last night i started laying down tracks at 11 and i was done at 3 am.
we had to sleep on the floor of the stinky studio, the power went out in the studio so no a/c. and so many mosquitoes. lots and lots of mosquitoes.
some of my bandmates got up early this morning, i hate waking up. so i tried to squeeze as much sleep out of that stinky floor as i could. but then i dreamt that i’d shat my pants. a big poo-loaf, in my pants. and in my dream, right before the panic stricken hijinks are about to go down, i thought, “there is no way i can cover this up or deny this.” and decided it was best to get up, because i really didn’t want to know what happened next. and to be honest, wasn’t completely sure if it hadn’t actually happened in real life. (it hadn’t.)
indonesians are… well, very indonesian about recording. one major thing: no one turns their cellphones off. so you can ear that eht-eh-eh-eh-ehhhh-eh-ehhhht sound from a cell phone signal jamming speakers. *recorded* INTO the track.
and the way indonesians can just pass out when they want to, at any random time of day, anywhere, with whatever activity surrounding them, and then just get up and be fresh, will never fail to boggle my mind. currently, i have two dudes randomly sprawled by me. oop, there goes one, he was summoned and just got up. i don’t get it.
which brings to mind this: the whole “good sleep” being akin to “good health” is totally psychosocial. indonesians have the WORST sleep hygiene (sleep with the lights on, music blaring, sleep wherever) and they’re the merriest motherfuckers you could ever meet. i don’t understand. what kills them is hard work (no, i’m not being a jerk, calling indonesians lazy!) a guy last night was saying “i like football, but it scares me how all of the football players just… die.” i haven’t read up on any statistics on it or anything yet. but i guess the exertion just wears them out to failure way too quickly. which, i guess is why they like resting so damned much.
oh, here’s a valentine’s day story.
i was sitting at this cafe in bukittingi with b. who is about to leave padang panjang for good (not that she was really around all that much) for malaysia. this guy is sitting there with a cat on his lap, and she says “aw, she likes you.” i was like “dude, that cat is a male.” and she asked me how i knew, to which i replied, “because that cat has HUGE balls.” then the guy lifts up the cat’s leg and b. makes a kind of face like she’s stifling embarassed laughter, and the guy says “the cat has two big balls.” and then this: “he is a cat because he has two big balls. but if he has four balls…” right away i ask “what is it if it has four balls?” and in that earnest and educative way, he says “it’s a ghost, hantu.”
so there you go. a cat with four balls is not a cat. it’s a ghost. or like, a zombie-cat. so count them balls and be careful.