. = ) Also, I'm gonna conduct taklims in English. Yes. Watch me. Rawr.

...

I typed a reallllly long thing about Bangsawan here, and it took me like, 20 minutes. And when I re-read it, it was super long, so I think I'll post it in a separate post. = )

And the SC thing.

Not gonna talk about that tonight. Take too long, and Conquest's homework is due tomorrow.

Just a very belated Congratulations and a (brotherly) hug to Nur Furqan Nordin. Honestly the best man for the job, he is. = )

Admiral Awesome, signing off.

15th February 2009