All I Want To Do...is shag you silly.

<--- Would you throw these babes out of your bed?

If there were to be an award for dodgiest song ever, Heart's All I Want To Do would be right up there, along with Extreme's More Than Words.

Both these songs could definitely be voted as the official anthem/theme song of playas too. I'd have to say though, that All I Want To Do just about nicks it for sheer hypocrisy and blatant playa-ism.

But don't just take my word for it. Let's have a look at the lyrics of the song and then you can decide for yourself.

ALL I WANT TO DO

It was a rainy night

When he came into sight,

Standing by the road,

No umbrella, no coat.

So I pulled up alongside

And I offered him a ride.

He accepted with a smile,

So we drove for a while.

I didn't ask him his name,

This lonely boy in the rain.

Fate, tell me it's right,

Is this love at first sight?

Please don't make it wrong,

Just stay for the night.

Let's take this one verse at a time. First of all, what is she doing picking up strange men on rainy nights? Hasn't she watched enough slasher flicks to know better? This song could have just ended right here if she'd picked up the wrong man. You know..."He accepted with a smile, so we drove for a while....acckkk!!! Gurgle, gurgle, moan, moan, Kersplatttt!!!!"

Plus, she didn't ask him his name! Wtf?? You give a ride to somebody and don't even ask his name? And, love at first sight? C'mon. Call it like it is! It's lust at first sight. Ain't nothing wrong with that!

So we found this hotel,

It was a place I knew well

We made magic that night.

Oh, he did everything right

He brought the woman out of me,

So many times, easily

And in the morning when he woke all

I left him was a note

I told him

I am the flower you are the seed

We walked in the garden

We planted a tree

Don't try to find me,

Please don't you dare

Just live in my memory,

You'll always be there

My question is, how does she know that hotel well, hmmm? Sounds like she's paid more than one clandestine visit, hasn't she? And 'he brought out the woman in me so many times, easily"? Puh-leeze! He gave you multiple orgasms is what he did! And in the end, what did you do? Bailed out on him without even splitting the hotel bill. The guy can't even afford a car. You think he can afford to pay the bill? Poor dude. And she has the nerve to tell him not to look for her. Some people...

Then it happened one day,

We came round the same way

You can imagine his surprise

When he saw his own eyes

I said please, please understand

I'm in love with another man

And what he couldn't give me

Was the one little thing that you can

And now we get to the climax (no pun intended) of the matter. They meet again. And he sees the fruit of his loins. And what does she do? She tells him she's in love with another man and the only reason she shagged him was coz that dude either couldn't get it up or was shooting blanks. And all this comes after she's earlier said it was love at first sight and warbled chorus after chorus of how she wants to MAKE LOVE to him. She justifies it by saying she just wanted a kid. What about IVF or adoption? The Wilson sisters were reaaaaallly stretching it there, weren't they? Jeez. And to say that he gave her a 'little' thing was a low-blow. There's absolutely no need to do that to the boy's ego.

They should have just titled the song "I'm Horny and Need a Shag. Fertile Studs Apply Here."

Fire!!!

My apartment building caught fire yesterday! Since nobody died or got injured - except for the cat which suffered some slight smoke inhalation - I can say what I'd really like to say without sounding like an insensitive twat.

And what I'd really like to say is - how cool is that??? Woo hoo!

This is what happened. Unit 105 usually has a guy, his aunt, his dog and his cat living in it. His aunt, at the time of the fire, had been hospitalised due to depression and thus, wasn't home (a very good think, coz the guy later told me that she was quite old and very heavy.)

So, our friend goes to sleep in the living room and next thing he knows, he wakes up to the sound of roaring flames and the sight of thick smoke.

He grabs his dog and his laptop, looks unsuccessfully for his cat (that much vaunted feline independence ain't so hot now, is it??) and runs out, with only his shorts on. No T-shirt, no shoes. Nothing.

While all this drama is happening, I'm at home, in unit 501. (105:501 - what are the chances?) Usually, I'm at work at that hour - about 4:45 p.m. or so. But today, for the first time, I'm actually working the afternoon from home, due to the fact that my just concluded interview was at a nearby library.

I hear the smoke alarms and pop my head out of my unit. All appears normal. I get back in again and decide that it's a false alarm - which has happened before.

Something tells me then just to go out anyway. So, grumbling and cursing I throw on some clothes, grab my wallet and passport and head out. Still thinking that it's not a real fire, I don't bother bringing my laptop, camera and most importantly, my reporter's notebook.

I take the stairs down and that's when I realise that the building really is on fire. Acrid fumes hit me the moment I reach the third floor. For a moment, everything is black and I feels the stirrings of panic in my guts.

Here's where that fireman training I went for back in Malaysia held me in good stead. Squinting and stuffing my face into my shirt (good thing I wasn't loaded with my camera and laptop), I crouch as low as I can and head for the exit as calmly as possible.

I expect to see pandemonium reigning outside. Instead, what I do see is impressive orderliness on the part of the residents and superb efficiency on the part of the firefighters.

The blaze, which thankfully consumed only one unit, was put out in less than 15 minutes. While debating whether or not to call the Post-Dispatch and tell them about the itty-bitty fire, I get a call from Elie (yes, I grabbed my phone too!) telling me she's covering it and asking if I'm taking pics. I had to disappoint her by saying my camera was stuck upstairs (what kind of reporter leaves behind the tools of his trade when a story literally falls into his lap? So embarassing!)

But, I managed to borrow Elie's notepad and pen and jot down some quick interviews with the guy as well as the fire captain. So, my honour has been regained somewhat.

Oh, and the vic was wearing what I thought was one of those fancy jogging GPS/odometer devices on his ankle. Elie later told me that it's a tracking device for prisoners who are under home arrest. So, now we're speculating that the cause of the fire was a meth-lab accident and not a falling shitty lamp as the guy claimed earlier. Hmmm....

Making crime pay.

It's been an interesting couple of weeks here. There've been quite a few developments, personally and professionally.



My time at the Post-Dispatch is almost coming to an end, with me hardly even realising how quickly time has flown by. All of a sudden, I find myself with barely enough time to do all the things that I wanted to do when I first came here (visit Memphis, Chicago, as well as check out several things in St. Louis itself). And I still haven't even come close to doing any of the souvenir shopping that I need to do! Having so many friends can be a tough proposition sometimes, you know!



The good news is that I have, since the mid-term seminar at Poynter, managed to dispel the feeling of homesickness that used to descend on me every few days. I've finally settled nicely here, made some friends and have started slowly counterfeiting what passes as a social life.

I've started going clubbing (courtesy of the Post-Dispatch, which wants me to do reviews), properly checked out some of the many attractions of Forest Park and even attended a Cardinals baseball game (and it was a cracker of a game too!). Go Cards!



But, I digress. This posting, as we Fellows keep being gently reminded, is about the trials, triumphs and tribulations of the 2009 Alfred Friendly Fellows as we muck about at the newspapers in our host cities.



Since my last posting, I've come up with the aforementioned club reviews, a piece on my Disneyworld experience with Hoon, as well as a story on a fire that killed three children.

Each of these experiences has been an interesting learning experience in itself.



I'm particularly proud of the club reviews, because it contains an innovation (I think!) which I suggested all by myself. Our editor, Evan, asked us to do the review in a conversational form. So, I suggested actually having a Gmail chat session with Sherice, the other reviewer. It's worked very well. Having a real chat session enabled us to have a very natural sounding article written in the dialogue form. It also helped us inject some quirkiness (like me ordering a vodka martini, shaken not stirred) as well as some informality (like asking if a dodgy foreigner can pick up a girl at a club) into the proceedings. Check out the finished product here. Btw, in case you're wondering, the vodka martini gag was for a different review. I'm now considering suggesting a similar club review form - probably called Saturday Nightlife - to my paper back home. I really think it will work out well.


The Disney article , on the other hand, was both an opportunity taken as well as an opportunity missed. It was an opportunity taken because I got off my backside and pitched it to the Features editor, Christy Bertleson - who I have to say, was very supportive. Don't you just love editors like that? What started off just as a lark for Hoon and I became a story which got some interesting feedback from readers. Some people - including one guy who works at Disney and had a half hour long phone conversation with me (phew!) - loved it. Others actually called and told me that I went for the wrong rides and should have done other things in that time. One lady left a message saying that I was an 'amateur' for only being able to do so much in one day. Lol!

It was also educational because I got to see how an editor who thinks outside the box can completely change and improve on a story. You see, my original was a long-form feature which ran up to 1,600 words.



Needless to say, it was too long. However, I was pretty much brain-frozen by the time I had done it and asked Christy to surgically remove anything she felt like removing.



However, instead of doing that, she changed the style of the first few paragraphs, from an actual narrative to a snappy, timeline-based almost point-form article and told me to do the same for the rest of the article. It dramatically reduced the length of the story but retained the style, the humour and the flavour.



That being said, the same article also presented an opportunity missed for me, as in I finally didn't get to insert multimedia elements like I wanted to. I had an idea of doing a picture slideshow, along with audio narration for the website. However - and this is mainly my fault. I dawdled - in the end, there just wasn't enough time for it and it ended up being just a regular text-based article on the website as well. Worse still, for some reason, the picture used in the paper was not put up along with the website's article, making it look rather unimpressive. Oh well...



Finally, I worked on a story about a fire that killed three children. It made the front page (woo hoo!!). It was a tragic story, but very interesting from a professional point of view. You see, in Malaysia, most crime (i include accidents and disasters under crime) stories - unless they're really sensational - rarely make the front page. Most of the time, we just give it the regular, run-of-the-mill treatment and it ends up stuck wherever there is space to stick it in. And most of the time, one reporter is sent out to do the story and he comes back with the essentials.



But, what happened here was this: I was sent to the scene, to interview witnesses, get some atmosphere and wait to see if the surviving members of the family returned to the scene.

Another reporter, Michael Sorkin, remained in the office and worked the phones, calling the police, fire department and other authorities to get the nuts and bolts of the story.



This division of work actually makes a lot of sense. Leaving the reporter on the scene free to get anecdotal information and letting somebody else get official statements means both reporters are free to concentrate on one specific element of the story. Hence, nobody is rushed, nobody is pressured and nobody is overwhelmed. Also, when the two different sides of the story came together, the result was interesting - the officials said the smoke detector was not working, while the residents said it was. And that became the crux of the story.



I've got two projects still in the pipeline. One is about the library system here and I finally got all the interviews done today. I'm hoping this might sneak into page one as well. Fingers crossed! The other, a human trafficking story which I would say is a more likely candidate for front page treatment, seems to have hit the skids, mainly because of a lack of response from certain authorities. Very inconsiderate of them, really! But, I've still got a month and a half to go and will continue bugging them until they either tell me yes, or tell me to bugger off. Watch this space. :)

The Column. Uncensored.

On (or is that In?) hindsight, I should have known that my last column for NST would be heavily edited. I mean, what was I thinking? Writing such a risque piece for a stodgy establishment like mine? I don't think I'll live to see the day when talk about condoms, porn and the missionary position will be printed in my paper. And no, I'm not bitching, nor am I angry or bitter about it. I completely understand why the cuts had to happen. Seriously!

But thanks to the blogsphere, the original incarnation of that dirty ditty will see the light of day. So, here it is. Bigger, longer and uncut.

Tun Dr. Mahathir must be sorely disappointed in us. After all, hasn't he for the longest time wished, hoped and aimed for a Malaysian population of 70 million souls?

And instead of heeding the old man's call to be fruitful and multiply, what do we do? We go and reduce our birth rates from an ego-boosting 6.2 to a measly, morale-sapping 2.2. Shameful, really.

I for one, know exactly who is at fault. Ladies and gentlemen, the finger of blame should be pointed at none other than Ananda Krishnan.

Yes, the billionaire industrialist is to blame for the lack of fruit falling from our loins these days. No, this is not the plot for the latest James Bond movie. My reason for blaming him can be summed up in one word: Astro.

Think about it. What do most of us do when we go home these days? Do we rush home, tear off our clothes and jump into bed in a frenzy of lust. I wish.

No. We plop ourselves down in front of our flat-screen plasma TVs, turn on our decoders and gobble up the latest tele-novela on Astro Ria, the newest never-ending drama on Vanaavil, the current soap on Wah Loi Toi and the flavour of the week on American Idol.

And what about Saturdays and Sundays? What used to be date night is now more often becoming a night where we men would rather watch 22 other men sweating it out on a football field a zillion miles away instead of cozying up to our better halves. And don't forget those European football games in the wee hours of weekday mornings. Since we all have to be at work the next morning, what are the only things left to sacrifice? Sleep and sex of course!

But, it's not solely Ananda Krishnan's fault.

U.P.M, I think, had a point when it said men were at fault for the declining number of Pampers consumers in the country.

Think of 1980s fashion. I for one don't believe it's purely coincidental that birth rates plummeted in the 90s. Remember those crotch-hugging jeans of the 80s that all but cut off the blood flow to the nether regions? I don't have scientific evidence to back me on this, but I dare say all that confinement was not good for the unborn children we men had swimming inside us. I mean, how would you feel if you were stuck in a car all day with the windows rolled up? A trifle toasted?

Then there's the issue of underwear. I clearly remember the kind of underwear my grandfather - a fertile fellow if there ever was one - used to wear. They were either the Crocodile/Scuba brand briefs (spectacularly unstylish, very roomy), or striped, baggy boxers.

And what do we wear these days? Tight, 'bikini style' briefs designed to make a cocktail sausage resemble a frankfurter. Very flattering, I'm sure. But all that mashing up is bound to do some damage. No wonder my grandpa had 7 kids while I still don't have any little Marcs scampering around.

Equally culpable are those 7-11 joints out there, with the rows and rows of colourful condoms (some of them are more gaudily packaged than candy!) neatly stacked on the front counter. Where would we (or should I say, wouldn't we) be, if these slimy pieces of rubber had 50 years ago been as widely dispensed in sundry shops? And ended up in the wallets of our forefathers? The next time you find yourself reaching for a condom in 7-11, think of what the wise men of Monty Python told us – every sperm is sacred, every sperm is great.

And what about pornography? Surely there's some blame to be accorded in that direction too. 50 years ago, when 'blue' movies weren't so widely available, most folk were satisfied to 'do it' the good old-fashioned way – missionary style.

But now, after being weaned on years and years of illicit porn viewings, men are under pressure to live up to the skills displayed by all those pony-tailed, mucho-macho dudes with elephant trunks hanging between their legs.

Now, the trusted missionary position is no longer adequate. Instead, we've got ourselves twisting into positions and formations that even contortionists would find difficult to replicate.

Yet, most of these fancy techniques don't have the one crucial thing the missionary position does when it comes to sowing oats – gravity on its side. After all, isn't it easier to walk downhill instead of uphill?

But thinking about it, perhaps it's better to have fewer kids these days. I mean, I certainly don't want to have any while the nation's education system is still – to use a Mahathirism – flip-flopping. Or while the killers of sweet little girls and boys are still walking free. Or while nimrod politicians still tussle for power and prominence.

Maybe it's a good idea to hold back on trying to reclaim our pride until we get these things sorted out first. After all, we still have Astro, sexy underwear, colourful condoms and illicit porn to keep us occupied in the meantime.