Sunday, October 30, 2011


I'm glad that a few of Sharifah Aini's old albums have been released in CD form. Hmmn, I wonder if there is any possibility of EMI coming up with a box set containing all her albums (EPs, LPs, soundtracks, collaborations, compilations et cetera, et cetera, et cetera). After all, she has remained loyal to the same recording company throughout her illustrious career which spans more than four decades (and we are still counting). Without a doubt, she is a living legend and a national treasure. Not only is she an extraordinary singer but also an award-winning actress and a productive lyricist. She has been in the industry longer than Sheila Majid and Francissca Peter have and yet, the latter have their own box sets. Like any other singers, she also has her own legion of loyal fans who are more than willing to buy her box set. She deserves to have her own box set and I'm pretty sure that many of her loyal fans will agree with me. Everybody knows that EMI Malaysia is no longer active but I think EMI Music Publishing Malaysia Sdn. Bhd. still keeps an office here. I'm sure they can do something about it, right? It will be such a waste if her complete music catalogue is not published for the public to treasure and appreciate.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

C4N YOU R34D TH15 M3554G3?

1 F0UND TH15 0N TH3 1NT3RN3T

TH15 M3554G3
53RV35 TO PR0V3 H0W 0UR M1ND5
C4N D0 4M4Z1NG TH1NG5!
1MPR3551V3 TH1NG5! 1N TH3
C4N R3AD TH15.

Monday, October 24, 2011

مُعَمَّر القَذَّافِي‎

Put politics and everything else aside. مُعَمَّر القَذَّافِي is like any of us ; a mere human being and most importantly, a Muslim. May الله forgive all his sins and our sins too. Al-Fatihah.

Thursday, October 20, 2011


A good friend of mine is courting a girl whom he is planning to get engaged to soon and he asked me why I never showed any interest in his relationship (sounds like I'm quite a busybody, huh?). We have often told each other about a lot of personal things (including some really sinful ones!) and he was quite perplexed with my almost nonchalant behaviour. Well, there are a few things that I will never interfere with and one of them is other people's relationships. I've learned from painful past experiences never to try to get between two lovers (sounds a bit dirty I know). People who are in love are totally a different species to me. They don't normally function like normal people. They eat, drink and breathe love. In addition to living in their own private world (or heaven to them), they are also much more sensitive to criticisms regarding their relationship. It is difficult for them to see the flaws in their relationship and each other. Everything is perfect and rose-tinted. Any negative comments or remarks from friends will only bring about a soured friendship. As for me, I will only voice my opinions when I know for sure that something is not right and I will only do that to a few selected friends. Even then, I have to be careful how I'm going to make sure my opinions are known to them. One wrong word and that might be the end of a friendship. I have always believed in couples discovering each other (sounds dirtier I know) at their own pace and without any interference. The courting period is the right time for them to find out more about the other half without any outside influences (though I know there are many people out there who put up a different personality when they are dating but that's a different story anyway). My friend is really serious about this girl and I know how apprehensive he is at times. He wonders if he is making the right decision at the right time with the right person. He is planning his marriage not his wedding. To a certain extent, he is planning his life and future. All I can do is to give him all the support that he needs when he needs it. I will not volunteer any opinion or suggestion since I believe he knows what he wants. He is capable of making his own decisions and being responsible for them. As for me, I am going to watch from afar and hope that he gets everything his heart desires.

Sunday, October 16, 2011


This is another story taken from "Collected Cat Stories" by Stella Whitelaw.

It was so undignified and that's what really got Herbie about living with the ever-expanding Robinson family. Sometimes he felt he must have been delivered in a Christmas stocking, gift-warapped, but far more durable than the other playthings.

He knew if he saw six-year-old Katy donning her nurse's outfit then he was due for a blanket bath, and that meant being swathed in towels and ignominiously anointed with water. It meant having his face and ears washed which he particularly detested, but for the sake of Katy's gentle crooning and cuddling, he put up with these atrocities.

Eight-year old Jane had thought up a torture of a different kind. He suffered being dressed in a matinee jacket, long nightie and bootees with a satin-ribboned bonner flattening his ears. He endured being ridden up and down the road in the basket on the front of her bicycle. This was far worse than being pushed in the pram, because at least in the pram he could take a nose a nose drive down to the foot of the cover and leave only his tail showing, whipping the pillow.

But in the bicycle basket, he was exposed to public glare and comment. He could not even have a good scratch. At the first sign of a slackening of Jane's attention, he would leap out on to the pavement, fly through gardes and across the fields to a secret place where he would hide long enough to divest himself of the hated garments.

This went on until Jane ran out of baby clothes.

Thomas, two years her senior and lanky with it, had a habit of putting Herbie on the top of doors. Just why, Herbie did not have the slightest idea. One minute he would be curled up happily on some abandoned school blazer, then...whoop s! He would find himself being born aloft by Thomas and deposited on the top edge of an open door, scratching and clawing to gain a balance. Once there he could remain lying along the edge with complete indifference until rescued by some adult Robinson.

Herbie was a Bi-coloured Shorthair. He could be described as a black cat with white splodges or a white cat with black splodges. It depended on the angle of viewing which colour was predominant. He had a small, alert face with intelligent eyes and neat ears. No one was quite sure of his age. He came sort of before Katy and after Jane. His birthday was celebrated on the date of the Battle of Waterloo, 18 June, when he was encouraged in vain to blow out the candles on a nice piece of cod fillet and all day it was cream, cream, cream in his saucer.

He ate well with the Robinsons. They were always saying he was the only cat in Great Britain who got meals on wheels. This was because Grandma Robinson was to old to have new teeth fitted, and anything she fancied but couldn't manage went into his bowl. Herbie was game to try anything from trifle to spaghetti bolognese. He was not fussy.

Herbie loved boxes. They were his all-consuming passion. He would get into any box, trying it out for size. He would investigate the depths of paper bags, plastic carriers, handbags, suitcases, typewriter name it, he would get into it.

When the crates arrived he was delighted and curious. But when he made a few tentative forays, there were immediate shrieks of 'Mind the china!' 'Off that linen!' 'Help, that one's full of glasses!' and eventually, 'Will someone put Herbie out, please?'

So Herbie sat in the garden and watched. There were no blanket baths and bicycle rides these days. Everyone was so busy. He did not quite understand what was going on.

One morning the Robinsons assembled outside with bags and parcels and he was being passed round for hugs and wet kisses. It was all very messy and he still did not understand what was happening. He hoped it didn't mean that he was going down the road. Several of his elderly friends had told him that hugs and wet kisses meant going down the road and not coming back.

So Herbie was quite relieved when it was evident that the Robinsons were not intending to put him in the car as well as all their family and their mountain of luggage. He rubbed his head against Katy's new ankle socks to show that he forgave her all the medical ministrations.

'We don't really want to leave him behind, but what else can we do?' said Mrs Robinson. 'One is always hearing about cats that walk back to their old homes and how could Herbie cope with all that ocean? We're so grateful for your kind offer.'

'Shall I have a new kitten in Australia?' asked the fickle Jane.

'Of course, darling.'

'Don't worry, Mrs Robinson. I'll look after Herbie for you,' said a new, sweet young voice. 'He'll be perfectly all right with us. I'm sure he'll soon get used to us and we'll take great care of him.'

Katy wept more water all over Herbie's ears. 'Goodbye, darling Herbie,' she whispered. 'I'll never forget you, never, never, never...'

It was very disturbing, and then amid a great deal of noise the Robinsons drove off, leaving Herbie and he sweet voiced young woman on the front lawn. He looked at her, wondering what was going to happen next. She was very young and quite tall. He hoped she was not going to put him on top of doors. She regarded him a little uncertainly , her fairish hair brushing her cheek like a breeze stirring a cobweb in the moonlight.

'Come along,' she said, trying to sound brisk. 'You live next door now.'

He did not move for two reasons. Firstly he did not know what next door meant, and secondly h was a mite worried about th door bit. Chrissie picked him up carefully and gave him a few little pats. 'Come along,' she said, again, more cheerfully. ' This way...'

The net door house was joined on to the Robinson's house and it was exactly the same, except that it was all the other way around. He discovered that Chrissie and Alan Marshall were newly-weds, that they lived in empty rooms and went out all day. It was very strange. Sometime Herbie thought he had gone deaf.

It was an odd house. There was nothing to jump on, knock over, hid behind, sit on, scratch at, sniff at, trample on or investigate. Most of the time Herbie sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, polite and distance, grooming himself and slightly nauseated by the pervading smell of paint. He missed the Robinsons and all the noise and activity. He missed being talked to and included as part of the family.

'Herbie doesn't seem very happy,' said Chrissie for the hundredth time. 'He behaves like a visitor.'

'Perhaps we ought to show him around,' Alan suggested. 'That might make him feel at home.'

'It's very difficult when you've never had a cat before,' said Chrissie. 'I never know what to do.'

'Don't worry, darling. They are very independent creatures, aloof and stand-offish. It's probably just his way.'

Alan hoisted Herbie off the floor and carried him up the stairs. He flung open the first door with a flourish.

'Now, this is the spare room,' he announced, putting Herbie down on the lino. Herbie was amazed. It had been impossible to move in the Robinson's spare room when they had one. It had always looked like a central sorting depot for Oxfam. But this spare room was totally without interest... he prodded the two tennis rackets with some apprehension.

'Careful, old chap,' admonished Alan. He steered Herbie out of the spare room and into the next room. 'And this is our bedroom. We sleep here,' he added unnecessarily.

Herbie made a flying leap on to the rose-patterned duvet. It sank most satisfyingly, but before he had even done half a turn, Chrissie had whisked him off again.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Not on the bed.'

'He was not allowed on the two armchairs either, or on the draining board, or in Chrissie's shopping basket, or in the linen cupboard or under the television set. So he took to staying in the middle of the kitchen floor, quiet and withdrawn, sometimes pretending to be asleep or watching a bee buzz against a window-pane trying to get in.

The garden was immaculate and everything was in measured rows. Herbie learned to tread carefully. He found it hard to stalk tigers in an organised jungle of Tom Thumb lettuces, or scare birds who were already wary of all the flapping labels.

The best spot was the greenhouse, baking warm and out of the draught. But Alan was growing grass in trays and kept shutting Herbie out.

'Shoo... mind the cuttings. Off my seedlings, old boy.'

Herbie lost weight despite the fact that the Marshalls were kind to him and fed him. But Herbie's heart began to fail when he saw Chrissie reaching yet again for the tin opener. He longed for a bit of fruit cake and some cold cocoa.

He made one visit to the Robinson's old house but never again. A horrible sloppy dog with ears hanging down like soup plates had moved in. Herbie shuddered and kept to his side of the fence.

Sometimes he sat on the pavement outside and watched people go by on bicycles and in cars. One young woman with red-streaked hair always stopped and stroked him, knowing the special place under his chin just above where his purr started.

Sometimes he followed children along the road, but he was afraid to go far. He was less trusting than he used to be. Especially after the field-mouse episode. He had only meant it as a gift for Chrissie. It was such a tiny thing and was paralysed with terror. Yet Chrissie had shrieked as if being attacked by a rampaging bull elephant. Herbie simply did not understand her and brought no more gifts.

The situation improved somewhat when Chrissie stopped going out every day. She started to sing around the house and that was rather nice. However, although she sat around quite a lot Herbie was never invited on to her lap. He now learned that he must not sit on her sewing or try to get into her knitting bag. The tennis rackets were moved into the back of the broom cupboard and some furniture was delivered for the spare room. Alan began hammering in the evenings and Herbie watched the shelves going up with interest.

'Off you come, Herbie. They won't take your weight,' said Alan, lifting him down.

'He's just testing,' said Chrissie with new perception.

Alan kissed her tenderly.

'Funny girl,' he said, ruffling her hair.

One day a new smell arrived in the house. Herbie recognised it immediately. It was the thin, sweet smell of milk. Something stirred and breathed in the pram parked in the hallway, and made small mewing sounds.

Herbie pricked up his ears. Surely it was not another cat? He stood up on his back legs and peered in, but the mesh of the cat-net obscured whatever lay under the mound of blankets.

'Say hello to Timmy,' said Chrissie, picking Herbie up with a growing confidence. It was the first time that Herbie had felt safe and not about to be dropped. He trembled slightly with a small rush of emotion.

Now the improvements began to accelerate at a rate of knots. Chrissie left things on the floor and was far too busy to notice if Herbie sat on them. All sorts of boxes and pails and bins began to appear in the kitchen.

'What on earth shall I do with this cereal?' Chrissie wailed one breakfast time. 'Timmy won't touch it.'

'Give it to the cat,' said Alan.

Baby cereal! One of Herbie's favourites. His rough little tongue could hardly lap it up for purring. Then at teatime it was marmite soldiers dropped all over the floor in various stages of squashed disintegration.

'Oh, you are a messy baby,' said Chrissie, hurrying to clear up, but Herbie was there before her. It seemed like years since he'd had a marmite soldier.

The baby soon began to crawl and then there wasn't a thing Chrissie could do about life at floor level. It became a glorious landscape of wooden bricks, round-eyed ducks, chewed crusts, lost shoes, sticky spoons and a fat yellow teddy bear who kept falling. Herbie sat amid the chaos, keeping an eye on the baby, keeping his claws sheathed an never getting in the way. He was still rather like a visitor.

One afternoon Chrissie was sewing while her baby played on the floor with some empty cotton reels. Herbie was sunning himself by the window when through half an eye he saw the baby reaching up towards the flex of a reading lamp.

No one really knew whether he remembered the occasion when Katy Robinson did the same thing and brought the whole contraption crashing down on her head, but in a split second Herbie leaped off the windowsill and sent the baby back on his bottom on the carpet. The baby howled in surprise and one chubby fist shot out and grabbed at Herbie's long waving tail.

It hurt. It hurt very much. Herbie was almost transfixed with pain. He dug his claws into the carpet.

Then Chrissie was down on her knee, scolding the baby, hugging Herbie. Or was it hugging the baby and scolding Herbie? It did not really matter for Herbie's heart was leaping up into a joyful rumble of happiness.

For in that moment Herbie had looked into Timmy's eyes, and had seen a faint but unmistakable vision of blanket baths, and bicycle rides and door tops, and perhaps even worse. But it meant Herbie had a home. The move was complete. Next door had become home. At last.

Saturday, October 15, 2011


Long before she became the sex kitten (à la Brigitte Bardot) she is known for today, she was just another soap opera actress in the Australian television series 'Neighbours'. When she made her debut on the music scene (singing a cover of Little Eva's Locomotion), her image was that of the typical next door girl; young, sweet and somewhat demure. As her lucky stars would have it, her second single 'I Should Be So Lucky' moved to the top of the charts in 1988 and there was no more looking back for her after that. This is a very catchy song (it sounds very dated now, of course). Most of the time, I don't even listen to (or sing) the words properly. The phrase 'I should be so lucky' is repeatedly sung throughout the song; thus making the other parts of the lyrics seemingly unimportant. There is another version of the video clip (from an Australian TV special I think) which shows Kylie riding in the back of a convertible BMW and sporting a very 80s ensemble (big hair, big shoulder pads, big belt). Well, if you think you should be lucky, maybe you could try singing this one for a change.

The single's cover

In my imagination
There is no complication
I dream about you all the time
In my mind a celebration
The sweetest of sensation
Thinking you could be mine

In my imagination
There is no hesitation
We walk together hand in hand
I'm dreaming
You fell in love with me
Like I'm in love with you
But dreaming's all I do
If only they'd come true

I should be so lucky

Lucky, lucky, lucky
I should be so lucky in love
I should be so lucky
Lucky, lucky, lucky
I should be so lucky in love

It's a crazy situation
You always keep me waiting
Because it's only make believe
And I would come a-running
To give you all my loving
If one day you would notice me

My heart is close to breaking
And I can't go on faking
The fantasy that you'll be mine

I'm dreaming
That you're in love with me
Like I'm in love with you
But dreaming's all I do
If only they'd come true

I should be so lucky
Lucky, lucky, lucky
I should be so lucky in love
I should be so lucky
Lucky, lucky, lucky
I should be so lucky in love

I should be so lucky (so lucky, so lucky)
I should be so lucky
I, I, (I, I)
I should be so lucky (so lucky, so lucky)
I should be so lucky

I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I

In my imagination
There is no hesitation
We walk together hand in hand
I'm dreaming
You fell in love with me
Like I'm in love with you
But dreaming's all I do
If only they'd come true

I should be so lucky
Lucky, lucky, lucky
I should be so lucky in love
I should be so lucky
Lucky, lucky, lucky
I should be so lucky in love

Sunday, October 9, 2011


I have always admired Siti Nurhaliza and how she has managed to come so far in the music industry. I can't say that I am an ardent fan of hers but a few of my friends are totally crazy about her. They will feel very offended if something bad is said about their favourite singer and will go all out to defend her. The release of Siti's English album did pique my interest and it has been a while since she made an impact on the local music scene. Is the album any good and is it worth buying? Well, I believe if you can sing well, you can sing almost anything in any language. To tell the truth, the whole album is not really that bad. Actually, it's pretty impressive and I do like most of the songs especially the more upbeat ones. I'm quite sure none will ever chart on the Billboard Top 100 (you know how 'racist' the US Billboard can be towards non-American singers) but with heavy airplay/promotion/video rotation, anything is possible. Despite cruel criticisms by some people, I think Siti deserves a pat on her back. She has released an album that I believe can satisfy her fans and the general buyers. Her voice is very clear (there is no indication of Autotune being used to enhance her voice) and it is real easy to understand her pronunciation. She doesn't try to affect any accent or diction that can make her sound fake and pretentious. She is just like many other singers out there whose first language is not English. Her diction, pronunciation and accent are results of her surroundings, upbringing and various other factors (just listen to Celine Dion, Shakira, Julio Iglesias and Jamaican reggae singers). We don't have to be ashamed of what or who we are and I believe Siti is not trying to be American, British or Australian. She is simply a Malay Malaysian singer who sings in English. The music suits her singing voice and the music arrangement does not make her singing become secondary. I also find delightful traces and elements of ethnic music throughout the whole album. The artwork for the album is also a big departure from her previous albums. It's vibrant, colourful and cheerful. All in all, I would say that this is definitely not a cheap album to produce. The mastering was done in Australia and LA and the inclusion of international producers/musicians clearly indicates that she is roping in other talents as well. For the CD cover and inlays, Siti wears quite a number of designer stuff. Zara, Hermès, Cavalli, Max Mara, Etienne Aigner, Diane von Furstenberg and YSL (I'm sure everything is hers and not on loan). I wish that Siti had not totally depended on the few writers and lyricists who contributed to the album. It makes the album too one-dimensional actually. I also wish she had included a few remixes (for the clubs) and instrumentals (for me to sing karaoke of course). On a scale of 1 to 10, I give this album an 8 1/2 (and that is because there are no remixes or instrumentals).

p/s I know that I won't get anything from promoting this album but please buy the original CD, okay? It's really dirt cheap at only RM 29.90. Let's give a bit of all your love (and support) for her. Who knows you might be falling in love with her...

Saturday, October 8, 2011


After 36 years, it's time to close shop. Goodbye Arista. R.I.P. You will be missed.


Found this on somebody's website somewhere. Totally brilliant in my opinion. Love them, love them, love them! Christian Marclay, the brain behind this form of art, overlapped LP and CD covers to create these interesting images.

Behind closed doors...

Marilyn Manson and the Brazilian Girls on the way to Nirvana from Holywood?

Michael Jackson would have been thrilled (not) to see this!

No! No! No! No! Dont phunk with my album cover.

Donna Summer loves to love Eric Clapton's slow hand. Or is it Arthur H's?

U2 feels it is right leaving Bon Jovi behind.

Take a bow(ie).

It's your choice if you want to go AC/DC.

Vincent Capretta is not looking back since he's got money.