Friday, July 18, 2008

a few new commandments

Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip

I don't know how popular this is at the moment but I just heard it and it's as Bubbles from TPB would say - deecent.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

the refuse blues

Snail mail’s usually uninteresting with the standard morbid bank statements or overdraft penalties fuckin’ me over, which results in me refusing to pay four times the direct debit, and they eventually getting me with the small print.

So it was a tad unexpected to open an envelope and pull out a photo of a black garbage bag, followed by another photo of an Amazon package with my name on it. Apparently I had placed my garbage outside on the wrong collection day and thus branded an untidy man. There was also a form asking me to confess with my reasonings, etc.

I didn’t do this of course. I’m too lazy to throw out the trash so we blame Panif. The proceedings of an emergency house meeting:

Zlot: I’m fucked
Panif: relax, no one knows you live here. You aren’t supposed to be here
Zlot: so what’s the plan?
Panif: you were visiting, ordered from Amazon and left
Zlot: who littered then?
Panif: I’ve done law, so I call the council up, see what they say and play it by ear
Zlot: I’m going to court aren’t I? Man that refuse was personal. There was shit in there I’d like to have kept private. I feel so exposed.
Panif: I’m paranoid and rip my letters
Zlot: I need to be more paranoid
Tonz: right. I knew hoarding all my trash in the closet’s gonna payoff one day
Zlot: he’s got a point there

So I picked up the guitar and attempted to play some blues but I can’t play blues, which is sad. Lately though, Tonz has been having this trenchant ambition of fronting a rock band. With the students' Open Mic Night scheduled for the last Thursday of the month, Tonz wanted me to strum Polly with the bass and him on vocals. I doubt I could even play Polly to an audience but after much deliberation we decided to redeem slip-ups with shit like “Cobain used piano wire on his guitar hence why this might have sucked”. But then I remember I’m off for the Radiohead gig on that day so yeah, that’s not gonna happen.

Instead, I’ve resurrected my guitar prowess or lack of; incessantly plucking the Pork and Beans catchy bass-line and vitiating Okkervil.

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

the domesticated sloth

Since I’ve not been doing much lately, I decided to expand my culinary repertoire to which no one in the house has yet agreed on as to whether is a good or bad thing. Cooking with unhindered creativity is awesome. Cooking with your mom or people who know how to cook is not. This is what I realized. Panif (housemate) and I cook, and Tonz (the other one) is our understudy. Poor guy.

We reckon that cooking is a stress reliever, not for the stomach as has been proved a few times, but the mind and other parts of the body. You get to use a different part of your brain.

Panif likes to eat healthy whereas Tonz prefers to fry burgers, cheese, curry from a can and the occasional doner kebab. Panif’s pretty slim for a 40-something dude, so I decided I too could do without too much of a pot.

I should write a book about all my recipes and research since this will infinitely benefit chumps who don’t know where to start. So this is it.

Tuna and baked beans curry.

Boil strands of wholemeal pasta in a pan. I used to break them in half before Panif told me not to. You just wait till they soften.

Chop half an onion and throw it into a pan covered with a layer of heated olive oil.
Throw in a can of chopped tomatoes.
Throw in a can of baked beans.
Throw in some mushrooms.
Throw in some herbs, chili powder from sl. Garlic powder, ginger powder, salt pinch, and soy sauce. – These are all the ingredients I have and it works.
Throw in a can of tuna and stir for 5 minutes.

Now wasn’t that easy?

Salmon steak and potatoes and veggies.

Veggies are a hassle so I get the frozen mixed bag.

Throw in the same ingredients I threw in before into a mixing bowl.
Add two (so you can keep one for the next day) salmon steaks into the bowl and mix being careful not to break them.
Place them on a foil and shove them into the oven for 45 minutes.

In the meantime, boil some small potatoes with their skins on (since this is nutritious and peeling sucks, but buy some quality shit). Oh, cut up the potatoes in half to make it quicker and smarter.
Cut up an onion in a manner that forms rings. Like onion rings without the crust.
Throw the onions into the heated olive oil in a pan and stir until they turn golden brown.

Boil some frozen veggies in a pan for around 3 minutes so as not to kill the nutrition.

After everything is done, top the potatoes with the onions. Add the salmon to the plate. Grab some bread.

There’s so much more to go and so little time. Until next time, don’t eat your heart out.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

but can you fake it, for just one more show?

So the Pumpkins released Zeitgeist. At least Corgan and Chamberlin did; I can’t keep up with the band’s issues. It bombed due to too much guitar overdubbing, which 'twas to be expected if they continued in the vein of Machina. But this meant they’d tour places. Not ‘diff, but London (O2 Arena) and Tony (the housemate) was up for it, which meant I really had no excuse. A good thing of course.

Hopefully they’d play a lotta shiz from Gish, Siamese Dream and Mellon Collie and maybe Pisces, but I doubt Pisces and [hopefully] the sentimentality won’t kill me.

Friday, February 01, 2008


My not-so-short stint at the hopole will be ending this month. Most likely. Things pretty much started going downhill when on new year’s eve, Ganja (moniker for weed-smoking pole), threw up, splashing puke in, on and around the commode on the second floor (my floor). He didn’t bother with the hassle of cleaning it up but merely shifted loos to the loo downstairs. Everyone did the same since the consensual agreement was that Ganja had to clean it up. But I couldn't handle going downstairs so I cleaned it somehow.

Just before I flew to Glasgow for Hogmanay with Darwin, an African-American moved in to the third floor. Ganja refers to him as Blackman, which once was overheard by Lye (his name) who then threatened to shove a knife up Ganja’s butt. Thus, Ganja attempted to form an alliance with Stefano and me implicating Blackman for stealing his Ketchup, using too much bandwidth (although Blackman didn’t have a computer) and drinking his Stella cans. I noticed some Virgin Olive oil and onions missing. But these were always being pilfered before Blackman moved in so I figured it to be the Ganja for he is unstable.

We occasionally have spats about who should replace the washing up liquid, which Ganja never did so we hid ours. So he resorted to using shower gel to wash dishes. Also in the post one day was an arrest warrant for a pole and Ganja keeps thinking my name is The Occupier. All these occurrings and Arnia leaving, were slowly filing into me, like a file on a short finger nail not stopping when it reaches the flesh; so I was relieved when a friend called me up and said there’s a room at his place with no poles in sight, except for his, at the wild parties he hosts. Gah. Nah, I’m playing.

I haven’t managed to find work of any kind. Even the retail stores refuse to take me, which I put down to underground racism. Stefano and I intend on proving this by switching names on our resumes (to Brit-sounding ones) and deleting qualifications. I should probably take Rob’s advice on career planning:

a) Split up with girl friend
b) Junk college
c) Go to work in record shop
d) Stay in record shops for the rest of life

Ahhh by far. The greatest job in the world. Ooh, I hear Stefano hollering. It’s packing time.

Saturday, November 24, 2007


You know that cooking in the hopole is gonna be different, bad different, when the gas grill is bracketed a little above the stove, inverted. The oven’s gas; so’s the stove and the dials don’t work too well. Needless to say, the kitchen is a fire hazard.

The dials are winding me up, heh – inadvertent pun. There’s a precise level of turn that I have begun to master, analogous to the clutch in a stick car. If I turn it up too much, the pan handle is quickly smothered in flames and if I turn it down too low, the flame entirely disappears with a *poof* sound. There was once one of those electric guns, which was found violated by a pole, and rendered useless. Without the gun, we had to settle for matchsticks. I like matches. When struck, the nascent scent of sulfur dioxide neutralizes the onion odour, which might be just me though.

So I decided to heat/bake a frozen pizza, which was mind-numbingly simple at the former student residence – a normal electric oven. Now, the temperature (200, 250, or 300 degrees) mentioned at the back of the product box, doesn’t matter anymore since this primeval oven’s got numbers ranging from 1 through till 9. It’s like I’ve gone back in time. So I place the pizza on a piece of baking paper for not want of any of the grease dripping from the oven trays, turn the dial to 9, strike the match and stick my hand inside down towards the notched area and *poof*. This poof although similar sounding is utterly different from the previous poof, which was onomatopoeic for a flame going out. This flame almost blew my hair off but actually began consuming the entire baking paper instead.

Suddenly a pole appeared. Being the helpful bastid that he is, he screamed “fire fire!”. I thought about dousing the flames with water but before I could react, the paper had burnt around the pizza leaving a thin-blackened-circumferential-crust stroke. The pole seemed a tad disappointed, shrugged, then left. Subsequent to this harrowing experience, I decided to try again. This time turning the dial to 2, taking it 45 minutes to bake. Sigh.

Hoping that the grill would be safer, I decided to grill some salmon some days after. The fire was towards the end so it kept burning the part of the fish closest to the flame. The flipping was becoming increasingly exasperating when I was suddenly struck by a bolt of oil onto the temple. A few swearing and head-holding minutes later, I tried to locate the source of the splattering oil and then it hit me. Again.

The fookin’ pole-vaulters had kept their greasy oil pans on top of the grill roof, which was now sweltering due to the grill flame. Could this be an elaborate maneuver to cook the slothster? I had a lot to ponder, but first, somehow get the pans off the grill roof without burning my head. I eked them out somehow. Then fished out the fish with a random rag since the poles don’t do oven mitts, forked a piece from the end, which was well done, then the centre, which was too rare. Gah.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

you're not the one for me

Life’s been on the slow lane ever since those frantic 1.5 weeks of dissertation chaos. Now, searching for employment in between the downings, music, movies and shows. Yup, now that I’ve moved from them draconic student residences, I have access to an ever-growing pool of suh-weet goodness. Such are the pros of living in a hopole. Entourage is excellent and Carnivale is freaky. Californication is awesome due to its X ratedness but quite meh as far as storylines go.

So just when I was about set to get into a rut, the mum pulls a blinder, for which I had to step outta my bubble to resolve. The brother covertly informs me of an undercover operation going down in sl orchestrated by the mum to arrange a marriage proposal for yours truly, slothy. Once I heard the news and went through the necessitated WTFs, I wanted to know why? Why I was not consulted. Well, I once okayed proposals for not want of any further discourse but not like this. Not like this.

Now this was crazy. Crazier that Jesus Camp, Darwin admitted. And that was pretty crazy. A newspaper advert in the personals section shamelessly plastering my awfully good looks and edification. Good thing the sl papers don’t do photos yet. The surreality didn’t stop there but continued onto random answerings to ads. Oh, the humanity! The morbidity was so overbearing, I was forced to question my very existence and the meaning of life; of which I wasn’t too concerned about finding an answer to just yet ‘cos me good old theTenant took-off on a small expedition to Nepal to do just that promising to fill me in on the essences of his probe.

I then threw a convulsive fit with little foaming during which I was succumbed into reminiscing a time when me and some poofters were having a go stereotyping the personals as - she is “fair”, “educated”, “rich” “tall”, “oh, the inanity of these women”. Did I feel remorse or regret? I still don’t. So I’ve never been in a relationship that the mum’s approved of and I’ve never really had any halfway decent long relationships and I don’t think I have the strength to forge a brand new tenuous relationship from scratch. So is the only option an arranged marriage? Propose to a friend, preferably female? Get someone to pose as my fake gf to buy time? Run off to the Himalayas? Or even something as far-fetched as waiting for my soul mate instead of settling?

Martin (English-speaking pole) offered me Polish Vodka shots as a token of appreciation for laying off Arnia. Like that’s gonna stop me! Ok, actually it did and it did help me float back to my bubble with nothing resolved really. Martin though doesn’t sound like he’s laid her yet due to his sporadic statements denouncing her intellectuality. The skinhead brother’s probably another obstacle.

I still need to get me one of them job things. Maybe the move to London in 08.