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Wednesday, December 01, 2004

The Kai Tai Gwai Diaries

RE: Gentle Reader(s),

I know that I've been neglecting my blog of late. Heck, I've gone from 60 clicks a day (ok, I'll have to admit that at least 52 comes from my cat Poppett who likes swatting at the F5 key on my notebook when I'm zonked out on the couch at my parent's den) to 3 (again, that would be Poppett).

P.S.
Poppett, if you're reading this, kindly be informed that BerukBoy's mother does not open up the house to cats (even fine upstanding specimens of felinedom such as yourself) until 9 in the morning during weekdays and 11 in the morning on weekends. Looking pitiful and mewling on the other side of the sliding glass door does not help. El Chimpo BerukBoy has no pity for cats or little children because he is a Macho Macho Man. Ahem.

Funny how geeks, after a childhood of getting bullied and picked on, grow up to become these "I go to the gym 3 times a day, I'm 'slim' but it's all muscle, I can benchpress 200 lbs, I can live of the land" types. Weerd. Me? I'm no geek. Yes, I may have been the president of the Boardgame Society, the Chess Club, the English Language Society and, for a brief moment, a member of Renjer Puteri (hey, I saw the word 'Ranger' and I thought, cool, I want to be a ranger too like Aragorn - this was way before the movie, noob. I is like almost 30 now) but the term geek has been too commercialized and sanitized for public consumption.

Me? I'm a nerd. Like Pharrell. Only not as cool and I don't get as much chicks. But I do get to hang out with cool people so I guess that sorta makes me, uhm, cool-ish? (or a cool-ie, depending on how you make of it). Real geeks (like real hackers) are cool people. But real geeks don't call themselves geeks (or sometimes they do, we are all individual-minded and make up our own rules as we go along - a legacy of our 'freakoid non-conformist stranger' phase in life).

Ah, fuck it. I'm a nerd. So is Zack de la Roche. Zack is cool people(s) too. Che got whored out by the masses.

So, anyway, like I was saying before I distracted myself (Zuli commented the other day that I brooded like Dream but I thought like Delirium), the reason I haven't been updating this blog is because I've been mad busy at work. You know, working for the Man and all. Got to keep salaries paid, lay out the infrastructure, reco the outlying business opportunities. Lots of money going out... my accountant is freaking out like nobody's business. It's like a casino, sorta. I'm dumping a lot of chips on the table because I'm waiting for my number to come up, the big pay-off. 750-to-1. The problem is, will I have enough chips to last me 'till then? Or can I get enough chips?

By the way, the game is blackjack 21 and I'm dyslexic which means that I'm what casinos call a counter. With regards to blackjack 21, the house doesn't stand a chance in hell.

Talking about games, the only party game I like playing is Jenga. I'm the absolute master of Jenga. Zuli is having a b'day bash for me at Redbox this S'day and me and a bunch of friends are going to eat and sing our hearts out (kenduri melalak, sakan). However, me being the OCD that I am (as opposed to my usual position of ACD) had to act like an armchair general masterminding every little detail. Which includes having Jenga sets so that people who aren't singing can amuse themselves. That's right, guy. I'm like the party coordinator for McDonald's (or, rather, the A&W of the 80s). You will have fun - OR ELSE!

But anyway, been mad busy. FedExed an Xmas/B'day package to the -ex, with the help of Zuli, oddly enough. A little fish (ye lah, aku tau lah hang tu ikan haruan, beso' ler, tapi for the sake of sentence aestatics, I call you little fish lah even tho' ko' tu ikan beso) commented the other day that Zuli and I have a strange but oddly fascinating relationship. I'm the cool one, shrugging off Zuli's many admirers (because when you've got an 8 inch wallet (woi! this is a family blog, ok? no ham sat thinking) and a heart that's as big as the alpha centauri system, you know you've got your ass covered when it comes to the wife-unit) and Zuli is trying to make friend-friend with the -ex (make my life easier lah). However, mess with Zuli and you will see the infamous Kai Tai Gwai of San Peng flats show his stripes. Anyone who knows my good pal Eddie Spaghetti (he prefers being called Fast Eddie) who works at the music shop at OU old wing can ask him about the time I went around garbed in a black leather jacket with triad symbols, black denim pants, motorcycle boots (because my dad threw away my SS German Army boots - he thought I attracted too much attention to myself walking around with clicking steel heels) attached to my belt via a long steel chain, black nailpolish, black lipstick and black mascara. Oh, and a butterfly knife on the side pocket, a switchblade in the back pocket and a 7' stiletto tucked into the left boot. Yes, like my friend They_Call_Me_Bruce, I am trying the peaceful God-is-love way of life.

That said, Kai Tai Gwai simmers beneath the surface. Do not mess with Zuli. Me, fuck with me all you want. I don't give a rat's ass. Leave Zuli, my family and my friends alone. 'nuff said.

Have to display my street creds every so often, dun wan people to think I'm soft just because everyone knows that I'm Zuli's little whipping boy (Yayang nak makan apa hari ni, yayang? Nak pi tengok movie ke? Biar I book, ye? Nak basuh kucing persian you hari ni? No problem. Tak, I sure cancel all my evening appointments hari ni untuk you). Like Ikan Haruan said the other day, "depan Zuli, hang pijak semut pun tak mati".

You know what's funny tho'? When I was really hanging with the crowd (we were all a bunch of misfit punks (most of us were half-breeds, not completely Malay, Chinese or Indian) disenfranchised from society and our families), and this was back in the early 90s, mind, I was called Kai Tai Gwai because I was a malay guy who could speak posh english and I could do drops using my dad's beemer. To my credit, I never got picked up by the Otays. Always abided by the speed limit, wore my seatbelt and I knew every backalley in Kay-Hell like the back of my hand (I usually had a minder who sat in the passenger seat and his job was to recommend which routes to take, he had the old-style huge-ass walkie-talkie which I thought was cool). Dressed well, soft-spoken, but everyone knew I had a temper that raged like a latent volcano. Especially if anyone insulted my father or my family name. Mother can lah, tiu le ka mama, ma hai! sort of joshing orait ler. But father dun play-play. Very dangerous.

And always, I carried a small knife with me. Barely 5'. Not enough to cut through the bone carthilage that covered the heart, harmless looking enough that it could pass a bodysearch. But sharp and long enough to pierce an eyeball and scrape the brain or to kidney-stab someone.

Officially, I never had to use it. It was just there for the sake of "street cred".

I don't carry knives or weapons of any sort anymore. Hell, I lived in Mississippi where you can buy a semi-automatic at Wal-Mart while picking up groceries (on the spot approval if you have a hunter's licence). I am officially a man of peace now.

Unless it comes to business. In business, I am ruthless, unmerciful. Because business is war, pure and simple. Territories must be conquered or defended. Supply lines must be maintained. Troop morale must be kept high. Rape and pillage. Bonuses and expense accounts.

But in war, there is still honour. I have a master, and he knows who he is. I am Zuli's whipping boy but I am also his dog. I will honour him for the rest of his life and beyond. If I ever fuck him, inadvertantly or not, he will kill me. But he will do that because it is better that I die via his hands, a swift, merciful end, than to die slow and painfully via the other peons of his own master(s) and their associates. He might snort and laugh and say that I've been reading too much Tom Clancy ("You think you're Bourne Supremacy, is it?"). But I know in my heart that it is true and that he will try his best to care for my wife and family if the worse-case scenario should ever occur. And for him, the same. I can't offer much at the moment, at most I can only pickup and dropoff his wife's laundry and take his kid to preschool, but I'm getting there, with his help (or rather, tutelage). Socrates to my Alexander? (and no, I haven't seen the movie and Zuli can very well attest that I have no gay tendencies, no offense to those who do). Perhaps.

In this life and the next, I am his dog. There is an old gujerati saying, "when the student is ready, the teacher shall come". I heard that from my old friend Omar, otay of Bakti Kasih (macam Pengasih ler, I think same company oso). But as my other (friend? acquaintance?) Lenny (of the Ikhlas DIC, Chow Kitt) would say, "Opinions are like assholes. Everyone has one".

I am his dog. I was born a grunt, I will die a grunt. The choice is whether it will occur in the comfort of a warm bed surrounded by friends and family or rotting in a muddy ditch somewhere "glory, glory, hallelujah", anonymous and alone.

Tai Lo, you have saved me. Or rather, you have shown me the way to save myself because you have taken this path before and you could not. You know all my cards, or, at least, all the cards I can show (even a chi pet like me must pretend that he has something backing him up, ego mah. Must show man one).

As Ikan Haruan would say, "Beb, hang tu watch too much Hong Kong gangster movies lah. As long as you are an Indian in bed but a Chinese in business, you orait ler".

I have not blogged of late because I am learning something. Flame away, motherfuckers. See if I care. The net is not life. It is just a tool for life. It makes life easier. But, in the end, it is not life, not even a semblance of it, not even a half-life.

And with that, the BerukBoy is signing off.

P.S. If it makes you feel better, this was just another inane rant of the BerukBoy. He is just talking out of his ass. All the events mentioned above were fictional in nature and just a fragment of his diseased imagination. There is no Eddie working in OU. BerukBoy has never lived in America. He doesn't even know where San Peng flats is. Hell, he's just a 16-year old Lithuanian blogger who speaks, writes and reads no English. So sorree.

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