La Vie Est Belle

The Glass Palace

2010-06-13T21:14:00.002+08:00

The Glass Palace, by Amitav Ghosh, is the epic story of three generations of Indo-Burmese and Malaysian families, beginning with the fall of Mandalay to the British and ending with a powerful but rather simplistic image of Aung San Suu Kyi as a symbol of hope for future Burma. Ghosh’s evocation of King Thebaw and Queen Supayalat’s exile in India and his rendering of intimate relationships among lovers, husbands and wives, and families definitely pulls the old heart-strings, but lacks complexity. The book was compelling, however, as it filled many gaps in my knowledge of Indo-Burmese history.

Ghosh’s research must have been epic, and most of his knowledge is seamlessly woven into his narrative. Accompanied by the botanical relatives of teak, the work habits of elephants, and the horrible ravages of anthrax, we enter the world of colonial Burma with her rich mix of ethnicities and slow-growing tensions. It is wonderful to watch how Rajkumar, the lead character travels to India and finds his beloved, the beautiful, controlled Dolly. But when it comes to love relationships, the novel is shamelessly romantic; even the most misty-eyed reader will get tired of too many "she was the-most-beautiful/attractive/breathtaking woman he had ever seen" lines.

As the novel crosses more territory, stretches across yet another decade, it grows thin, until the seams are as visible as the author’s hand, moving his people about like chess pieces. Sometimes we can believe these manipulations; other times we cannot. For example, Dolly would surely have let Rajkumar know when she found their disappeared second son back in Burma, still alive. But the last part of the book is built on the precarious platform of his continued absence, and his niece’s inspired search for him, in her own journey to Burma and an entirely different kind of glass palace. There are other similar narrative problems that weaken the novel.

Even as I write about the novel’s weaknesses, I feel compelled to repeat how much I liked the book. For example, the last scene of the novel is a monument to that strange human complexity that was missing in so many other places. I would wish Amitav Ghosh to sit in the heart of the manuscript for two or three more years, rewriting, reliving, fermenting in his own characters’ lives, perfecting the details in this work of broad and ambitious movement. Then he would have his own glass palace, an utterly brilliant work of literature.

Ageing and Maturing

2010-06-12T21:26:00.000+08:00

The two year anniversay of Barack Obama's presidency left me in a state of shredded despair. Not because of anything he accomplished, but because I'd just discovered he's younger than my father. The age difference rankles me ever since that faithful November presidential victory. In my head, senior politicians are supposed to be older than my parents – for ever. At 49, Obama feels too young for the world of politics.

Age has been a lingering obsession of mine since I left my teens. However old I've been is too old. At 16, I felt totally washed up. At 20, I regretted wasting time worrying about my age as a 16-year-old, because now I was convinced I really was totally washed up. At 26, I look back at my 20-year-old self and regret that he wasted time with those regrets about wasted time. Then I regret wasting my current time regretting regrets about regrets. This is pretty sophisticated regretting I'm doing.

That's the sole advantage of ageing: I can now effortlessly consolidate my regrets into one manageable block of misery. Otherwise, by the age of 50, I'd need complex database software just to keep track of precisely how many things I'm regretting at once.

Age is an odd thing. At every point in my life I've regarded those both above and below me on the age ladder with unwarranted contempt. Anyone younger was a barking idiot; anyone older, a walking artefact. But rather than mellowing into acceptance as I ascend the ladder, my distaste for both groups sharpens into bitter focus. The young ones are even more idiotic because they don't appreciate how short-lived their youth will be; while the old ones are now a horrifying vision of a steadily approaching future.

On a rational level, I know there's nothing wrong with ageing. If anything, it should be taken as a sign of continued success. Congratulations! You haven't dropped dead yet. But that doesn't stop me seeing each individual grey hair as a tiny shoot of failure. Like millions of us, I've been inculcated into believing the ageing process some how reeks of indignity. I've been conditioned to view everything from the point of view of a twenty-something. My head is still subconsciously stucked at the bottom of the age ladder while my body climbs toward the top in reality.

When you're young, anyone a decade older or more can be tragically unaware of their own crashing irrelevance. They're either hopelessly out-of-touch (LOL! He's never heard of Lady Gaga!), embarrassingly immature (Ugh! He listens to Lady Gaga!) or hovering awkwardly in-between (Pff! He uses Lady Gaga as a catch-all reference for youth!). At the same time, you somehow believe that when – if – you ever age, you'll be wiser and less embarrassing.

The good news is that when you get there, you are wiser – albeit only slightly. Chances are you're still flailing around, just as clueless as the ones you ridiculed before. Slightly more terrified at what the world might have in store, but slightly more confident in your ability to pilot a way through. And the only real wisdom you've gained is a fresh understanding of just how ignorant and arrogant you were in the past: a realisation that the joke was ultimately on you. Pointing and laughing at your own destiny is futile. The harder you sneer at the old, the more uncomfortable you feel when you age.

And unless you die, you will age. Age and age and age, to a previously unimaginable degree, to the farthest reaches of "age space" and beyond. To the point where, one day, the leader of the free world is younger than you. At which point you will experience epiphany, eventually liberated and finally start to grow up and get on with it.

Password Blues

2010-05-05T07:58:00.003+08:00

In days of yore, we're told, people had less leisure time because everything – everything – was a protracted pain in basically everyway. Want a bath? Then you'll have to walk six miles carrying a pail of water back from the village well. No wonder the people in medieval time look so miserable, even when they aren't being pillaged ruthlessly or dropping dead in a flurry of nameless diseases. And oh how we modernites love to chortle at their unsophisticated lives.

But in many ways, the rustic serf of yesteryear had a better quality of life than their counterparts of 2010. Computers have freed us from hours of drudgery with one hand, but introduced an equal amount of slightly different drudgery with the other. No matter how advanced civilisation becomes, there's a lurking menace at the core that can never be completely eradicated.

These days it's commonplace to do everything online, from ordering grocery to locating a long lost friend who may or may not be a homicidal freak at large. Tasks that would have taken years to organise and achieve can now be accomplished in the blink of an icon.

Or would be, if you could remember your password.

In this age of rampant identity theft, we're told only a maniac would use the same password for everything. But passwords used to be for seedy bar owners or elaborate spy missions. Once upon a time, you were not supposed to commit hundreds of passwords to memory. Now you are.

In the meantime: you need a new password. Having demanded a brand new password from you for the 28th time this month, His Lordship Your Computer haughtily dismishes your efforts. Certain attempts he will disqualify immediately, without even passing judgment. Less than six letters? No numbers? Access denied. So start again. And this time: no recognisable words. No punctuation marks. No hesitation, deviation or repetition. Go.

Suppose you glance around your desk and pick the first thing you set eyes on, such as a paper clip. You begrudgingly shove a number on the end, creating the password "paperclip1". You submit this offering to the Digital Emperor, and he derides it as "Weak". So you try again. This time you replace some of the letters with numbers and jumble the capitalisation a bit, like a gymnast trying to jazz up performance to impress the panel judges. The Computerlord vaguely acknowldged the effort and jumped a grade to "OK".

Access granted. You are now a proud member of an online banking service.

Three weeks later, you revisit the site to proceed with an online transaction. But you can't remember your password. You can't remember it because you chose it so very long, long ago. And in the intervening period you've had to dream up another 10 passwords for another 10 websites, programs or email addresses.

Your beautiful password is dead. It was simply too complex and exquisite to live in your lifeless world, your bleak brain. Now brave the ignominy of clicking the password reset button and as you trudge toward your inbox, waiting for help to arrive, the cruel laughter of The Computer rings in your ears.

You have failed, human. You have failed.

Too Much Stuff

2010-04-20T10:41:00.001+08:00

I'm fairly certain I recently passed a rather pathetic tipping point, and now own more unread books and unwatched DVDs than my remaining lifespan will be able to sustain. I can't possibly read all these pages, watch all these movies, before the grim reaper comes knocking. The bastard things are going to outlive me.

It's not fair. They can't even breathe.

The other day I went on a spree in a book warehouse sale: by all accounts, one of the best experience ever. On my way home, it dawned on me that I have purchased more than 20 books. The sheer weight of commitment is daunting. So they sit on the shelf, beside similarly unwrapped and unwatched obelisks, gradually turning into wall insulation. I'm not buying these things for myself any more. I'm hoarding them for future generations.

Clearly, some sort of cull is in order. It's me or them. I pick them. My options need limiting. Isn't it nice just to hop on a time machine and be stranded in the 1970s, with no internet, no DVDs or videos, and only three channels on the TV. Is it me or the limited options looked blissful: You couldn't lose yourself online; you had to read a book, go for a walk; or in extreme circumstances, strike up a conversation with a fellow human being.

But it wasn't just the limitations of the media themselves that appealed. This was 30 years ago. Fewer things had been created for them. Every day we humans gleefully churn out yet more books and films and TV shows and videogames and websites and magazine articles and blog posts and emails and text messages, all of it hanging around, competing for attention. Without leaving my seat I can access virtually any piece of music ever recorded, download any film ever made, order any book ever written. And the end result is that I hardly experience any of it. It's too much. I've had it with choice. It makes my head spin.

Here's what I want: I want to be told what to read, watch and listen to. I want my hands tied. I want a cultural diet. I want a government employee to turn up on my doorstep once a month, carrying a single book for me to read. I want all my TV channels removed and replaced by a single network delivering a movie a day. If I don't watch it, it gets replaced by the following day's selection. I want all my MP3s deleted and replaced with one unskippable radio station playing one song after the other.

In short: I've tried more. It's awful. I want less, and I want it now.

Home Sweet Home

2010-04-09T08:48:00.002+08:00

Try asking new acquaintance the question "where are you from?", as most do over social occasion, and the mobility of our lives cannot be anymore clearer. I was born in X, my parents moved, I grew up in Y and I now live in Z.

How do you decide where home is? Is it where you were born or where you grew up or where you now live? Most people can trace a zig-zag across their country through several generations. Interestingly, most of us don't mourn this rootlessness; we accept it unquestioningly as a fact of life. The privileged middle classes often construct lives which are hyper-mobile: commuting long distances, living in several places at the same time with second homes abroad and metropolitan pit stops with no engagement in the local community at all.

Home has become instrumentalised: those who can choose, live where there are jobs, where the house prices were right or the schools are good. But it leaves questions of belonging adrift. Does that matter? There's a middle-class mindset that stoutly proclaims a cosmopolitanism that "we're all citizens of the world". We've all been dazzled by an era of cheap, easy travel and it's made us greedy to see more and more places. We want novelty, not familiarity in a place; travel writing – with its self-aggrandising tales of adventure and discovery – has boomed. There's been a widespread assumption that in an age of mass tourism and mass migration, a sense of belonging is a concept which has passed its sell-by date.

But I think that is beginning to change, and different political and cultural agendas are feeding into a re-focusing on the geography of our lives. Environmentalism is also driving this re-engagement with place; in most future scenarios we have been forced to wean ourselves from our passion for mobility.

This is not just about pragmatism, but a belief that it is in understanding a place that you begin to grasp the limits of its natural resources. Do you know where your drinking water comes from or what happens to water after it disappears down the wash basin? It is intimacy with a place which prompts responsibility to sustain it. Our giddy mobility, which ensures that many people only ever see the countryside at 120 km/hour from a car window, is part cause of the wilful degradation of the environment.

And there is a political imperative driving this agenda. Of all the memberships we identify ourselves by, the one thing that is most forgotten is place; place can be a rallying point, a way to share commitment, a form of identity.

These explanations of home are not exclusive or essentialist, they do not fit into narrow definitions of belonging by birth, nor are they trapped in the rural mythologies. They express an attitude to the places we live which are not romanticised, and are certainly not a finished product determined by history.

Rather, the politics of home is an ongoing project, something that has to be constantly renewed and recreated; belonging is about shared commitment, as relevant, I discovered, on the fishing village where my dad grew up, as on the Klang suburb where I live now, and the busy city of Kuala Lumpur where I work.

A Thousand Years of Good Prayer

2010-03-17T13:27:00.004+08:00

In Yiyun Li's accomplished first story collection, she offers a subtle and original perspective on the vicissitudes of China's turbulent history: its quiet revolution from an inefficient Marxist dictatorship into one of the world's fastest growing economies. Many of the stories in "A Thousand Years of Good Prayers" are valuable firsthand guides to an era of mind-bending change.

These short stories are about making sense of political oppression and economic liberation of the awakened dragon with the necessary shifts and adjustments. All of her characters have to reconcile the past, which were fraught with historical burden, with the precarious present so as to craft a future.

Several stories explore the yawning chasm of wealth distribution in the new China and the subsequent hypocrisy to look at life through rose-tinted glasses. In "Extra," Granny Lin is "honorably retired"; she can hardly believe her luck when she finds a job at a new private boarding school: "Every meal is a banquet . . . Everything is produced by a small organic farm that serves the president and the premier and their families."

Li accomplishes more than canvassing the humanity behind the Communist iron curtain. Her compassion in her prose presents us a compelling case that dispel the stereotype we generally think of when "People Republic of China" comes to mind; and, in the process, reveals to us its fair share of manifold traits and vibrant citizens--just like any other society in revolution. China's traumatic 20th-century history--in parts or as a whole--becomes the backbone of her short stories. "Immortality," the most extensive--in terms of time frame and scope--story in the collection, guides us through a dizzying ride, fraught with grievances and discontent, from the end of the feudal empire, the endless wars and cultural revolutions.

Li's writing style occasionally try to drown us under the deluge of information, as if the her earnestness in explaining the country she knows short-circuited the part of the brain in charge of aesthetics. Luckily, for the most part, her sensitivity, combined with her penchant in subtle nuances, saves her stories from turning into empathy-evoking tearjerker.

Though idealism and romanticism are nowhere to be found in her characters who soldier on, somewhat invariably, in their stoical solitude, but as readers we can pity their predicaments and admire their refusal in allowing their lives to be oversimplified.

Sullied Sportsmen

2010-03-13T08:34:00.000+08:00

My personal experience of sport consists only of “games” at school — specifically football, an astonishingly vicious game that in America is played by beefy men wearing helmets and shoulder pads. In a different definition of a game, you are only allowed t-shirt and shorts to shield yourself from an incredibly hard ball, kicked with great force and travelling at great speed. Good times.

Even with this especially spartan old-school introduction to the agony of running about on a muddy pitch, I always think that, at its best, sport is about the human body doing something transcendentally brilliant, something amazingly skilful and disciplined, something occasionally breathtakingly beautiful — and in so doing bringing enormous joy to the people watching, whether they’re proud parents or a crowd of millions. It’s not about who does what to whom in a hotel bedroom or how much their wife’s hair extensions and veneers cost. Or at least it shouldn’t be.

Alas. Think “sportsman” and last week — there’ll be another story along in a minute — you think Ashley Cole, freshly dumped by Cheryl Tweedy for philandering. Or John Terry, former England captain, not dumped by his wife for philandering. Or Tiger Wood with his squeaky clean image crumbling down with the revelation of his particular fetish with blond bombshell.

Personally I am of the unfashionable opinion that what people do with their genitals is nobody’s business but their own. This applies to anyone, in my view, whether they are in or out of the public eye and whether they’re Bill Clinton or Tiger Wood. I just can’t bear the prurience, which has nothing to do with anything that matters to the public, such as running the world’s last remaining superpower or being the no. 1 golfer.

I don’t understand why being good at something means you automatically have to be a moral exemplar. Why? Whose stupid idea was that? Do young boys who audition for football teams or aspire to be the best in a game have to proclaim they are morally immaculate? Of course not: it’s not Pope Idol.

It’s quite a big ask, isn’t it, of anyone in the public eye, and yet we take it for granted that some poor bloke who has been anointed a “role model” through no fault of their own must always behave as a model of moral rectitude. For the vast majority of us, that would involve a personality transplant. Why assume that some boy who’s really good at running and kicking a ball is going to be any different? And since most ordinary men — regrettably — don’t subscribe to the idealism of monogamy, why assume that footballers would be the exception?

I find what’s happened to football extraordinary. I was acquainted with a bunch of coursemates who are obsessed with football. When they were bragging about their favourite teams, this was to do with the joys of scoring a goal and, by extension, about teamwork, camaraderie and the pleasure that came from watching their team win. They seldom associated their pride with their football team with money or glamour: if David Beckham was going to marry one of the Spice Girls, well — they would not suddenly switch allegiance to another rival club.

Over the years, the sport has evolved to the point where the actual playing, while still obviously thrilling, has become permanently overshadowed by the salacious gossip and the fabulously vulgar displays of ostentation.

It is pointless mourning the fact that footballers have become huge media celebrities, albeit for all the wrong reasons. But this latest spate of scandals is nevertheless properly sad — not because of the pity of the spouse and children of the sport celebrity in question, but because all of this stuff does detract from the game for the people who love it.

I have a cousin, who is 17, really loves football, passionately. But he reads the sports pages and looks slightly ashamed; he reads the front pages of the tabloids and looks uncomprehending. They’ve debased something he loves.

I don’t blame the players for being flawed people and I don’t blame the media for being so endlessly thirsty for this kind of content. The public gets what the public wants — always, so it can feel all deliciously schadenfreude— and the public, apparently, wants to hear about who was in a sex scandal or paid for abortion.

And, just like that, for one 17-year-old boy at least, the game isn’t very beautiful any more.

On Chesil Beach

2010-03-01T14:38:00.002+08:00

Ian McEwan's story begins in a cultural vacuum between repression and liberation. It is 1962 and newly weds--Edward Mayhew and Florence Ponting--are just about to consummate their marriage at the age of 22.

"They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible."

With these introductory sentence, a love story and its accompanying tragedy of a lovely couple are unfurled against the backdrop of a tumultuous opening to a promising new decade, as the reticent ethos of a bygone era pretty much haunts the present.

The honeymoon is to take place beside Chesil Beach. The beach, a unique shingle structure, seems like a metaphor to the themes: of certainty clashes with the unknown menace beyond; of the path that they have just embarked as a married couples; of a romance that is wedged between the ingrained righteousness and the approaching tsunami of sexual liberation.

McEwan is pitch-perfect at tackling the awkward politeness of this relationship and, as a climax, turning it into something far more disturbing. Edward is flummoxed by her reticence in intimacy; Florence is revulsed by his advances. Both view the shortcomings as an affliction or curse with no remedy. McEwan's exquisite prose effortlessly waxes lyrical about the insignificant moments in the novel - the meal, the clumsy fumbling towards sex and the climax on the beach, which interweave gracefully without loosing any of its consistency.

The narrative backtracks with the protagonists' upbringing and their chance encounter. We begin to relate the tangible conventions of their backgrounds to their characteristics. It all make sense now: Edward's bucolic childhood is upset by an accident sustained by his mother that leaves her mentally challenged; Florence is suffocated in her family, overwhelmed by parental expectation. The implications of the tragedy and trauma reverberate violently in the narrative.

There is a fairy-tale quality to the book, in that everything that follows seems inevitable. The genuinely heartrending aftermath of the newlyweds’ disastrous night manage to evoke our sympathies, which won't settle even after finish reading it.

The Wilderness

2010-02-24T15:37:00.001+08:00

When I was growing up, our house backed onto an oil palm plantation, a systematically developed commercial agricultural compound replacing the once-verdant wilderness. They were tame as can be, our woods, and yet at night they still haunted our sleeps with unfathomable shadows, creepy whisper and occasional glimmer of mysterious sources. Year in and year out, they proudly stood and seemed to absorb, to swallow whole, all the monotony and ennui of your body and your world. Scary things could still be imagined to take place in those woods. It was the refuge into which my brothers and I fled after our mischievous endevour had been brought to the notice of my martinetish mother.

A minor but undeniable aura of heroism and nationalism was attached to the history of Klang, my hometown: a civil war broke out to claim the tax-collection rights of the strategic port and large tin deposit. When my childhood friends and I went out into those woods behind our house, we could feel all that history, those skirmishes between the warring factions, those forgiven warriors. You could work it into your games, your imaginings, your flights from the never-ending schoolwork.

My friends and I spent hours there, pretended that we were the despotic rulers, triad leaders and mine workers who had coloured up the narrative of our hometown. I could lose myself for hours on creeks and bushes: trapping and dissecting assorted organisms (I swear in the name of science) and simply staring out into the shifting clouds.

There's some reasons behind my childhood obsession with wilderness exploration. Historical epic, heroic tale and adventurous tale accompanied me in the childhood, from "The Romance of the Three Kingdoms" to "Journey To The West", come furnished with a map. That's because every story of adventure is in part the story of a landscape, of the interrelationship between human beings (or mischievous monkey and prurient pig, as the case may be) and topography. Every adventure story is conceivable only with reference to the particular set of geographical features that in each case sets the course, literally, of the tale.

But I think there is another, deeper reason for the reliable presence of maps in the pages, or on the book sleeves, of an adventure story, regardless of which genre it belongs. We relate to the idea of innate wanderlust; the notion of seeking in an arduous adventure the kind of heroism and danger, in terra incognita--that he or she could never hope to find in life.

Though much has changed over the years.

The helmeting and monitoring and the corralling of children into certified zones of safety have stifled the freedom of the young ones. All thanks to the efforts of helicopter parents and the generally increased consciousness of safety and danger.

But the primary reason for this curtailing of adventure, this closing off of wilderness, is the increased anxiety we all feel over the abduction of children by strangers; we fear the wolves in the wilderness. What is the impact of the closing down of the wilderness on the development of children's imaginations? This is what I worry about the most. I grew up with a freedom, a liberty that now seems breathtaking and almost impossible.

Art is a form of exploration, of sailing off into the unknown alone, heading for those unmarked places on the map. If children are not permitted or taught to be adventurers and explorers as children, what will become of the world of adventure, of stories, of literature itself?

Adulthood Redefined

2010-02-08T17:52:00.006+08:00

There's a delectable symmetry between "Ally Mcbeal," that late 1990s paean to feminist disquietude and solipsism manifestation, and "Mad Men", the irresistable swanky memento of 1960s cultural revolution. Despite belonging to two distinct genres, the programs do have a few eerie commonalities.

For starters, they imparted a specific aesthetics related to a milieu foreign to the common folks. While the life lessons and idiosyncratic protagonists seem diametrically opposed in many ways -- "Mad Men," set in early 1960s New York, before she was drowned in the countercultural revolution, whereas "Ally Mcbeal," set in Boston, tracked the anxiety and vulnerability of single women -- they are ultimately about something even more universal than culture and feminism: What it means to be an adult.

"Ally Mcbeal" featured the Fish and Cage Law Firm, helmed with Ivy League arrogance by Richard Fish and his best friend. Compared to "Mad Men's" Madison Avenue firm Sterling Cooper, we actually can spot the similiar tension. TV advertisement executives then and lawyers now struggle incessantly with the gulf between reality and aspiration, the characters' actual lives and those they envision for themselves.

I was in secondary school when "Ally Mcbeal" premiered and was hardly its target audience. But I found it mesmerizing and oddly inspiring. Even though TV was filled with adults -- politicians on "The West Wing", mafia on "The Sopranos" -- "Ally Mcbeal" was the first program whose main subject seemed to be adulthood itself. Such joy to revel in the characters' self-conscious pop culture references and witty one-liners.

A decade gone, I'm 26, still I cannot relate to "Ally Mcbeal" characters. From having fashionable clothes and spacious homes to lavish wedding and painful divorce are the barometers for maturity, people on TV dictate adulthood effortlessly every time. That isn't the whole explanation; the concept of adulthood really is subjective, not to mention relative. As much as Ally and Billy still make me feel like a teenager, I'm an infant compared to world-weary Don Draper on "Mad Men." The guy acts like he's in his 50s, but he's supposed to be 36.

Adulthood isn't an objective truth. It isn't even -- as many might argue -- a state of mind. It's an idea sold on TV season to season. And once you get it home, it never looks quite like it did in the ad.

The Yiddish Policemen's Union

2010-01-25T16:48:00.002+08:00

From the first few pages of “The Yiddish Policemen's Union,” it was clear that Michael Chabon was an immensely gifted writer and a magical prose stylist. He has the ability to do wonderful things with words, to conjure everything from the banalities of daily life to the most bizarre of melodrama.

Mr. Chabon’s latest novel, “The Yiddish Policemen’s Union,” successfully creates a completely fictional world so persuasively detailed, as it gives the reader a gripping murder mystery and an appealing yet psychologically flawed detective hero. Though the ultimate secret behind the murder that kick-starts the story involves a religious-political scheme that tips over clumsily into surreal satire, the remainder of the book is so tediously constructed that the reader, absorbed in the plight of Mr. Chabon’s shambling hero, really doesn’t mind.

It’s fortunate that the novel’s prose is so untrammeled because murder-mystery plotting can be a deterrent to development of the universal theme and overall tone of the narrative. In just another temporary homeland and farther than ever from the one originally promised, the writer reimagines how Israeli diaspora would triumph in the US. But it soon becomes clear that Sitka’s very remoteness, its impossible distance from the redemption and fulfillment, suits the protagonist, Detective Landsman, the alcoholic homicide-cop hero.

More important, Mr. Chabon has so thoroughly conjured the fictional world of Sitka — its history, culture, geography, its political and sectarian divisions — that no discernible difference can be thought of between the Alaskan town and the actual Israel. By the end of the book, we feel we know this chilly place in the same way we feel we have come to know Meyer Landsman: the cynical cornerstone of secularism against the tyranny of fundamentalism.

Moving On

2010-01-11T10:43:00.001+08:00

And so, following on from the retrenchment awhile back, I have no choice but brave the job market to land a new job, given the fact that my company is technically on the throe of an ungraceful end following the unsuccessful projects in middle east and failure to secure new projects. Though not considered to join the swelling ranks of the unemployed and became part of the statistics of the economic crunch for I was employed on a temporary contract, I decided to start looking for a job anyway.

The job hunt was not mind-bendingly torturous, as one can infer from countless horror tales of securing full time employment; nor did it involve long winding queue in the company of whippersnappers, who recently graduated, to fill the limited vacancy. Thanks to the network of contacts and also my corporate affairs head, I managed to land the job with less hassle than expected.

After the easy bit on job-hunting, here came the handing-over.

In the tradition of basic interaction and communication ethics, there are several ways to mark the occasion. You get the pat on the back, the thanks for the memories and the “you are going to be fine because you are young and sky is the limit” signature platitudes while the door closes behind you. Not forgetting the tedious handover of the tasks on your hand and the clearing of your workstation; time to dump the constipated workload piled up in the in tray to someone else.

Sure brought back fond memories while picking through the accumulating jetsam and flotsam on the different corners of document tray and file cabinet. Even ran into a thriving colony of rats living a precarious existence on half-eaten snacks scattered along the neglected corner of the office. (Yes, my office is that dilapitated. Don't ask me why)

When economy is tough, thus the purse string is tight. Hence no extravagant go-away party, pats of reasssurance and kitschy gifts. There are more causes worthy of attention like finishing the stalled project, realigning the remaining resources and negotiating the next extension of time.

So amidst the light packing, comes a heavy realisation. Departure of one company and arrival at another is usually defined as reaching a pit stop, but of course it’s more than that, it’s the moment when you have shed enough of where you came from to be present at the place you’ve reached.

This offloading of layers takes time, like peeling an onion: it may irritate the eyes momentarily, but still a worthy price to pay to savour the juicy reward.

Child 44

2010-01-08T09:22:00.001+08:00

On Page 275 of his tightly woven debut novel, “Child 44,” Tom Rob Smith reveals what the title means. The moment is a shocker — but its full effects can be felt only if you’ve read the 274 pages that precede it. This book is much too densely, ingeniously plotted for its secrets to be accessible via shortcut.

The idea of a Child 44 makes sense only when playing by Mr. Smith’s elaborate, period-piece rules. Most of his story is set in 1953 amid a Stalinist-Orwellian nightmare, which led to Mr. Smith’s most marketably perverse angle: It is not morally possible for Leo to contemplate that violent crime should ever visit his beloved country. He put too much faith to communism that he firmly believes that crime only belongs to the western capitalist decadence. In a worker’s paradise only political-thought crimes matter.

Here are some pro forma book-group discussion questions about “Child 44,” since it is looking like an upcoming big screen thriller: Will Leo question his blind loyalty to Stalinist Russia? Will he decide that crime can happen anywhere because it is part of human nature? Will his life be at risk when he begins to question authority? Will his indifferent marriage to Raisa be strengthened or weakened as Leo becomes his own man? Will there be anything sexy about Raisa’s realization that she is not married to a ruthless automaton?

Sooner or later, though, Mr. Smith must reveal what has been at the heart of all the life-changing events in this story. And its denouement feels surprisingly superficial. Motivation counts for nothing among the book’s characters; it’s just an excuse for the author to put them through the elaborate paces of a far-flung chase through Russia.

If there’s one single development in “Child 44” that has the most lingering effect, it is Leo’s choice at the end of the story. What will he do next? He needs a new career. Suffice it to say that Stalin has died during the course of the story, that Leo has traveled far and wide, that Moscow now looks like a good home base. Expect to see him again, jaded yet indefatigable, figuring out what evil lurks in the dark heart of his chosen city.

Detour To Vanity II : Sauna Meltdown

2009-12-19T13:40:00.000+08:00

My first experience with steam and sauna bath last Sunday at a gym reminded me of my phobia of scary movies. Sitting in an enclosed space with a high temperature brought to mind the first death scene in Final Destination 3, where the two bimbos were trapped in the tanning booths and their bronze-up session turned into barbeque feast. Imagine the horror when I started to connect the dots: what if the door lock was faulty or I fainted when I was all alone?

This is what happen when scary movie no longer involve gung-ho intrepid heroine aimlessly flashing her light down the eerie hall to locate whoever, that just maimed and devoured all of her companions, instead of running the other way around.

Which brings me to the latest craze in the genre, "Coming Soon". Really? Literally re-enacting the very same scenes in the horror movie you just saw? You might as well subject me to the 1 hour and 25 minutes of waterboarding, or better yet throw me into a pen of Mexican pigs and get it over with.

Of course, the steam and sauna bath also reminded me of the the way they traditionally depicted the facilities as a perfect setup for tête-à-tête on the screen, both big and small.

Capo and consigliere would engage in braggadocio regarding the latest hit on their foe. Avaricious financiers would swindle money from prospect victim in their Ponzi scheme. Praetorian politicians would initiate their latest round of contemptible depredation on democracy and liberty with skulduggery and such. Uppity suburban housewives would trade gossips and beauty tips.

The possiblitiy is endless when you put two people in an enclosed space with a high temperature, it seems the heat temporarily haywires the rational part of the brain.

And all of these make me question the authenticity of the scenes. How on earth can they can act so natural, let alone chat gleefully over cocktails. Not only it is way too uncomfortable to have a meaningful conversation with the profusion of sweat, it is so hard to breath in there.

Damn, what is so relaxing about sauna?

Detour To Vanity

2009-12-12T15:01:00.001+08:00

Doesn't really matter if you're a filthy rich, extremely influential talk show host, or Abercrombie & Fitch sales assistant, there's no escaping the tyranny of beauty. Like it or not, we only stand a better chance to prosper if we have the look and the body, as shown by numerous studies.

The whole concept of taking care of how you look never seemed to take hold of me.

If there is a mythological opposite of Narcissisus, I think I pretty much qualify to fall into that category. Fat chance you will find me drowning in my beautiful reflection; more possibly I would writhe uncomfortably in my own skin, and envy the paragon of pulchritude in solitude.

Sooner or later, I need to give in to the judgmental society; so I guess sooner better than later.

It surprised me that I would be tempted to take a detour to vanity. I hit the gym thanks to the promotion the folks at Fitness First are having: members can bring a guest at weekends. Since my father is a member, and eager to escape the sultry heat with nary a drop of rain, I tagged along--just before the creeping ennui drove me insane on a lazy Sunday afternoon. For the sake of my peace, I gave in to the exhaustive pleas of my mother to loose weight, before the curse of the inheritance (cardiovascular disease) shall fall upon me on the cold operating theatre, at the mercy of the surgeon and the scalpel in the dreaded coronary artery bypass.

Felt a little apprehensive about geting pass the the haughty glance of the front desk clerk and the demeaning automatic barrier, not to mention the cruel stare of the towering gym bot. It's one thing to get pass the security to get inside; quite another to muster up the courage to face up my insecurity once inside, little niggling doubts and fears that I try to bury deep inside hoping no one sees suddenly would be magnified for all and sundry to scrutinise.

First thing I noticed once I enter the gym is its sterile environment. Everywhere you turn, there seems to be layer of latent disinfectant. There is virtually no trace of sweat on the treadmill, dumb-bell and locker. Another prominent feature is the patented clinical approach to working out: time-keeping, distance-measuring and calorie-burning-tracking are meticulously displayed right in front of you, reminding you the effort you put in.

While on the treadmill, I started to think about the endless debate regarding beauty and perfection.

The arguement always stress that size-zero models should be banned; now I feel it is rather pointless. I don't think that our issues with our bodies are because of skinny models or virile hunks; rather that the latter is a result of our desire to be beautiful and perfect, a desire that homo sapien have had.

We have always been obsessed with body issue. When I hear a person says he is happy with his body, I don't think: "That's nice." I just think: "What's wrong with you? Are you mad?" I dread the day I am asolutely satisfied with the way I look, because what then? How on earth will I fill my days? Perfection is all well and good, but what do you strive for afterwards?

It's the height of hubris and arrogance, today's presumption that if we just work hard enough at it, we can overcome our human frailty, defeat our own mortality. I think perhaps the answer to it all lies not in the attainment of perfection, but in the pursuit of it. Like most of life's great quests, it can only end in failure. But the struggle may be reward in itself.

Or perhaps we should just accept that it's normal to be unhappy with our bodies, instead of feeling guilty about it. That seems good enough for me.

A Little Dose of Mcbealism

2009-11-22T13:33:00.000+08:00

It was the end of 1990s.

In those times, still a few years shy of tertiary education and working life: part of me wanted to enjoy adolescence; while part of me wanted to be a grown-up already. Life-planning woes; career angst; mortgage headache; procreation anxiety: all these rites of passage seemed so far away; yet I frantically scanned for adults, in flesh or fictional, for a preludial peek into adulthood.

Then along came David E. Kelley’s hour-long comedy “Ally Mcbeal”. It was about a group of lawyers: all attractive and fearless, all embodiying the essence of adulthood. For me, pretty much everything about the show — the notorious short skirt; the setting in gritty Boston cityscape; the steaming cups of coffees on their hands; the hilarious unisex restroom scenes — did not compute for me; still, I was hooked on the comedic antics and Mcbealism quotes.

So it was not really a show I watched, but one I tried to study curiously, the way a boy peers into his dad’s shaving implements or the giggle the girl gives out while putting on her mom's makeup. I saw old people fighting, crying, hugging, kissing, but mostly just talking. All the adult talk started to take on instructional-video magnitude for me. Like school, “Ally Mcbeal” felt urgently essential and yet confusing, and every week I tuned in hoping to learn how to talk the adult talk and maybe soon walk the adult walk.

The first season, which I watched again recently, was about what I expected: relationship problems, friendship crises, endless breakups, rekindled affairs, co-worker crushes — all the dreams/nightmares punctuated by adulthood. During the second viewing, this show that once got its target demography hooked left me in a stew of mixed emotions: it is true, it is real, it is me, it is not me, it is horrible, and I love it.

In this second-chance viewing inching closer to the same age as the characters, I am amazed and inspired by all the everything-in-between, all the ambivalence and the stagnation. At times, the camera lingers too long on the expressions of a frustrated Ally or an enthusiastic Richard or a dejected Elaine, and those are the looks no one shows you in real life much anymore, much less on television. Its devotion to everyday details and all the microcosms of triumph and frustration turns itself into the real reality TV, every bit as boring and dazzling as the real “real life.”

Ultimately what “Ally Mcbeal” was obssessed with is that bittersweet moment when youthful rebellion runs headlong into the responsibilities, pains and joys of adulthood. Whether the quirky comedy manage to send the correct moral story, that predicament properly explored never quite gets old.

Hung

2009-11-09T09:58:00.003+08:00

The title of the new HBO series “Hung” isn’t meant to be a double entendre of the kind that induces snickers—it’s straightforward slang, a reference to the physical endowments of the show’s main character, Ray Drecker (Thomas Jane). But the word, despite what it implies about size, also denotes deflation and death. That meaning fits Ray, too: he is a history teacher and basketball coach at the same high school in suburban Detroit where he was a star athlete twenty-five years ago. When his bungalow is burnt down, he’s pushed even closer to the edge—his finances force him to live in a tent in his yard.

It’s no coincidence that “Hung” is set in the capital city of mistakes and their consequences—Ray’s spirit reflects the hopelessness around him. “Everything’s falling apart,” he says in a voice-over at the beginning of the first episode, explaining what didn’t need to be explained. It’s hard to know whether the tediousness of Ray’s interior monologue is meant to be funny or whether you’re supposed to empathise with him.

The writer-director Alexander Payne is also an executive producer, and he directed the hour-long pilot of “Hung.” In Payne’s previous work—his movies include “About Schmidt” and “Sideways”—men of a certain age, like Ray, find themselves at a crossroads and fling themselves forward on uncertain journeys. Ray’s journey happens doesn't involve roadtrip, but the impulse is similar, albeit with a twist. Can he become a new man, a man with some purpose, by being a gigolo?

It’s not yet possible to tell where “Hung” is going, but the the writers depict the protagonist as questionable and yet understandable, cross the line between legal and illegal, making us ask ourselves whether the line is in the right place. However, I feel that “Hung” is strangely superficial in examining the American dream.

Job Sastifaction

2009-11-01T09:12:00.003+08:00

Job satisfaction, like the tomb of Cleopatra, proves to be just as elusive. It is perfectly possible to have a "dream" job and be miserable, or to be in a lowly position and still be happy.

Just as the archaeologists spend inordinate amount of time to figure out the location where the pulchritudinous pharaoh, an army of psychologists, psychiatrist, behaviour analysts, are employed to study the phenomenon. Volumes of complicated findings notwithstanding, we are nowhere near to any plausible conclusion.

Which brings me to the topic of research.

Sure there is a general consensus that assumes that every research is beneficial, and that knowledge gleaned from research is similarly significant. However, most research is pushed to the margin even before you can pronounce the name of the researcher in one breath, and some, just like those in regard of job satisfaction, are useless; it has a lot more to do with the chase for gravy train and grovelling hierarchies than it does with unearthing the truth.

So where are we now in regarding to job satisfaction?

We are perplexed when they reveal its findings: low-paid workers are apparently happier than the higher paid, that the self-employed are happiest everywhere, that those who work very long hours are actually very happy, that job satisfaction fluctuates hugely over the course of careers, that job satisfaction fluctuates even during the course of the average working day, and that the things make people happy at work are good pay, decent hours and promotion prospects.

But to generalise empirically, from growing up to the griping of the parents to listening to friends and colleagues whine about their work, best jobs are simply that those where (i) you are allowed to develop; (ii) mutual respect and liking amongst your colleagues and you; and (iii) you can measure your performance in some way.

But I digress.

Say what you want about "job satisfaction", it is ultimately an abstraction and may not be simply summed up in research papers, or neatly summarised in a quantitative fashion for that matters. So why is it so hard to refuse the temptation to decipher why we are or aren't happy about our work? Maybe because talking about why aren't we fully satisfied in our works possibly is our parodoxical mechanism for stress relief; a way for us to divert our anger when we are fulfilling our potential.

We may not be happy, but boy do we know how to think of work-related topic to kill time at pantry room idling, water-cooler chat and general dilly dallying.

The Harmony Silk Factory

2009-10-26T08:31:00.002+08:00

This promising first novel by our very own Tash Aw opens with a declaration which sounds like a simple and irresistible manifesto: tell “The True Story of the Infamous Chinaman Called Johnny”. So says Jasper Lim, who, in the first of this novel’s three parts, collects and dissects materials, a great majority of them orally passed down, to understand everything about his father Johnny.

By the end, we know that nothing is simple, for Jasper has been looking in quite the wrong direction. In fact, the haunting question that this multi-layered narrative answers is not “How wicked was my father?” but “Who was my father?” At the same time, Tash Aw ironically disapproves Jasper’s conviction that “Death erases all traces, all memories of lives that once existed”.

The second narrator to speak is Lim's deceased wife Snow, in the pages she kept detailing a bizarre honeymoon conducted in the company of three unlikely companions: a sybaritic mine-owner called Honey; Lim's friend, Peter Wormwood; and the smooth Japanese devil Kunichika.
At the behest of the bride's parents, this peculiar party set off on a badly organised journey to a remote set of islands, and almost perished in a violent tropical storm. During the ordeal, Snow is shown to be increasingly attracted to the charms of the Japanese scholar--while Lim seeks solace with his new acquittance, the flamboyantly mischievous Wormwood.

In the final section of the book we witness the same events again, this time filtered through the memories of a now elderly Wormwood, spent his final part of life in an Oriental old people's home. This eccentric character seemed to detect in Johnny a guileless innocence that none of the others noticed, and plans to plant a garden in honour of his friend.

Aw makes a credible job of modulating the varying tones of voice by which the smiling villain of the first part comes to be seen as the pitiful victim in the end. Aside from the unreliable narration, I cannot help but wonder whether the obfuscation and contradictions in this three-cornered portrait of Johnny Lim are a product of the book's maddening inconsistency, or its mysterious appeal.

The Phantom Menace

2009-10-11T17:59:00.003+08:00

On one Saturday night, I was calmly writing this blog when suddenly the computer screen went blank, so armed with basic technological knowhow, I proceeded to the resuscitating procedures: stood up and repeatedly rebooted the computer, hoping for a miracle, screaming insults, and abhorring his mocking disobedience, before getting slightly electrocuted as I was fumbling the wire connection. I didn't like that; who does by the way?

Lack of control is the connecting thread of all the things people are generally afraid of.

In a increasingly efficient world runned by a vast virtual reality, we gradually taken for granted the concept of being in control. And here at last we are denied the basic amenity of control when faced by a mutating microscopic virus--which might mutates into alien-like organism anytime soon, if the WTO conference, media coverage and spreading infection are any indication.

Unfortunately, our illusionary controllable environment bears little or no resemblance to the actual one we flourish, where disasters sometimes occur, with little or no warning. But rather than accept it as it is, we refuse risk to enter our collective lexicon, hence we faithfully cling on the possibility of evading risk, cooked up by the statisticians and the like.

But I digress.

Of course, genuine matters of fear are abound to concern us: the scarcity of resources; overpopulation; rich-poor divide; religious fanaticism. But is this greater than the any other disasters which had been recorded over the history of homo sapien? Perhaps there is no better time to give heed to history -- in which the last refuge of relief we can rely on, flipping through the narrative of how humanity has endured worse and persevere nonetheless. With no proper reflection, we surrender to the pessimism that we are near the end. We don't.

We do need to beware. There are plenty of people who want to make us fearful, to alarm us about threats to our way of life, to jack-up our adrenalin at the idea of impending and disastrous change. Politicians use fear as a way of manipulating the electorate and stifling our civil liberties. Financial gurus tease us with forecast and prediction to swing things their way. Religions dole out salvation on a platter to those who toe their line.

It's the very people who would make us fearful, we need to fear the most.

When A(H1N1) Flu Attacks

2009-10-04T22:19:00.001+08:00

As someone who spent a substantial portion of his childhood in a pig farm, I think I understand why the public went into a frenzy after the swine flu broke out, with little or no help from the media. Just like any other mischievous curious child, I would cheekily throw in dried leaves, wild berries and assorted organisms at the domesticated quadrupeds. Either they have hyperactive metabolism or have mistaken me to be the feeder, they gobbled the stuffs up, regardless of the texture and appearance of the "feed".

No wonder the people go all out in their precautionary measures: wearing face masks; stockpiling antibiotics; proffering secret recipe of alternative medicine; clandestinely making appointment for shamanistic ritual cleansing.

And nothing, including a name change to A (H1N1) flu, will change anything about it.

Behind the relatively safe environment of sterilised laboratory and state-of-the-art research facility, epidemiologist and public health officials constantly predicting the species-shifting influenza can develop as a potential replay of the dreadful 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic. Statisticians and social researchers no doubt will include A (H1N1) flu in their anxiety-level-measuring

Inevitably, paradoxes are abound here: clearly, if you include every other disaster in the measuring mood level, people will get anxious. And the more word gets round regarding increasing negative thinking, irrational behaviour of the public would surface, thus more possible to ignite or exacerbate some of the crisis.

What we have is not necessarily more anxiety but a more intense assessment of the mood swing. No one was quantifying the prevailing emotional turbulence of the public during 1918 Spanish Flu incident. The same goes for anxiety level--nobody was meticulously maintaining a database of happiness index during world wars and every other major events, which shaped the geopolitical dynamic over the years.

Today, accustomed to peace and calm, we are granted the luxury of self-absorption. Eager to increase the living standards, we measure and compare the nuances of social life: formula and models are devised to gauge happiness, sociability, attitudes to ageing, to the hate crime, to discrimination. Assessment and reports are compiled on all these matters, which will result in funny exciting pieces by feature columnist and a buzzing media. Hence, the Pavlovian reflex in the the public: radically changing diet; include vitamin and mineral in our daily supplement; persuade children to take up extra classes in art and so forth.

In other words, we have become selfish and narcissist.

It's time to use our arsenal of common sense against the A(H1N1) before it's too late.

Not Another Round of Whitewash

2009-09-26T17:26:00.005+08:00

Just as we don't have four seasons, only sweltering heat, monsoon rain and annual haze, we Malaysians don't have inquiries. We only have routine whitewashes of sensational scandal which warranted the formation of the soi disant independent commission. In the tradition of quelling oppostion braying and simmering public discontent, a death inquest is currently conducted to unearth the truth behind the incident, in which Teoh Beng Hock, a political secretary, had fall to his mysterious demise in the custody of Malaysia Anti Corruption Commission

Since it will be held in a similiar hype following the royal commission of inquiry into the Lingam video clip back in 2007, better pereemptively brace yourselves for disappointment with the final conclusion of the exact cause of Teoh's death. As far as public attention is concerned, it merely serves as gap filler in an uneventful period, before another more sensational scandal snaps up the headline. Irrational hope is best left to football season and American Idol; it is unlikely the inquest can keep us biting our nails and up all night with its fingerprint comparison, DNA profiling and autopsy report.

As in the case of the Lingam Video Clip, naturally, it'll be swell to see the former prime minister back to the limelight. But the thing about the bona fine leader, Dr. M, is that we know precisely what we were getting: Faux self-depreciation, the messianic stuff about doing what he believed to be within the prerogative of a prime minister. With all due respect, he is such a skilled communicator that giving statements to a panel of indifferent former mandarins is such a cakewalk for him. Who can ever forget the selective amnesia over important details? Life imitates art can never got better than this, it was like watching a plot twist of a legal drama.

The government must be more than aware of the public cynicism already dogging the inquest, a plan begins to suggest itself. How about combining our loath for politic and passion for reality TV? Let's round up the suspects in a giant mansion Big-Brother style, and deny them basic amenities. As the stress piles on, surely we can determine the culprit in no time at all.

Considering the what's in store for us in the latest whitewash of truth, surely we deserve the sport?

Cynicism aside, what we witnessing here is a bombastic crusade against corruption has mutated into a long, hard slog, and now into a vandetta against opposition politicians. The revelation of egregious abuse of power and rampant corruption should be acceptable to a totalitarian state. But there comes a point in the rhetoric of transparency and accountablity when the pointlessness of it all comes back to haunt the government, in the forms of the questionable Balinese mansion owned by former Selangor Chief Minister and the lingering Port Klang Free Zone scandal. Surely an inquest into an innocent young man, the ultimate moment to win back the heart of the people, is the time to stop mouthing insincerities and call a mistake a mistake.

The Enchantress of Florence

2009-09-13T20:44:00.002+08:00

Even before you grow accustomed to the prose style and narrative pace of “The Enchantress of Florence,” Salman Rushdie plunges us into a world of marvels: squeezes in from east to west--from the legendary potentate Akhbar the Great of the Mughal empire to the virgin queen Elizabeth I of the Tudor dynasty. He weaved a fascinating narrative that is stretched between two continents, including a wide range of belligerent kingdoms wedged between: rambunctious warlords of Uzbek, glorious Persian empire and centre of interaction--the Ottoman kingdom.

Some may find the marvelous and flamboyant style of the revered novelist tedious. I personally find the incandescent outburst of humanity and ingenious exuberance such an distinguished and distinct literary achievement. You just cannot help but dragged into his stories within stories within stories, and interminable digressions that circle around and around and around--all enmeshed in an orgiastic feast of historical narrative and mythical folklore.

It encompasses a wide range of themes, which are inserted into passionate debate and philosophical musings about the craft of storytelling and the relationship between life and art. Rushdie bares them out in a tone that effortlessly vacillates between polymathic precision and keen observer; both of them converged as a sheer determination to imprecetibly segue the various themes into a post-modernist context.

“The Enchantress of Florence,” feels so mesmerizing and so phantasmagorical, as if there is no boundary that cannot be broached, no taboo that cannot be breached. Although the novel gains narrative momentum in its final chapters, significant segments of the book are dedicated to political allusion (in the context of Western-Islam civilisation clash) and free-associative digressions, stacked one on top of another in such a carefree fashion that they may collapse on top of the fragile foundation of the narrative.

In addition to being a poignant, often mesmerising story about the resiliency of the human spirit, "The Enchantress of Florence" is also a window to a moment in history that we ought to study more. Through the recurring discussion of humanism and debate as opposed to authoritarianism in the novel, we might just find the elusive glimmer of hope in today's world upheaval.

The Malodrous Mystery of Delectable Durian

2009-09-06T00:01:00.002+08:00

Swallow's nest, shark fin, tiger's penis, bear's gallbladder, caviar, foie gras: human seems to go all out when it comes to the most exotic gastronomical preferences; and in some cases, unimaginable torture is inflicted to obtain the desired end product (e.g.: force-feeding for the foie gras). Whether it is for their purported medicinal properties or nutritional value, human has been steadfastly claiming the legitimacy of the barbaric acts--much to the chagrin of the enraged environmentalists and petrified PETA perservationists.

Somehow, our bodies are still hardwired for life in the wild circa 20,000 BC, not modernity, 2009. Our fascination with exotic food choices is thanks to how ruthlessly our DNA was then honed for survival. Back in our native habitat, we had to make do with limited resources; out of economic necessity, animal's intestines and other non-conventional food sources were consumed to fully harvest the bounty nature has to offer.

I think it's the significance of food in our cultural identity; it's imprinted in our DNA. How else to explain the famous Chinese proverb of "the masses regard food as their heaven" (民以食为天)? Not forgetting the cantonese aphorism that suggests all those whose back face the sky are edible. Nothing like age-old expression for giving that objective, rational legitimacy to our predilection in hunting, killing and eating whatever that cross our path.

Then there are those foods that beggar rational explanation.

No matter how sane it may appear, even the most reasonable of us all have to scratch their heads when come face to face with some of the most bizzare choices--naturally conceived or artificially concocted--which have prompted diverse and passionate views ranging from deep appreciation to intense disgust.

For example, stinky tofu, durian......(you know what I'm talking about)

Who would have thought of fermented tofu would be such a great idea in the first place? Don't you ever wonder which brave, intrepid troglodyte first dared to break open the green thorny shell to devour the yellowish contents within? Don't get me started on how they ferment the durian and turn it into "tempoyak"......

Yet you cannot help but marvelled by how nature work its wonder. Perhaps in a bid of protecting the "king of fruit" from extinction due to overconsumption, our olfactory senses are somehow distorted in the funniest way. For some, durian is nothing but a stinking dead carcass riddled with maggots; for others, it is a simply a godsend.

Don't get me wrong, I like durian; I even love tempoyak for god sake. Still, I try, at times, to recall back the biology lessons back then to search for logical explanation, when the first group eschews the fruit as though it is some kind of biological warfare.

Any suggestion to answer the mystery?

Let's Pause For A Moment

2009-08-28T21:10:00.002+08:00

Never mind that you are not sure the superstar, who has since undergone makeover to a weird androgynous look and insisted on the falsetto voice, is still the same sweet innocent child prodigy; ready to push him to the back of your consciousness after the succession of plastic surgeries, allegations of pedophilia and brink of bankruptcy. Never mind that she was just as distant as other royal family members, or you never seen her in flesh since the fairytale wedding procession. Never mind you are not related to those perished in the flood, or to those who cried their hearts out.

Then why there is a surge of uncontrollable grief in you and the outpouring of candle vigils, as the news of Jacko's sudden demise, Princess Diana's accident and the Typhoon Morakot broke out?

In "Precarious Life: The Power of Mourning and Violence", renowned philosopher Judith Butler asserts the premise that the self is at once an accountable individual agent and formed by others and the social and global settings in which one lives. Amidst the mourning and grieving, we realise that there is more complex definition of the grammatical "I"; it is through bonding with the anonymous victims, we come to terms with the context of our existence. Somehow we felt a part of us was ripped off from us as we felt the pain and suffering of an era lost, a symbol perished and innocents wiped off from the face of the earth in a blink of eye.

In order for us to come out of the grieving mode and restart our life, it is essential to have the right cathartic outlet to galvanise the deluge of emotion. In the case of the King of Pop, some blame the fan - Time of London columnist Janice Turner excoriates the fan: those who professed to love MJ were vampires, feeders and jackals - their adulation hastened his end. Some blame those around him: Washington Post columnist Eugene Robinson wonders where were the staff members and the agents and the hangers-on -- and the loving family members -- who had an inkling that all might not be right at Neverland. Not forgetting the mighty industry - The New Republic contributor Michael Kinsley wrote: During his teenage years, when most children face an incentive structure that encourages them to act mature and rational, Michael Jackson was getting positive feedback for remaining childlike and turning weird.

Even in death, we still cannot find a conclusive narrative to wrap up his life. Rest in peace he has not, but rather rest in pieces.

Much have been written and debated about our ever trembling spiritual foundation and collapsing value system. So I guess, in a sense, death of cultural icons and massive loss of lives in disaster brought out the best of us. At the very least, the inalienable and self-evident right to mourn for the deceased in any degree we choose and remember the perished ones in whatever fashion we fancy is still alive and intact in each of us.

That's until we start goggling "what's hidden in MJ's casket in the memorial service".

Nurse Jackie

2009-08-22T17:13:00.002+08:00

The new Showtime series “Nurse Jackie” marks the welcome return to TV of Edie Falco, starring as Jackie Peyton, an emergency-room nurse in a New York City hospital. Best remembered as the estranged wife of a mafia boss in "The Sopranos". In both shows, Falco conveys the heated internal struggles of someone with strong personality in extraordinary circumstances: Mob boss’s wife, senior nurse. Luckily, she brings her astounding acting to the new role, making Jackie just as authentic as Carmela did.

You may think the show will put the focus on the suffering and the narrative behind it; however the writers shift the the telescope the other way round to the professional caregivers: the tensions and class distinctions dividing the staff; the microdynamics of these intense situations involving life, death, and hierarchy. Hospital drama always have a certain appeal to the audience; deadly diseases, behaviour of patients and do-not- resuscitate instructions have a way of forcing us to ponder on life in general.

“Nurse Jackie” doesn’t look like the average network medical drama, but it does follow the formula of many premium cable shows, taking a knowing and at times dark, sardonic look at the classic themes of love, life, work and death. It is a surprisingly, and disconcertingly, off key drama draped in black humor that recognises no political correctness and common propriety.

The result, with its strong, complex, funny, flawed central character, feels truer to life than the zillions of one-dimensional (or no-dimensional) nurses on television. It’s not just corrective medicine, though—it actually tastes good.

Polygamy In Triumph

2009-08-11T17:51:00.004+08:00

Most of world history seems to have pivoted on the surging or receding of hormones, with testosterone in the forefront presenting the greatest challenge in the perpetuity and prosperity (or lack thereof) of homo sapien. A few decades of male hegemony in politics, economics and society had engendered a certain consistency among males in their approach to assert nationalism and matter of heart; more specifically, the predilection to achieve the ne plus ultra.

Though not so much on the quality but rather on the quantity.

For the former they want wars to stretch into different continents, employing the most sophisticated warfare and sacrifice the biggest number of casualty; in the latter, they want their women to be nubile and aplenty, with the sole purpose of producing male scions to carry on the family torch.

Suffice to say, there is usually a biological argument and psychological reasoning for this behaviour. Well-established anthropological studies suggest that men, by nature, need to procreate with multiple partners, spreading his seed as much as possible for the survivability of the human race. Emotionally speaking, men are susceptible to stereotypical shortfalls: incapacity of being drawn to one female for a long period of time; short-lived sexual attraction to one female--their bodies stop producing the chemical for the same partner and thus reduing their sexual appetites. Look at it economically, marriage, for alpha males, is like the stock market: they can go down as well as up. The bottom line is, monogamy is a recklessly large investment in one person. Hence having two women, or more, is about hedging risks.

Or strip away the maddening syntax and appalling neologisms--it can be better draped in a better raiment: middle age crisis.

Then there is the problem behind the idea of multiple women sharing one husband: what begins as absolute loyalty, mindless drudgery and total discretion of the first wife soon turns into bitter resentment and endless catfight, as the size of the harem increases.

No one's excusing men's behavior. But as we slog through another round of high profile infidelity --from our local politician to action superstar and the soi disant conservative leaders in US-- maybe it's worth asking ourselves why. Is it because maybe, just maybe, the prehistoric/medieval entitlement to multiple partners is still hard-wired in, if not all men, quite a few of them?

My friend opines that it means you are ageing when wedding announcements come one after another from your peers; I guess the surest sign that we are entering mid-age is to know that (touch wood!) those married are cheating on their spouses.

The Gift Of Rain

2009-07-31T10:26:00.001+08:00

The pearl of the orient, Penang--on the brink of an imminent invasion by the Japanese--is home to young Philip Hutton. The half-Chinese, half-English lives in a self-imposed ostracisation due to the fact that he develops no bond to neither culture. In a twist of fate, he befriends Hayato Endo, a Japanese diplomat and a descendent of a glorious Samurai clan. They unexpectedly bond under the most unusual circumstances: Endo-san teaches Philip the art and discipline of aikido and Japanese culture, while the latter introduces the former to the a melting pot of Penang.

But a dreadful consequence arrives after the protagonist masters the ancient self-defense technique: His respected sensei, to whom he owes unquestionable loyalty, has an ulterior motive. Ironically, just as Philip comes to terms of his mixed heritage and rekindles with his root, World War II breaks out and jeopardise everything he has come to know about love and loyalty.

“The Gift of Rain” captures me on several levels. His prose feels so dense and luscious, as though watching a tediously orchestrated Chinese opera. Undoubtedly, it is effective in projecting a vivid potpourri of life in Penang, with its inhabitants--both native and immigrants--imprint their unique influence in adding the luminous glow to the Pearl of Orient. With equal intensity, the prose becomes sorrowful and haunting in describing the painful history of Japanese occupation, accompanied by the senseless slaughter and suffering, which left a latent scar on the tiny island.

Behind the melodic metaphors and fictional account against the backdrop of actual historical narratives, lies a nuanced, profound quality in this novel in which the prevalent symbolism, which are sprinkled in the characters, tries to dissect existentialism through the prism of Buddhism and Confucianism. Even as we are apart and different yet we are one; the gulf of disconnect between us is merely the manifestation of our choices.

Kind of frustrating really because there are no easy and obvious answers to the profound philosophical questions Tan Twan Eng raises, but nevertheless he has managed to bridge both the secular and the spiritual worlds. The reader cannot help but be compelled to contemplate about the fleeting existence of fellow human beings in the course of historical turbulence, and the sufferings we impose on ourselves and on others by the choices we make as we watch the protagonist resolves his personal struggles over the question of divided loyalties, betrayal and loss.

These are, however, minor points and should not put one off reading “The Gift of Rain.” It is a story that leaves one melancholy and moved, complete and curious. And eager to begin reading it again.

Maintenance Blues

2009-07-23T16:41:00.002+08:00

For those of us who have stepped into the realm of adulthood, one of the most liberating changes that come along is perhaps owning a car. Never again you need to stand the dilapidated public transport system of our country. Torturing your olfactory senses with the assault of sweat, perfume and the foulest body odour imaginable; wasting precious time with cancelled/delayed commuter train; varying degree of nuisance (once I even got approached by insurance salesman in the train) : among other factors that make speeding around in a personal vehicle seems to be the easier option

Now thanks to the miracle contraption of metal, plastic, leather and assorted mechanical installations, I can bid farewell to all that.

(Not to say that driving is without its cons--what with the raising stress levels during traffic jam, unbearable driving ethics of my fellow Malaysians, and the threatening hypertension thanks to the wild fluctuation of oil price. However, it does give me some alone time to think of what to write for my blog; hence the inspiration for this entry)

Of course after the liberating experience on the road, I need to come face to face with the chore after surpassing certain benchmark in mileage - servicing the car. Nothing quite as frustrating as sending the car to be serviced as it involves one or more of the following: meticulous, precise time allocation; coordination, negotiation and bargaining between the seasoned mechanic and yourself; and not forgetting the mindless, dull hours in waiting accompanied by the outdated magazines.

Over in the mechanics' workshop, a portly figure came into sight as he ran his fingers over the car hood and talked about engine thingamajigs. While doing some mental calculation to rip me off, the mechanic would be rattling on about the mileage, oil usage and spare parts replacing; and I'd be nodding away mechanically while I would be doing mental calculation on my own to conjure the red ink on the financial balance sheet.

Bringing the car in for servicing certainly marks another adult milestone. Somehow or rather surrounded by the overwhelming grease stench and lubricant stain, I cannot help but felt a tad more macho and even found myself mumble gibberish on engine, carburetor and gear box.

Then in the end, I almost went into apoplexy when shown the bill; evidently the initial round of feigned friendliness and candid camaraderie didn't come into play, judging by the exorbitant charges. For the amount of money he just made off me - and of course for changing my tyres - I might as well just sell one of my kidney, forego occasional treats at a certain cafe chain for the coming months and forget about the monthly allocation for paperback fiction.

Hell, screw the insurance agent. I'm going back to public transport.

Keeps Gettin' Better

2009-07-13T09:16:00.003+08:00

When Christina Aguilera exploded onto the scene a decade earlier in the company of the post-millennium teenage blond bombshells, with the likes of Britney Spears, Jessica Simpson and Mandy Moore, she was unjustly overshadowed by her Ms Spears, in terms of fan size, album sale and chart dominance. While the decade of naughts (2000s) unfurled, Ms. Aguilera gradually overshadowed her nemesis, artistically and musically. Britney's fall from grace, in a way, allowed Xtina's recklessness in her "Dirrty" departure to be pushed into oblivion after its initial notorious coverage. Her audacious and eccentric musical vision--a progression that's evident on Keeps Gettin' Better: A Decade of Hits--won her wide critical appeal and commercial triumph.

Listening to the chronological sequence of her hits--starting with 1999's "Genie in a Bottle" and ending up by 2007's "Candyman"--Xtina's evolution from innocence to rebel and finally maturity, within the breadth of three albums, proved to be such a testament to our fast-paced modernity. Her compilation has such a great potential to be a biopic fodder: The squeaky-clean pop singer summarily ditched her bubblegum brand via lascivious overhaul of her image, which grants her autonomy and versatility to experiment, turning her into a pop diva in her own rights.

Keeps Gettin' Better hints at a revitalised electro-style future by including her new work and re-interpretation of her hits. What is exceptional about the collection is that Christina's past still constitutes as the enduring legacy in her narrative momentum, with the fluffy debut of "Genie In a Bottle," "What a Girl Wants," and "Come on Over Baby (All I Want Is You)" still giving saccharine-sweet vibe, "Beautiful" sounding copiously relevant, and "Ain't No Other Man" and "Candyman" candid mischievousness, backed by blast from the past in soul and jazz.

This compilation proves that no other teen pop singer of her era has a better track record than Christina and if the new songs are any indication, the title of this hits comp is no lie either.

Post Retrenchment Musing

2009-07-06T14:13:00.002+08:00

In life, certain events come along so rarely that when they do, special attention must be paid. Not in the sense of once-in-a-lifetime significance as in kitschy weddings and memorable graduation ceremony but rather contemplation-worthy, momentous event as in retrenchment. It definitely warrants my attention to think about what work means to people in general and me in specific.

The rumour spread like wildfire on the faithful day: only one month compensation! everybody will get the ax! the senior management is getting a better severance pay! Sure you read about it in the paper amidst the gloom and doom of the global economy, it is quite another thing to happen to your personally. For me, it feels like I was on board of "Titantic", in not a good way: If you are going to drown in an icy cold ocean, you want a coup de grâce--not gradual sailing towards the iceberg with cavalier reaffirmation about how the ship can somehow avert disaster.

When jobs are just what they are instead of the new asset they become, people used to crave for life outside of office: they wish to be someone more than the occupation box they tick in registration forms, and deep down they hope to be far more interesting than their job. Hence the job description is the last arsenal you reserve to woo family and friend over in annual gathering and wedding dinner.

Post recession, work transforms into topic du jour when we bump into each other – who is getting pay cut; whose overtime allowance is slashed; the whole employment situation. The fact that the office has became your "second home" no longer means you are trapped in the final cycle of hell, but rather induces a sense of relief you are spared from joining the ranks of the unemployed.

The concept of work is all about the money has returned with a vengeance. You went to work, you did whatever you needed to do: menial pencil-pushing; appeasing haughty superiors; finding common grounds with insufferable colleagues. Then once clock stroke five, you indulged in luxuries to palliate the work stress; fumbling for the proverbial anchor of work-life balance. As a result, work transforms into a way station to financial independence; the end justifies the means.

However, it begins to dawns on me that work defines me and gives me self-respect in ways that are as important as our salary. Never mind if it involve neither glamour nor riches. Dignity, a sense of purpose, something to get up for in the mornings, a series of small achievements that validate your usefulness: That’s what work buys me.

Of course, I still need that pay cheque.

(This writer had been hired back to the same company under a temporary contract.)

The Outcast

2009-06-29T15:32:00.003+08:00

Certain types of menace are not that threatening when it surfaces, but rather they are at their worst lurking beneath. These two types of menaces can share the same origin: our minds are capable of deeds more censorious than any miscreants known to human.

In Sadie Jones’s literary debut, “The Outcast” — set in a post-war London suburb — the tranquility barely covers up the veritable abyss between conformity and individualism – a rupture that goes far beyond adolescent rebellion. When the protagonist, Lewis Aldridge’s father, Gilbert, returns from the war, he gives a cold shoulder to his son's curiousity. His beloved mother, Elizabeth, is also stifled; her inability to conform to the propriety plunged her into alcoholism.

A horrifying tragedy befalls on Lewis, when he is only 10: swimming after a riverside picnic, his mother drowns. Unable to express himself with a willing audience, he falls prey to a repressed, inarticulate anger, that eventually incarcerates him in prison for arson of the neighbourhood church.

Only one person truly empathises with him: Kit, the daughter of his father’s boss. From an early age, she has looked up to Lewis; the latter's self-destruction acts as an impetus for her rebellious behaviour. However, Kit’s defiance is so ingrained that even her father’s ruthless abuse can’t bend her will.

In paying homage to a constricted era, where propriety trumps common sense, and to better explore the hypocrisy and stultifying atmosphere, the prose is plain -- as if any extra pretentious vocabulary would have betrayed the overriding mood.

And yet, although “The Outcast” doesn't stand out convincingly as a great work of literature, its narrative in portraying the lurking menace beneath the disquieting calm of the a 1950s English town is fiercely consistent. The general theme of claustrophobia and conformity of a bygone era might not resonate in modernity, but its illustration of the dangerous consequences of a muzzled society.

Conspiracy Theory

2009-06-19T09:33:00.003+08:00

Whisper the name of a certain Mongolian model, chances are you will be relentlessly bombarded with a cacophonous of opinion on the cloak-and-dagger affair, which makes the Bill Clinton-Monica Lewinsky affair looked so pale in comparison. Short of any incriminating YouTube video and absence of overwhelming circumstantial evidence, we only can depend on iffy hearsay (a.k.a statutory declaration) to glean the sordid details and alleged impropriety.

The same applies to traditional institution, even if it is just a work of fiction. In the latest installment of Dan Brown's hugely popular novel series "Angels and Demons", we revisit what measure the religious institution and sinister zealots can go to maintain the order of Christianity.

I doubt this kind of provocation will go far if it broaches on other religions such as Islam and Judaism.

Not to say Christians are not outraged by this. It is on the omnipresence and omniscience of Jesus that Christians have built their destinies, rituals and comforting hopes. To interfere with the preconceived imagery of the prophet, as belief system is galvanised to defy the current of globalisation, is to outrage believers across all denominations. That’s why it is so shocking that, cloaked in the name of secularism, science and reason, theory such as Jesus's apocryphal bloodline is purveyed as though it is a fodder for National Enquirer.

A society, as a whole, subconsciously thrives on instant gratification derived from conspiracy theory. Nothing like a national scandal uniting people from all walks of life. Due to our skewered cynicism due to our limited epistemological capacity, common folks opt to believe some or every part of the conspiracy. Instead of granting our political and religious leader the benefit of the doubt or place the burden of proof on the accuser to prove the wrongdoings beyond reasonable doubt, we choose the most easy way out.

While the individual behaviours are impossible to predict, they are very shallow and easily manipulated when you group them together.

Of course we mean to resolve the unresolved and constantly fumbling for the pandora box. In one way or another, we crave for confirmation that we occupy in the similiar universe as do our elected leaders and religious figure, whose integrity and credibility form the very basis of effective governing. In our quest to quench the thirst for exactitudes, we eagerly clamour for the hidden truth in all its shocking ugliness, forgetting that as we do so it reveals our true hypocritical self--imposes a set of rules on those in the public domain but our own selves.

The need for transparency had become overwhelming; we are torn between rigorous fault-finding and voyeuristic fascination. It's all good to be more democratic and liberal, but herein lies a problem: The truth is seldom as lurid and spectacular as our imaginings.

As Harvard psychologist Daniel Gilbert put it, we don't like not knowing, apparently, even when what we know is awful.

My Tea Lady

2009-06-13T09:44:00.002+08:00

Due to budgetry concern amidst the financial turmoil, my company has decided to carry out manpower-rightsizing and cost-optimisation exercise (corporate euphemism for cut back) to reduce overhead expenditure. First on the chopping board is our office tea lady. Yes...when time is tough, the lower rung of the social class is hit the hardest.

They come in many shapes and sizes. Ever a constant fixture in the modern society, they become such an indispensable property for those, ranging from blue-blooded oligarch to well-off middle class, who need an extra helping hand (or entrusting someone over) at the domain of domesticity.

Historical narratives, religious scripture and pop culture storytelling perpetuate a certain myth about them: whether it is the maidservant Hagar offered by Sarah to Abraham and subsequently conceived Ishmael; egomaniacal eunuches organising palace coup d'état in ancient China; evil murderous psychopath in Sherlock the-butler-did-it Holmes; nosy indiscreet motley crew of valets and housemaids in auteur Robert Altman's "Gosford Park"; or the army of cookie-cutter factotum on hot pursuit of the eloping star-crossed lovers in Cantonese serials. The role of the domestic helpers had been expanded and redefined, through grants of greater autonomy, to the whim and fancy of their masters.

Moral and ethical ramifications notwithstanding, the presence of the faithful servant has proved to be an indispensable, inextricable in some instances, element in television shows. A case in point, the bond formed between Blair and her maid, Dorota, in "The Gossip Girl". The latter has been the devious socialite's trusted confidante and partner in crime in her web of deceit and duplicity within the posh circle of Upper East Side, New York City.

So as I am about to bid farewell to my tea lady, guess I have to make my own beverage from now on.:(

(Little did I know that the cost-cutting exercise proved to be futile and they have to resort to retrenchment for all of us later......)

Home Finance

2009-06-05T10:45:00.001+08:00

She may not be Wall Street/Canary Wharf fat cat, a.k.a erstwhile master of the universe, the perpetrator behind the web of the Kafkaesque web of exotic financial products such as credit default swaps and collateralized debt obligation, which singlehandedly catering the world economic structure as we speak. Their level of hypocrisy and greed is taken to a dizzying height as unreasonable compensation package and retention payment is still awarded to the likes of Fred the Shred from London and the AIG executives from the notorious financial product division.

Neither is she belong to the rank of the doddering dullards, a.k.a policy wonks and decision-makers at regulatory bodies, whose encyclopedic compendium of rules and guidelines failed to rein in the excesses of corporate greed. Their obliviousness to the early warning signs and advice by renowned economists, coupled with their vague complicity and interwoven relationship with the financial sector, have festered the crisis further.

Neither does she claim membership to the gaggle of demagoguery politicians, in their bid to appeal to vox populi, initiating rhetorical clarion call for reform, responsibility and the electoral theme du jour, change. They passionately claim to be the saviour of their respective constituencies by strategically peppering their speech with key terms such as realism, pragmatism and progressives; its translation into coherent concrete action is heretofore yet to be tested.

She may not graduated summa cum laude from the ivy league; or burdened with years of experience in pencil-pushing bureaucracy; or gleefully earning electoral mandate. Yet we can glean a thing or two from my mother's philosophy and idealism on our household monetary practice and fiscal policy, comes boom or bust.

Always caution us on our spending, she vehemently abhors the usage of the credit cards. Any notion of expenditure borne out from future earning is frowned upon and best be eschewed, lest you want to unleash a tirade of didactic lecture and nostalgic walk down the memory lane of poverty--or better known as one way ticket of guilt trip. Accumulating debt is always a big no-no.

Harbouring a certain adversity towards the speculative market, she is the constant skeptic of the principle behind the heart of the current crisis: creating money with money. The self-defeating logic goes against the very fundamental of conviction of any my family's bean counter. In a way, my parent's generation is still haunted by the narration by my grandparents about the horror of banana money. If the intrinsic value of paper money can be undermined easily, how can you trust your hard-earned money to the hands of financier and banker?

Caught by the promise of the rallying stock market, neither a convincing counternarrative is constructed to replace 'money is everything' philosophy nor a revolutionary vision is shaped to restructure the economy. Are we going back to unfettered financial market trumping tangible industrial production and innovative creation? or a new order of business is on the horizon?

As the dust settles after the Great Depression That Never Was, the worldwide financial crisis is starting to look less like the seismic historical transformation so widely expected. However, we must not delude ourselves, and should start a root-and-branch reform of the capitalism.

All I Ever Wanted

2009-05-30T11:25:00.002+08:00

Though chastened by her audacious attempt in releasing her carbuncle of her otherwise illustrious career--"My December", in defiance of conventional wisdom of sticking to her comfort zone, she has returned to the scene fortissimo. Thankfully, "All I Ever Wanted" does not become Kelly Clarkson's expiatory piece for pushing ahead prematurely with the commercially unappealing "My December", much to the displeasure of maverick Clive Davis in 2007 — at least not entirely at the first listen.

Her latest effort doesn't try to shred away the the dark gothic edginess of "My December", but it does fundamentally tone down the misanthropic brooding in favour of angry spunk — in my opinion, an effective re-branding strategy to mark the return of the girl behind the household hits such as "Miss Independent" and "Since U Been Gone".

And, without a doubt, she is — emphatically, appropriately filled with self-consciousness, on the first single "My Life Would Suck Without You"--an unofficial follow-up to her "Since U Been Gone." It predictably soared through the chart, but nevertheless running contrary to Clarkson's most extraordinary gift: her genuineness, despite wearing the label of "manufactured" after winning "American Idol". "My December" might not be a commercial success, but its artistic achievement, albeit in a disjointed and messy manner, felt like a determined breakaway from the mould. "All I Ever Wanted" feels like the counter-revolutionary to her maturing; it runs the most formidable vocalist of the new millennium through the mill.

But I digress.

Definitely, she has returned with a bang; back to her comfort zone when she is belting out a sentimental chorus backed by loud guitars. Most of All I Ever Wanted is packed with such songs and some of it even revitalises on Clarkson's hard rock infatuation and dramatically improves it. Notable contribution from singer-songwriter Katy Perry and new American Idol Judge Kara DioGuardi in songs such as "I Do Not Hook Up," effectively galvanises her status as the most exciting talent, that the reality show yet to offer to the industry.

Kelly sounds impassioned and put in tonnes of effort in these numbers; but better still she returns to her fan base, by appearing relatable, drawing listeners into a song instead of pushing them to the margin. This is a unique characteristic and while it still needs much honing, much of All I Ever Wanted acquits in accordance to Ms Clarkson's impressive potential.

United States of Tara

2009-05-22T20:00:00.004+08:00

In the quirky comedy series “United States of Tara”, Toni Collette plays a woman grappling with dissociative identity disorder, a condition left behind by a emotional scar in her early years.

Exotic-dancer-turned-indie-queen Diablo Cody, who won an Academy Award for the screenplay of the sleeper hit, “Juno” (a dark comic twist to teen pregnancy) is behind the conception of the hit TV series. “United States of Tara,” like “Juno,” reveals to us the common anxiety in a typical middle class family. Its lead actress, Toni Collette, possesses the rare gift of both to submerge beneath a role and to convince us that, regardless of what character she is supposed to portray, she reveals to us her core.

Don't judge the television show by its opening scene--in which the protagonist, Tara was talking into video camera--and think of it as another reincarnation of larger-than-life character helplessly deluded in self-consciousness. The video camera "confessional" is to assist in keeping track of her chaotic life, and track back where she left off, figuratively speaking, when she entered into transition.

Taking a nuanced approach to tackle the topic of psychological disorder, the writers manage to avoid both the empathy-evoking melodrama and easy route to popular comedy. There are three well-defined personalities, each of them embodies a coping mechanism to defend her loved ones; they prove to be a handful to the quotidian family because neither one of them bears any semblance to Tara. You cannot decide between sympathy or schadenfreude for her teenage kids, Marshall and Kate; their reaction, either nonchalantly accepting the alters or bonding with them , is anything but dysfunctional.

First there is T, a promiscuous, rebellious fifteen-year-old, who paradoxically undermines the authority figure of Tara and frequently reminds her the limit of her parenting. Then we meet Buck, a philistine, world-weary (supposedly) Vietnam war veteran; "He" extends anarchy and unleashed the repressed anger and frustration of Tara. If any of the above alters fail to impress you, get ready to know Alice, a 1950s industrious and anal-retentive housewife. She institutes calm and peace to compensate for the chaotic aftermath of T and Buck.

General stereotypes these alters maybe, but the the cast renders the moments of transition and the ensuing complication unexpectedly poignant

Ultimately, Tara’s alters not only can be seen as proverbial pieces of the puzzle, but also act as a constant reminder to us of our unfulfilled desire and deep beneath our "united states" are fragile co-existence between unconscious, subconscious and conscious.

Inglorious

2009-05-15T10:52:00.005+08:00

I think anyone can relate to the underlying fundamental theme of the novel: the recovery of loss and the reconstruction of the self, in order to create the ideal being. It is clear that the life journey of the primary character is meant to be seen and read as metaphors and analogies for the quest for spiritual perfection itself. Even when the the author discusses the theme of philosophy at length, it is meant to serve as a primer for an even more important quest for spiritual harmony and co-existence with the universe.

The abrupt abandonment of her work place lulled her to a happy state of being and calmness in thinking, which transiently opens the way for wisdom and enlightenment. Such concerns for spiritual development are extensive and evident throughout and they point to a clear influence from western philosophical figures dating as far as Aristotle. Attempting to address the question of singularity of God, she frequently encountered the manifestation of dualism and pluralism in the world--for which she interpreted as an expression of the multifarious abundance of God’s power, for in reality there is only one final cause and one prime mover behind the universe.

By rendering all dualisms – life and death, abundance and poverty – essentially false and phenomenal, the author paves the way for the re-construction and rediscovery of the unitary self; which is the theme of the narrative in the first place. The protagonist in the narrative underwent trials and tribulations, only to recognise her own ignorance and weakness, and eventually rise above them. The theme of existential crisis is ultimately overtaken by the closing theme of recovery and the re-establishment of her true self. All of these are unfold through the narrative device of personal disasters and lessons learnt from these episodes.

Kudos to Joanna Kavenna for her fluid prose and comical overtone to redefine modern life honestly and wittily; which crudely jolted the self-examination of oneself. By remaining steadfast in her quest to answer ontological and eschatological enigma, the protagonist went against the tide of popular conventions and common prejudices; thereby proving once again that while conformity which is etched in our collective psyche may prosper our life, the slippery sloth to search the identity and truth of our being remain just as unattainable.

Ching Ming Redefined

2009-05-07T12:55:00.005+08:00

It is that time of the year my family and the Chinese populace in general will embark on a frantic routine of procuring the necessary paraphernalia, braving the dreadful traffic en route to the destination and spending an early morning in the meandering enclave of cemetery.

Seems like everybody is affected by the current economic turmoil. Even those dwelling in the netherworld will be affected indirectly due to the belt-tightening and mild scrimping as their descendants shore up their finances to weather the storm. The austere household bean counter will have an easier time in slashing the budget for the annual Ching Ming offering--as compared to the fixed, non-seasonal expenditure--in the absence of melancholic moaning and hair-tearing histrionic of those affected.

Of course we can seek solace in the widespread recessionary impulse to find random absurd positives in the most unlikely places. For example, marking Ching Ming on a smaller scale means lesser amount of carbon dioxide to be released and thus contributing to the environment. It makes sense that even as we reel from the recession's myriad negative effects, we are seeking the silver lining to the downturn.

Over the years, filial piety, cherished beliefs and traditional values has converged into one cultural ritual in which we pay our respect to our ancestor--a way of life that we steadfastly adhere to simply for our existential identity. It acts as an anchor in the vertiginous gulfs of uncertainty as the line of distinction between individual is blurred beyond discernation as we are collaged into the global village.

It is an anthropological urge for us to try to set ourselves out from the crowd, culminating into explicit techniques as frequent reminder for our distinct identity: Chinese New Year punctuated by fanciful fireworks, exotic mooncakes for Mid-Autumm Festival and manifold dumplings during Dragonboat Festival. In this era, when it comes to asserting our ethno-cultural beliefs, that time-honoured resolve poses as a dire challenge. So an economy in peril allows us to go back to basics; it presented us the rare opportunity to realign the context of the occasion and a more meaningful re-interpretation: focus on the spiritual fulfillment instead of the materialistic ostentation.

Reasons behind the mass exodus and immigration to the south maybe the topic wide open for debate and discussion, we have the obligation for posterity to preserve our priceless cultural commodity: historical root and inheritance of wisdom. Oral narration regarding the inhumane sufferings during Japanese occupation, to be caught in between in the war of communism and trauma faced in the ugly episode of 13th May racial riot (instead of the whitewashed version in a mere paragraph or sentence in the current history textbook) should be preserved at all cost. Cherishing one's mother tongue, safeguarding family secret recipe and upholding idiosyncratic tradition: these are just the some of the duties that bound each of us.

Our resilience in the face of adversity that keeps the otherwise antiquated practice, such as this in remembrance of our forefathers, relevant to modernity, even with the relentless onslaught of twitter (face it, blog is the new MSM), facebook and youtube.

Mortgage

2009-04-28T14:42:00.002+08:00

For some: it is the turning on of the ignition key as you eagerly breath in the mixed scents of new car smell and strategically-placed car perfume; the upbeat music blasted at maximum volume with the surround sound stereo; the glistening leather upholstery and the off-the-rack bling-bling decor partly inspired by or straight out from "Pimp My Ride".

It also comes in the form of the smooth texture of the crisp new notes out from ATMs at your first pay day; upholding your end of the bargain in the unwritten contract of intergenerational reciprocity; every pathologically repressed irrational impulse during window shopping is answered on the spot by a piece of plastic.

In other words--rites of passage for us to leave behind the opaque cocoon of innocent childhood and step into the grown-up world; no more lingering resentfully with a chip on the shoulder in the adolescent stage, invariably challenging the authority à la rebel without a cause.

Though short of clandestinely inking a deal with the devil or sign away freedom by indentured servitude, the feeling that grasped over me while assigning my John Hancock on those pile of papers filled with inscrutable legalese and financial jargons is anything but ordinary. The fact that I sign off the papers without a vague hint of nervousness is a miracle to me. Aside from becoming the partial proprietor of the a double-storey terrace house, I just signed away 30 years of my life where I am obliged the task dreaded by most: mortgage payment.

Hope I am not fuelling another bubble though.

Recessionary Revenge

2009-04-13T12:27:00.002+08:00

Remember the days when songs with the particular theme of empowering women always paint a feminist iconography of violence against the cheating men after catching them flagrante delicto? Whether it is, literally and figuratively in the case of deceased Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes, burning down the house or throwing out their belongings (preferably in a bonefire), borderline misandrist songwriters had advocated a sworn vendetta against philandering cads for all the injustice and marginalisation.

Not quite the same if the men are caught in the similar predicament, we resort to "Cry Me A River" and hope that "What Goes Around" eventually comes around.

Of course the gender-specific genre revolutionised on a more playful and flirtatious overtone with new crop of talents swamping the industry on an annual basis. Katie Perry's "I Kissed a Girl" not only transcended the era of Cyndi Lauper's "Girl Just Wanna Have Some Fun"-inspired transgression on traditions and norms, as exasperated in Gwen Stefani-penned "Just A Girl"; but in the same time became the manifestation of freedom of choice--an inalienable core of any liberal activisms, especially feminism.

But now that the last frontier was crossed: Iceland had chosen a lesbian as the prime minister. All bets are that bête noire du jour will be chosen in time to channel anger and frustration over the state of the world. The answer? The now defunct, neutered and splayed masters of the universe of course! Frustrated over their callousness, now is the time to lyrically lynch them in the most unpalatable fashion imaginable. After we are done with the corporate scumbag, we then move on to the financial regulators and watchdogs whose ineffectual oversight has contributed significantly to the crisis. Then we save the best for last: the bickering politicians. Their monotonous dicdatic rhetorics have done nothing but escalate the turmoil further.

Come on songwriters! It is time for you to act!

*Playing Gwen Stefani "What You Waiting For"*

Memory From Primary School : Mathematics

2009-04-07T10:10:00.004+08:00

Every now and then, there would be report of how chinese-medium primary school are producing students with better performance at mathematics and such. You probably would be misled (probably by the clandestine organisation of loan sharks) into thinking the chinese are either genetically predisposed to be affluent in numerical matters or holding the mythical keys to unlock the secrets of pedagogical miracle. But let me assure you it is no coincidence but rather through systematic imposition of the expression: practice make perfect.

Every morning, the start of a school day would be punctuated by the outlining a square section in the corner of the blackboard. No terse homily or ironic aphorism as the uplifting panacea for the monday blue would be written but rather the dreaded list of homework and hovering above it the token proverb aka constant reminder of finishing the works on the day itself (今日事，今日毕).

Assigning the homework as they continue on the day's teaching, we could only haplessly witness our recreation time allotment diminished with each stroke of chalk. Despite the ensuing pleads of bargaining and negotiating, the contents threatened to breach the boundary of the designated space even before recess. By the end of the day, the patented box had balefully colonialised whatever meagre amount of time that was left for enjoyment.

Cannot even imagine the amount of homework nowadays since chinese primary school children need to learn Science and Mathematic both in English and Chinese.

You can be sure any ingrained enmity towards numbers can be crushed mercilessly......

Music Censorship

2009-03-30T09:12:00.002+08:00

Not contend with their book banning and movie censoring, our overzealous puritanical officials made their foray into the music. Their repertoire started from arbitrarily interdicting titles, which are cobweb breeding ground at the intellectual/religion shelves anyway if not for the "publicity", for the good of the nation; it ventured to deny red-blooded neanderthal meathead to ogle at Angelina Jolie's svelte figure and shun Tony Leung's legion of swooning fans from peeking at his scrotum.

However, all these seemed to be insufficient to hinder the naive tractable Malaysian citizens from rapidly descend into a conflagration of immorality and anarchy.

Substituting "shit" with "stuffs" in Avril Lavigne's "My Happy Ending" or "ass" with "ends" in Pink's "Get The Party Started" may not drastically alter the intended context or deprive them of the intrinsic nuances, be it implicit or explicit in nature. One cannot help but wonder who they are trying to protect amidst the proliferation of illegal download of the uncensored songs in the cyber age? Never mind the fact that " motherfucking princess" is not quite the same with the non-offensive watered-down version--"one and only princess". Yet when their perternatural penchant to sanitise the choice of lyrics failed miserably due to their worn-out ingenuity, they simply censored out the profanities: case in point--Katy Perry's slur in relation to PMS.

Our patented moral gestapo's humble beginnings at expletives and slurs are taken up a notch by bleeping out "beer" in Beyonce's "If I Am A Boy". Somehow the bleeped out word in the feminist anthem is sending subliminal prurient fantasy where scantily clad Beyonce coquettishly offering you that mug of malt joy and velvety blackness. Do they really think that by listening to the song over time will send the teetotaling lot of us to a carousing spiral into moral depravity?

Their latest masterstroke in censoring out "girl" out from Katy Perry's "I Kissed A Girl" just boosted the perceived endorsement of bisexuality and promiscuity of the hit song; not to mention technically and categorically eviscerate it.

The reasoning behind the censoring are dressed up in haughty self-righteousness and lingering smack of totalitarianism. If they really think the songs are a harm to the conservative society of Malaysia, they might as well ban the songs altogether!

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

2009-03-23T10:46:00.001+08:00

The author, Junot Diaz in his eponymous debut, eloquently expatiated upon the theme of magical realism. Weaving the leitmotif in the gripping crescendo of his narrative, from a consortium of piquant anecdotes to surreal prose gratuitously filled with analogy quoted from science fiction and epic fantasy, the author has left me nonplussed. Footnotes aplenty to provide the ancillary background of the historical and cultural roots of the protagonist Oscar's family. His unabashed lyricism was coded in ghetto slangs and profanities which are distinctive features of the sub-culture permeated by the immigrant community deeply rooted in the US mainstream social fabric.

Perhaps Lev Grossman put it more succinctly: Junot Diaz has hauled off with "a massive, heaving, sparking tragicomedy".

树

2009-03-16T20:23:00.006+08:00

他
生于娑罗树
菩提树下禅定四十九日
战胜天魔的威胁与诱惑
修成正果悟出真理
涅槃后入灭于孕育点

他
在苹果树下悠闲
亚当与夏娃不再如影随形
蛇不再天花乱坠
但却在禁果的因缘下
阐示出万有引力

他
休息在马六甲树下
受到鼠鹿的感召
灵光一触
败寇竟成王
繁衍马来王朝的伟人事迹

他们
纷纷嚷嚷
却不在宗教的真谛里如沐春风
不共享物理之父的欣喜
不是辉煌岁月的证人

他们在堆砌民主的墓铭志
在黄火焰树下!

My Near Death Experience

2009-03-10T13:52:00.003+08:00

If commonly perceived imagery of near-death experience is anything to go by, I am not so sure mine can be considered as a life-changing episode which warrants soul searching, ecclesiastical enlightment and religion rekindling.

No appearance of omniscient and omnipotent celestial being, preferably in a reassuring baritone of voice-over by venerable thespians such as Morgan Freeman or James Earl Jones, in the passenger seat to dispense universal truism worthy to be compiled into a gospel of its own. No flashing of entire life, edited in the most professional way, in the form of sepia-toned old movie or snazzy post-modern montage with just the right amount of virtue and vice I was accounted for. No metaphysical manifestation of the mythical crossing over the proverbial tunnel to a brightly-lid, supposedly better place. No scythe-wielding grim reaper or ox-head and horse-face presented himself as the dreadful escort in a trip to the netherworld.

I was driving along the highway on the left lane while a medium-sized trailer was right beside me on the middle lane. When out of a sudden, the trailer hit me on the right. My car lost all control as it made a few turn and rammed into the divider on the left lane. What feels like an eternity unravelled in a split second in those dreaded moments as I was almost certain vehicles from behind would have hit me if not because of the little amount of traffic early in the morning. Almost felt like I was a stuntman attempting a death-defying act for the latest Michael Bay /Steven Spielberg blockbuster arriving in our silver screen for the summer.

With one exception of course--I emerged from the crash unscathed. What are the odds for that!

Come to think of that. Maybe it is time to try one of the aforementioned spiritual cleansing after all, after I am done counting my blessing.

水劫

2009-03-05T13:34:00.004+08:00

1. 水劫来袭

风雨下
沉溺在车水马龙里
仿佛听到
路牌与交通灯交头接耳
天桥与斑马线窃窃私语
游走在熙攘人潮里
似乎窥视着
霓虹灯的泪水
广告牌的无奈
沉淀并滞留在沥青与混凝土之间

2. 水劫之后

风和
迅速地氧化情绪
日丽
却晒不干发霉的心情

Don't Stop The Music

2009-02-26T14:21:00.005+08:00

Strange as it may sound but I always wander what it is like when new generation of punks give a wide berth to the music of my times. The rude awakening arrived sooner rather than later: when MTV start playing the videos of your favourite artists in the ungodly retro time slot.

One of that moment that portends end of an era.

You know, the time when you step in the shoes of the edentulous sclerotic octogenarian and squint as hard as you can at your living room television's technicoloured videos played on stentorian decibel, which will not annoy you one bit as your auditory system had succumbed to ageing, to realise that it is strangely familiar archaic archive montage of videos of your favourite artist. You squint even harder to the finer print at the screen to figure out the purpose behind it--to commemorate their recent demise. And you start wondering isn't it just yesterday they were given the lifetime achievement awards, only to reach the epiphany that Alzheimer's has finally devoured every last remnant of your short-term memory.

Or you can notice along the way when attractive physical attributes, be it harmone-driven development or store-bought procedural enhancement, can no longer defy the faithful law of gravity. You start to develop the strangely familiar animosity against the latest airwave-dominating, chart-topping discography choice of the whippersnapper du jour. Gradually another ground-shattering new talent became the frequently quoted suffix or pop culture reference point (as in labelling Avril Lavigne as anti-Britney). Or worse-when critics start denoting the dreaded prefix post to the cultural phenomenon you were part of (as in post-American Idol)

Just the thought of it is enough to make me shudder.

As we try to make sense of the hitherto unshaped zeitgeist of the 2000s and search for the definitive cultural shift--like the The Beatles in the 60s, disco in the 70s and MTV in the 80s--maybe nothing like the compelling narrative behind the TIME 2006 Person of The Year (awarded to the public who revolutionised Internet) summarise it better: you maybe part of the revolutionary force without even knowing it.

The Road Home

2009-02-13T11:15:00.001+08:00

Rose Tremain's latest novel depicts the trials and tribulations of Lev who emigrated to London from an unnamed Eastern European country. Through Lev's eyes, or rather the crisp certitude of the author's pen, caricatured idiosyncrasies and burlesque travesties of capitalism, from the obesity plague to commercialised christmas gifts, senselessly bombarded the protagonist as opposed to his manifest communist roots. The embodiment of of materialism was perhaps quintessentially marked by Lev's housemate, Christy's pronouncement of the former's London citizenship after his mobile phone ownership.

Generous portion of the novel involved Lev's self-introspection. Aside from providing financial care to his family back in home, his jobs served as allusion his inner struggle: dish cleaning signified his effort of whitewashing his checkered past, vegetable preparation symbolised his deconstructing and realigning the broken pieces of his inner self and farming in Suffolk marked his return to his working class origin. Development of culinary skills, which he turned into his cathartical outlet for his grievances, had enabled him to dreamed the impossible and revolutionised his life as his homeland was swept away under a dam development.

This is a novel deeply concerned with loss and displacement, but also the opportunities and challenges they present. Its pervading powerful emotional undercurrent reinforced the wistful observation that life has a way of taking its own path.

You Jump, I Jump

2009-02-04T21:14:00.002+08:00

(You jump, I jump
永垂不朽的经典戏码
赚人热泪的旷世悲剧
百听不厌的黄金对白
拍案叫绝的煽情演出
竟已渗透圣洁的民主壁垒）

风雨欲来
吹散了神台的祭品
屹立不到的甘蔗
岌岌可危
金黄色的烧猪
已是鸦群的腹中物
散落在地上
任人践踏
昔日喊得漫天价响
而今分文不值
被供奉的神明
安然无恙
坐骑正是金蟾！

先兆是一片蛙鸣
本该冬眠
却异常活跃
发情周期在作祟？
或者是季候风的咒怨？
在泥泞中坐井观天
渴望公主一吻
鱼跃龙门
细细咀嚼被玷污的天鹅
大雁冷眼相看
但在火眼金睛下无所遁形
没有童话的结局
一如既往地沉溺在
藏污纳垢的沼泽里

依然在满天猖狂的飞虫
无人问津!

Reunion

2009-01-29T10:04:00.006+08:00

Chinese New Year marks the occasion where family gathered for reunion dinner where everyone, regardless of culinary skills or lack thereof, chip in to prepare the feast. An arduous task made simple (or more chaotic) by the sheer number of relatives who deftly multi-tasked between cooking and gossip-exchanging. You just have to give it to them to exhume skeletons from the closets of the extended family with the effectiveness of all three CSI teams combined.

Add in a troupe of rambunctious cousins into the picture and the reunion was well underway.

And yet I cannot help but wonder about the difference in size of family between the two generations. With a crumbling antiquated fecund proclivity of our forefathers, comes modern reproductivity culs-de-sac. Either due to diminished sex life or it evolved into a recreational activity rather than for its procreational provenance amidst the hedonistic debauchery we live in. Perhaps the heavily polluted environment finally compromise our biological imperative.

At least I can singularly postulate the phenomenon for my family, taking into account of both paternal and maternal lineage--with a few exceptions.

You probably have a glimpse or two into the vignettes of the family saga when your parents tried their best to guilt trip the bejesus out of you with the off-coloured narrations, or reimagination, of their anecdotes on childhood memory and coming-of-age: the taciturn stoic eldest sibling dropped out from school to fend for the young; the downtrodden resentful middle one bitterly estranged from the fold for reasons long forgotten; the ungrateful recalcitrant young ones veered off to the wrong side of the track and mortgaged their future away.

A veritable family portrait worthy of a Zhang Yimou tearjerker.

Though mostly shrugged off by the next generation spawn with studied indifference, I for one sometimes wonder what is it like to grow up in such a big family. How did one live through the lavatory rationing in the morning rush (or god forbid the mass food poisoning), the expletive-filled quarrels tinged with soprano-worthy vocal flair and the endless prandial brawl over that piece of succulent drumstick.

Financially unsustainable no doubt considering today's living cost even in the B.C. (Before Crunch) period. Or worse, factoring the economic downturn quotient in the A.D. (After Disaster) era.

Spring Cleaning

2009-01-19T08:49:00.006+08:00

Far from being one of the picture-perfect households literally jumping off the glossy Ikea catalogues or lining up in the high-maintenance Wisteria-Lane-worthy suburbia, my household is in dire need of the annual spring cleaning to shed its state of perpetual general disarray and transforms it into a gemütlich environment modest enough for the arriving troupe of my relatives; not forgetting the Dennis The Menace rascals in tow to turn it upside down--and inside out if they conveniently miss their prescriptions of ADD medications.

Heck, even the prerequisite paraphernalia need some minor dusting off.

Time of the year again for cobweb culling, massive de-cluttering and overhaul of furniture alignment to chase away baleful feng shui and invite in the prosperous one. Nobody is allowed to give a wide berth to or weasel out of the chore unless you are woefully inflicted in a temporary quadriplegic state. Far from resembling a structured exercise in semi-fascist ordeliness; our version of the mundane task came fairly close to qualify for an apocalyptic dystopia of alarums and excursions. First battle lines were already drawn on the choice of songs to give a carnival feel: while my parents prefer classical repertoire of the bygone era, my predilection settles on getting down and "Dirrty" with the proletariat singalong of "Car Wash"

Yet we still find joy in discovering long lost treasures, which miraculously turned up out of nowhere, as we winnowed the junks from the usable. And of course the sense of relief from the physical-strength-draining task derived from the commingling scent of fresh paint and vaporised bleach in the same breath.

Though substantial amount of calories were burnt in the process, being drawn to the irresistible lure of the ubiquitous ba gua (barbecued meat) and mandarin oranges even before the kickstart of the new year offset the effort at once.:p

American Idol

2009-01-13T10:07:00.005+08:00

Economy on a harakiri plunge? Skyrocketting unemployment? Fear not... American Idol to the rescue! The reality show will probably be one of the surviving revenue-generating privately owned entreprise cushioned from the depression. Now that more time are available spent on hold trying to vote, it takes no nobel-prize-winning economist to come up with the back of the envelope estimate of that pot of gold. Forget about the trillion-dollar stimulus, the reality show will be the back-up cathartical outlet to purge the American public from Palinitis fever, Blagojevichian balderdash and Madoffian fraud once the Obama inaguration wears off its magic.

From the white house to talent search, the baton of US's media domination is handed over, hauntingly with the unmistakable sense of déjà vu, to a chatty black guy, a cranky woman of certain age and a curmudgeonic white guy. Doesn't really matter anyway as long as poll number tracking and door-to-door canvassing are kept at bay. Definitely a much desired respite from being caught off-guard in watercooler chat of Keynesian economics, fiscal deficit and (god forbid) credit-default swap or collateralised debt obligation; now that the latest season is on, finally the topic can be back to who do you vote for and who got booted out.

Recently retrenched from work? Suffering from job anxiety? All you need is just to look at the perseverance of those vocally-challenged overnight-sensation wannabes, cheered on by their selectively tone-deaf family and friends in tow, in the tryouts belting out singsongy rendition of classics and hits; surely the US economy will endure the depression if the handful of her citizens who masochistically submitted themselves to the public humiliation ritual--enduring Paula Abdul's condescending compliment and withstanding Simon Cowell's snarky judgement--in an annual basis are anything to go by.

Sit back and enjoy the ride!

Chinese New Year Shopping

2009-01-07T14:10:00.011+08:00

Just barely crawled out from the morning-after hangover--probably minus a million brain cells and a few liver tissues--after the Christmas cum New Year bacchanals before rummaging the fridge and hopefully some leftover turkey and still-edible tang yuan turned up miraculously, but before you know it you are already caught in the crossfire fuelled by fresh amunition of advertisement blitz punctuated by Chinese New Year in every media imaginable.

On Christmas day itself, in my neighbourhood mall, oriental lanterns and flashy decorations were festively festooned to replace Star of Bethlehem and mistletoe; hastily hashed-up simulacrum of prosperity god are in vicinity to step in the place of its christian counterpart--santa clause; a sea of Lunar New Year-associated merchandise inundated racks previously occupied by emetic scented candles, bespoke miniature nativity scene replicas and ersatz seasonal ornaments. An ubiquitous presence preceding the irredeemable hemorrhage of bank accounts, gung-ho salesgirls with Cheshire cat grin peddling beers quasi-coquettishly or eagerly enticing customers with delectable samples.

Either the bulk purchase discount was insanely irresistible or partially hypnotised by the hackneyed rendition of celebratory classics, shoppers were spotted leaving the mall with their wallet lighter and trolley full to the brim.

Happy shopping everyone.

Receptionist Nightmare

2009-01-02T15:58:00.001+08:00

Inopportunely occupying the desk formerly filled by a stenographer means that I need to step in the shoes of a receptionist (partly due to the telephone line arrangement) to compensate for her absence.

One day I happen to receive a caller with a thick accent from a certain subcontinent. Despite fully aware of his request, I seemed to be unable in getting the message across or to be more precise--he did not sound like he understood my English. If I could see his face right now, my guess is that a flummoxed one would greet me as though I was reciting esoteric religious scriptures from ancient tribes on the unscalable heights of the Himalayas. Fortunately the information he desired was a telephone number.

Another dreadful call from a woman who has been receiving compensation from my company for the temporary relocation due to the construction activities. According to the receptionist, she has gained notoriety for giving us hard time to us for not making timely payment. I got the taste of it the other day. At certain point of her braying, I swear she sound like she was chanting verses from the grimoire of demonology; From the way she unleashed her scorn, suddenly Hell seemed to be perfect escapade from the unforgiving heat of the tropical climate of Malaysia. I guess there are some truth for "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned".

Isn't receptionist's job a breeze in the air? Who thought it can be so mentally torturing?

Australia

2008-12-27T08:48:00.011+08:00

Finally a film where we can be marvelled by Hugh Jackman's australian accents after exploded to stardom affecting an american variant. All thanks to Baz Luhrmann's latest directorial effort--an unabashed continuation of his trademark flamboyant theatricality and oversaturated bold colours (albeit with subtler tone)--to razzle-dazzle us with an epic romance set against the cauldron of imminent second world war in 1940s northern Australia, inhabited by colonialists, truculent natives and clairvoyant witch doctors.

Who cares about the mawkishly sentimentalised clichés when you have Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman burning the silver screen with their star-crossed kitsch affair. Nothing more gratifying than to witness the blossoming romance between the squeamish patrician trophy-wife-turned-grieving-widow, whose steaming earl grey and caviar-covered canapé were substituted with horse whip and cow dung, and the gruff swaggering rustic who fetishised on hybridising Thoroughbred and wild steed (can they be more blatant on the connotation?).

Sidetracking the narrative with atonement (and thankfully without whitewashing) for the vestigial sin left behind by the colonialist past--cultural culling of Aborigines...and...voila a wholesome epic is poised on to be launched into the upcoming award season--probably a technical award or two if totally snubbed for the upper tier.

The Winter Solstice Festival (冬至)

2008-12-19T12:19:00.006+08:00

Probably one of the least heralded cultural celebration in Malaysia amidst the wistful reverie in which pecuniary woes of ballooning credit card bills are relieved by bonuses and painful decision on which Christimas/New Year party to RSVP as the year draws to a close. Before anyone knows, the winter solstice comes and goes without the (pre-recession) pompous commercialisation and shopping craze, vaguely resembling a ragamuffin stampede over spare change, to accumulate enough commodities to furnish a bomb shelter. With just barely few weeks away from Chinese New Year, it is not quite the de rigueur occasion that sends us ventre à terre to our respective hometowns at the eve of the festival itself.

Maybe due to the lack of farraginous fabulation in the forms of suicidal poet and bashful nymphet.

Our geographical proximity to the Equator doesn't help either. Obviously the practice of observing the longest night of the year was the homesick-spurring custom our forefathers could manage without in their southbound emigration to Malaysia, whose quaint amenity of tropical climate rendered such practice moot. Yet the reunion repast and tang yuan, a delicacy made from glutinous rice flour, are modestly preserved to cherish family togetherness.

Happy Dongzhi everyone!

The Secret Scripture

2008-12-15T09:24:00.004+08:00

Reading through "The Secret Scripture", the thematic resonation of the artwork and colour palette fixated on the cover to the story inside washed over me subtly.

The protagonist of Sebastian Barry's latest work, Roseanne, itemised (a word repeatedly used by the author in the novel) her life experience against a backdrop of upheaval in 1930's Ireland, filled with unremitting grief and rare delight, into a compendium of narratives. Not in the warm comfort by a fireplace but rather in a repulsively decadent asylum and nearing her 100th birthday, she scavenged every last piddling of memory to unravel a tapestry of events which tragically led up to her being committed to the godforsaken institution. Interlacing the protagonist's memoir is her psychiatrist Dr Greene's journal which include, inter alia, his personal turmoil and his assessment of his patient, Roseanne.

The author has molded a solitary aesthetic wrapped up in the asylum, unoccupied by flutter and disarray, trapped in the delicate balance between inaction and atrophy. Its sterility snuffed out every discernible foreign life form. Mr Barry's prose, weaved in a language of transcending poetic beauty, certainly alleviated some of the pain the readers went through to bear witness to the unjust incarceration of a young woman for being too beautiful for a small town like Sligo. Being a Presbytarian against a predominantly Catholic Irishmen, Roseanne represented the terrible scar from the civil war of Ireland whose occupants has all but sedimented underneath their collective psyche.

The two seemingly independent narratives of the two disparate characters are coalesced to shockingly reveal the relationship between them in the final part of the novel. The author has definitely delivered a heart-wrenching novel, passionately concerned with how the traumas of the past inflect the present.

Women and Shoes

2008-12-09T11:32:00.004+08:00

Let's face it: no matter how many times we read "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" or skim other academic findings in abundance to figure out differences between adam and eve, we can never fully appreciate the nuanced complexity of mechanics behind one of the most inscrutable disparity of the world. Just like in any case with any other cultural differences, a movement was born to address the imbalance or inequality against the weaker segment of the twain factions. Thus, feminism existed to decree a war against the male chauvinists.

No doubt ever since the proverbial bra burning bonfire, women had came a long way after trudging the bloody detritus and minatory shrapnel of broken glass ceiling--or in erstwhile Japanese prime minister hopeful Yuriko Koike's case, the sizzling molten of iron plate--to be where they are now.

But how deep feminism rooted in the mindset of its target audience?

A case in point.

It happened when a group of friend and I were shopping. As we walked, a female acquittance complained of a foot pain. Everybody's attention was shifted to her shoes to ascertain the culprit behind the menace. Evidently the high heels she wore did not agree with her promenading regime. It was not how she explained the difference between cuban or stiletto heels but rather her comment that left an indelible impression in my thoughts.

"It's only because of you guys that girls need to wear heels!" exclaimed her as though the words would be the much-needed palliative for her agony.

Blaming half of the populace for your willful act of mobility impairment by affectating enforced feminity? Talk about putting her feet in her mouth. If she was, or is still, against the idea of wearing high heels to please the men, why wear the stature-raising apparel in the first place?

I am all for a woman's rights to shoes but lady... don't forget your right to choose.

The Gathering

2008-12-02T09:13:00.003+08:00

If you get fooled by the title of Anne Enright's fourth novel "The Gathering" that suggests nauseating schmaltz of a cozy get-together, then be ready to judge the book by its cover--or in this case a burnt-out sepia toned family portrait.

At first it felt like skimming a series of jarring staccato of hazy recollection to parse the passing of a loved one but after first few chapters, the bleakness seeped into my bones like the crisp chill of November monsoon. Aside from the unsettling ramifications brought on to the protoganist's life, her angry and restless conscious regularly haunted her from time to time as she coped with the consequences of the bereavement.

Potrait of a sprawling genealogy of an Irish family was unfurled in its full glory starting from the protagonist's imagined inception of her maternal grandmother to her parents and finally her canvass of a chaotic sibling galore. The interregnum where her memory faded or blanked out forcefully were filled with conjecture, or reimagination, of the events may or may not happen to piece together clues to explain the cross-generational pain and suffering.

As A.L. Kennedy put in succinctly in her review of the book: Enright's work is clearly the product of a remarkable intelligence, combined with a gift for observation and deduction.

The Class War

2008-11-25T12:52:00.009+08:00

As one of the time-honoured themes of Hong Kong Cantonese serials or any other medium of insufferable soap drama, the class war had been a perennial favourite with a kitsch appeal to the vulgus. Somehow the audience mainline the over-recycled storyline and in a sense emphatise with the tragic love story. You know, the one where indigent riff-raff and destitute rabble tried to woo the swooning vestal virgin of the thoroughbreds much to the dismay of both of their extended clan members and assorted relatives. Probably bitter rivals at first but they would be besotted with amour in spite of the latent insuperable barrier. Their persistent chutzpah, characteristically inherent or born out of necessity, was no match to the onslaught of pillorying by the community, from both sides of the schism.

*SPOILER ALERT*

In "when easterly showers fall on sunny west"--yet another installment of a Cantonese serial to charter the chronicle of one such tale--Liza Wang (汪明荃) played haughtily domineering matriarch who sacrificed her first born (Joe Ma/马德钟) just to be married honourably into the rich and powerful Poon clan. If you think the innocent scion was a bastard ...Gasp!... He was conceived in an inebriated tryst with the fiancée before the actual ceremony. On other Charmaine Sheh (佘诗曼) portrayed a perky plucky damsel whose family fortune was bereft over the years after the demise of the paterfamilias. She was chased after by legitimate son of Poon clan Raymond Wong (黃浩然) and befriended technically illegitimate one; it is a brainer here to forsee the simmering triangle bound to take into shape.

By the time I am writing this, the body count were two.

Get your Kleenex ready.

Gossip Guru

2008-11-22T09:26:00.010+08:00

Walking down to the memory lane vicariously through reprobate jailbait and overwrought debutante in "Gossip Girl" reminded me of my high school years. Not the part about attending white party flanked by glitterati and grooving to the latest techno beats though, but rather the portion about scheming and bitching.

Albeit with lesser salaciousness and nastiness of the Manhattan elites.

I still remembered how my teachers convened in the little computer room in the library under the pretense of data entry and utilitarian paperworks. As part my unofficial job description of a teacher's pet, those aforementioned tasks fall onto my laps occasionally by default. While sharing what woe betide them at domestical front, they would casually tore up every last shred of tattered reputation of the few colleagues collectively loathed by the clique. Another favourite subject is the diminished respect for the profession; Stopped short of singing an aria of plaintiveness to the disproportionate truckload of works for their pittance but still they mildly inculcate me the perils of pedagogy as career choice.

Sometimes even the lab assistants dropped by to invite us into mystery-solving of the semi- regular pilfering in the chemicals storage cabinet. Based on the amounts and properties of the ripped-off hodgepodge, either the boys were seriously opting for alternative warfare in the neighbourhood gang fight or they were concocting cocktail of avant garde stimulants for midnight mat rempit ¹ sessions.

And that, my dear Watson, is ...... Though as much as we wanted to close the chapter, the mindboggler was never brought to a remotely satisfying conclusion as our deductions were not justified by the strictly sticks and fists in schoolboy melee and untimely demise of the street racers at the cold, uncaring concrete of the sidewalks.

Despite acrimoniously lambasting one another indoor, thank God the gossiping did not end up like this...

XOXO. :)

1. Mat Rempit is a Malay slang for illegal motorcycle racers↑

The White Tiger

2008-11-17T10:27:00.007+08:00

In his eponymous debut, Aravind Adiga's way of vivisecting the vicissitudes of the Indian class system is such an audacious attempt to lay it bare to the rest of the world. His unapologetic and remonstrative tone took a stab, at point blank, at every aspect of life--from family to politics-- with a pessimistic subtext. I cannot help but be desponded by the glaring incongruity of the Darkness (the analogy for hardcore poverty in the novel) amidst the sprawling development. Instead of unadulterated belletristic literary style, the writer presented the yawning chasm between rich and poor in the rising superpower with simple, straight-to-the-point analogy.

Told from the point of view of the protagonist (Balram), in an epistolary address to the premier of People Republic of China Wen Jiabao over the course of seven nights, the storytelling was laid out in trenchant prose in lieu of a grandiose one to drag the readers into the harsh reality at no time at all. Out of conceit with the status of being the lowest rung of the society, Balram braved the way, against all odds, to start from wet-behind-the-ears jejune and became an entrepreneur in Bangalore. Along the way, the malignant abscess--in the form of rampant corruption and tainted democracy--was disintered to him as was pulled into a cesspool of iniquities.

The unremitting chill, sent down my spine after few pages, lingered in my bone long after I finished this through-and-through satirical inspection of the largest democracy of the world.

Dialect Dilatation

2008-11-08T14:38:00.003+08:00

A common phenomenon in the plural society of Malaysia I guess to be a pseudo polyglot in their daily lives. Lucid enough you surmise to engage in scintillating discourse consisted of several languages that you learnt under the vernacular education system. Not so the case when you want to catch up with a certain patois of our national language from the north. Or what I describe as an idiosyncratic linguistic realm where they address each other as "hang", water is referred to as "ayak" and rodents are given infantile sobriquet called "Che Ti".

(For the unintiated, you is "kamu/engkau", water is "air" and rodent is "tikus" in conventional Malay)

Sometimes watching them converse in the semi-encrypted dialect, it is anyone's guess whether they were exchanging long-lost secret ingredient and assorted nameless condiments for assam laksa or venting random work-related peeves.

Which brings me to my mother tongue and its wide range of dialects that arrived in Malaysia with the diaspora of my race. Born into a Hakka paternal lineage, raised in a town whose lingua franca is Hokkien and grew up watching way too much Cantonese movies and serials, it is a shame that I only managed to fully comprehend and speak with limited fluency in the third. Polishing up my Cantonese in office through conversation with my supervisor and a slew of subcontractor has fine-tuned it from discordant balderdash to partially well-versed or at least a comprehensible-to-them version.

English, Malay, Mandarin, Cantonese. Now all I need is Hokkien to turn my office into Sepet (though sans the sweet panorama of Ipoh skyline). :)

Kuala Lumpur Flood Mitigation (Package B)

2008-11-05T08:33:00.006+08:00

Translation of the headline - No more flood woes in Klang Valley as Batu/Jinjang Ponds will be completed by the end of the year.

Though not spread out in front-page headline worth farthing of your attention or unfurled splendidly in souped-up, glossy feature in which stoic famous figures flanked by either side while staring vacuously into nowhere, it is a pseudo acknowledgement of sort for me. I came close to clutch the paper atremble with sense of accomplishment or parade the paper with an exultant glee as though I just won a Nobel prize if not for the fact that Kuala Lumpur Flood Mitigation (Package B) is not as famous as the new benchmark in international engineering standard of the Package A -- SMART Tunnel.

Not without its fair share of engineering thingamajig and acronym-laced gobbledegook right down to every minutiae, the package B was designed to divert the Gombak River and Keroh River flood discharges into Batu/Jinjang detention ponds before it hit the city. The most unique feature about this project is the SCADA system where a computerised system will trigger the gate operations once rising water level is detected.

Pip-pip and arrivederci to flash flood indeed.

The Gem of Life (珠光宝气)

2008-10-21T18:56:00.024+08:00

Seems like there is no escaping from greed and power chased after by human ages after ages. From the high hollowed walls of royal palace to the unforgiving harsh terrain of Loess Plateau, men's ego clashed indiscreetly and women's hearts were shattered indiscriminately as the fatal facade of rich and powerful claimed its victims rapaciously. Their desire, vulnerability and mercilessness in riding rougshod over their nemesis and foes were tragically juxtaposed against the cruel uncaring snow and shifting raucous sand. The storyline may changed from conniving concubines to warring clans but tear down the surprisingly thin veneer and you could find nothing but lacerating melancholy and searing suffering beneath the resplendent accoutrement.

Modelled after the famous Soong sisters legacy, "The Gem of Life" reunited Maggie Siu, Gigi Lai and Ada Choi as the charactestically estranged sisters. As the hardworking stubborn Sylvia (Maggie Siu), "love conquers all" notion subscriber Constance (Gigi Lai) and the ruthless Jessica (Ada Choi) consecrate their life to glitz and glamour, little do they know what is in store for them as they embark on the circuitous journey of finding their true love. After the larger-than-life protrayals of matriach in the "Heart of Greed" installments, Louise Lee (李司棋) reprised her motherly role, albeit with a conspicious foible to marry off her daughters into rich families at whatever cost.

Bring on the catfights and bitchslap!

Sarah Palin

2008-10-15T21:30:00.008+08:00

My last post may come out as incoherent gibberish--evidently from the way it ended inconclusively and abruptly--due to my unchacteristic grogginess from monday blue. Apparently the ungodly visit from the legendary Sandman and the tempting invites to a chess game from Duke of Zhou at my working hours not only hampered my productivity on Monday but also proved to be such detrimental deterrent to properly structured writing.

Speaking of incoherent gibberish, abruptly-ended statements and structured communication, I stumbled upon this Saturday Night Live skit unapologetically lampooned US vice president hopeful (hopeless?) Sarah Palin in her not-so-appealing maiden interview--yet another classic, self-depreciating american humour. Don't you find it amazing that even if the country is at a precipitous crossroad, their disinhibiting sense of humour pervades the nation, without showing a modicum of languidness, by feeding voraciously on political circus, prevalent insecurity and broken dreams.

Source : YouTube

Tina Fey kick ass!

Early Riser

2008-10-13T09:21:00.007+08:00

What is there not to be liked in the morning? Whether it is the comforting conflation of the sweet aroma of coffee and scents of inks from the newspaper or the spoiling for choices of varieties of breakfast served steaming hot right on my laps even before I have the chance to wipe out rheum from my eyes, they are just tip of the iceberg that encompasses beauties that I observe ever since I was biologically fine-tuned with waking up early--an act that Rose (one-half of the evil twin sisters from "Privileged") deemed an abomination that she kept a taser by her side should anyone dare to wake her up.

In theory, adopting this kind of lifestyle may sound harmless. However it is a completely different scenario when it was imposed involuntarily upon those with antipodal circadian rhythms. Back when I was in university, I shared a pied-à-terre with 8 coursemates and you can imagine how clash of lifestyle choices could lead to disharmony. Waking up early, it seemed back then in my house, is not as desirable as, say, ability to whip up home-cook meals. Especially in the case when you, after left with no other choice, needed to get through to the balcony via their room at ungodly hours (as far as their biological clocks are concerned).

Thank god the girls are not equipped with tasers.

Reunion

2008-10-10T08:28:00.011+08:00

An earth-shattering revelation of near-epic proportion hit me out of nowhere recently. No I am not about to launch an unfeeling assault on our outgoing prime minister or the detailed analysis of the fight for the deputy president of UMNO (which by tradition will be our deputy prime minister) which quickly transformed from mild intramural scrum into free-for-all claustrophobic buffet. Nor am I about to express worry over the impending economic crisis while our leaders are more engrossed in petty power mongering, mindless agenda-pushing and all that. This particular revelation is on a personal level at best.

Sure there is any no better way than a living testament to the tried-for-eons adage "the earth is a small place" and it hit me nearer than ever before--close at home to put it in exact terms. Even with a similar encounter, I am still rendered nonplussed by the sheer incredulity nonetheless.

Thanks to the wonder of virtual social networking, my long lost primary school friend stumbled upon me inadvertently through the most inextricable plexus imaginable. Then came the rude awakening to the fact that we are living in the same neighbourhood for the pass few years unbeknownst to both of us. Logical explanations are abound though for the us to defy all odds of running into each other. My protracted absence at my hometown during university years and her moving out to PJ a few years back had deferred our reunion and thank god our chance encounter was not a fatal accident (as what happened to Susan and the poor gal in Desperate Housewives).

The earth is a small place? How about a densely overstuffed hole for a change?

Mama Mia!

2008-10-04T08:26:00.013+08:00

Being partially blinded (or biased in a sense) by all the inalienable ingredients in a campy musical that include gleaming costumes, shining sequins and anachronistic platform heels, I find "Mama Mia" to be prepossessingly gratifying in toto. Set in an unembellished pristine Greek island encompassed by shimmering blue sea where the entire community dutifully doubled as the ever-ready chorus, it told of a tale in which the blushing bride frantically climbed the proverbial family tree to ascertain her paternity in the midst of preparing her wedding. Instead of a perfunctory biological test, they sang and danced their way to the ascertainment of the man who would perform the fatherly ritual at the wedding.

Forget about the asian female action star hailing from our soil, the unbelievably energetic women in a certain age played effortlessly by Meryl Streep and co could easily supersede the former as the undisputed spokesperson (and living proof no doubt) for osteoporosis-fighting, calcium-laden dairy products. I half suspected the whole lot of them were getting intravenous dosage of medicinal remedy for eternal bliss due to their inexplicable high-spirited non-stop jollification from the bachelor/bachelorette party right up to the aisle. The most noticeable flaw about the film was of course the vocally-challenged erstwhile Mr. Bond but heck you have to applaud his courage for giving it a shot. Astounded by seamlessly interlaced timeless classics from ABBA, it took quite awhile for me to pull myself out of the temporary moratorium of time and reality (and logic no less) in the film where Super Trouper, Dancing Queen and saccharine sweet ballads ushered you to connubial bliss.

First Time

2008-09-26T14:40:00.003+08:00

Long thought to be sealed tight by emotional detachment from anything remotely sentimental, I never thought it would emerge from its dormant state until a few days ago. Long buried beneath the unknown depth since time immemorial due to my innate disposition to overt display of emotions. Long shielded from any external excitement, be it first hand experience or conjuration of light and sound on the telly, I thought the mechanism involved in activating it would be rusty and beyond repair.

Sure during childhood some of you fully utilised this certain part of our anatomy to ruthlessly exploit your hapless caregivers into everything you desire. Being the ineluctable part of relationship, it would be flooded and overflowed occasionally during disharmony ranging from mild tiff to ferocious altercation. Housewives while away the leisure evening with it at dervish overdrive while they slouch at the couch keeping up with the latest series. It would be less developed in male anatomy as the collective society perception of the alpha macho male will never perform the unthinkable deed regardless the severity of the circumstances.

It felt great to did it for the first time.

Pajero

2008-09-11T09:00:00.012+08:00

It is a long held credence for red-blooded men irrespective of social standing or financial solvency to have their dream cars which came in various sizes and equipped with the smorgasbord of state-of-the-art parts and accessories. Due to my innate inaptitude in anything remotely mechanical or absence of automobile aficionado to influence me in my childhood/adolescent years, I always find it utterly perplexing whenever my peers can pinpoint and identify exactly the models /class/manufacturers of cars as they zoomed by on the streets. Tried watching F1 race to appreciate the unbridled enthusiasm of men for the event and was driven to comatose stupor in nary a second after the first lap.

I had my first taste of driving a gargantuan 4-wheel drive yesterday. I mustered the requisite cojones to mount the driver seat as the project manager kept insisting that I drove the diesel-guzzling automobile. The experience was like riding on roller coaster for the first time. You know how you got dragged haplessly and strapped on helplessly as the ride started. Before you know it, you want to ride it again provided it did not turn your digestive system inside out (and barring any mechanical mishap a la Final Destination 3 gruesome opening scene). The rush of adrenalin that infuse my vein as I got the hang of it gave me ruthless homicidal thoughts of ramming into cars and knocking down unwary pedestrians wantonly.

Who would have thought underneath my goody two shoes actually hidden a pairs of dirty socks.

*Playing Rihanna's Shut Up and Drive*

Racist Riddles

2008-09-08T09:05:00.009+08:00

Yesterday, I had a gathering cum birthday celebration lunch with a bunch of ex-coursemates. Nothing like reveling in tidbit-sharing of globe-trotting air stewardess, budding marketing maverick and of course civil engineering cohorts in the fray to make the perfect dalliance for a warm Sunday afternoon. Things started from amenably mild to unsavourily raunchy with shocking revelations of alleged mild-high rape, unfeigned fellatio and back-stabbing boyfriend. I am not going to talk about any of these but rather to share with you all two racist riddles as told by Nadia at the risks of being chased down the street by pitch fork-wielding rambunctious mob.

1. How do two Indians communicate without talking and moving their bodies?

2. How do you blow up an Indian?

All these racist talks by our leaders recently have me thinking. With news of Perak UMNO state assemblywoman uttered the insulting speech against Indian at the state assembly or public furore caused by Bukit Bendera UMNO divison chief over the Chinese squatter statement, I cannot help but wonder about the agenda behind their unpalatable behaviour. Is it an unabashed bluster being a superior race or subconscious shielding of a deep inferiority complex?

Your Class or Mine (尖子攻略)

2008-09-05T10:27:00.005+08:00

As I watch this TVB show about a bunch of testosterone-charged teenagers struggled to score in examinations by going through tuition classes, I cannot help but got shoved down the memory lane. What a relief that I was not subjected acquiescingly to the Sisyphean tyranny of tuition classes...please don't fall in the blissful arms of Somnus just yet...I am not about to write a self-indulgent screed to instigate efforts to reverse the malignant mindset and gross perversion of priority of our education system. Neither am I going to disparage the writers of the show for perpetuating the significance of paper qualification.

I want to talk about a certain scene in the show where the aforementioned teenagers jumped in joy after they got back their mid-term papers. It was revealed that they scored 70+ for the first time in their school life. Mind you the feat was achieved after several sessions with greatest tuition teacher (literally translated as God of Tuition/A神 in the show) and tiresome juggling with their football training sessions as they are the top players of a local league team. A highly imaginative storyline notwithstanding, it reminded me of how I squeezed time out for a drama competition (an intricate and time-consuming activity mind you) during Form Five and for an equally arduous bridge model competition at university. Though all these are just teensy-weensy stuffs if compared to all the other feats accomplished by bright young Ivy League-attending, four-flat scoring students all around the world, it never failed to remind me the importance of extra-curricular activities.

Mid-Autumm Festival (中秋节)

2008-09-04T09:33:00.008+08:00

Though not celebrated as flagrantly elaborate as Lunar Chinese New Year, Mid-Autumm festival is still regarded as an equally important occasion where familial ties are cherished as we celebrate togetherness under the gleaming plenitude of moonlight. Non-holiday binge (it is not a holiday in Malaysia) come in the forms of cholesterol-laden, wickedly tempting mooncakes with different fillings evidently propelled by the notorious catholicity in chinese gastronomical preferences. I believe one day someone would figure out how to stuff the entire reunion dinner in the mooncake just to save the hassle.

I am sure most of you who are celebrating would be familiar with the various inextricable mythological and historical tales to mark the occasion. From the ascending of Chang Er to the moon to the overthrow of Mongol dynasty with mooncakes, these stories may vary from one version to another but the moral values behind them serve a great purpose to educate posterity for generations to come. Lonesome Chang Er on the moon only to be accompanied by jade rabbit and the tree-chopping (the tree would keep on growing no matter how much he chopped) Wu Gang were nowhere to be found when the Americans landed on our cosmic neighbour but this has not deterred us to mark the occasion with mooncakes, tea and pomeloes.

Chinese "squatters" squabble insensitively raised by a racist UMNO leader notwithstanding, the mood to celebrate this year's mooncake festival would not be spoiled by the ignorant, bigoted scoundrel.

Age

2008-08-28T10:42:00.005+08:00

The 18 going on 23 comment on my last post by Jiann Chyuan reminded me of two incidents when hasty judgments regarding my age based on my appearance came to my knowledge.

Incident #1
I went to my colleague Haizad's home to fetch him when we were carpooling the other day. Arrive slightly earlier than planned, I waited outside his home while re-organising the clutter in my car due to my inherent tendency to assemble clutter wherever I subsist. His father was out amidst my indiscriminate assortment of my junk to inspect my car and I to evaluate the survival chance of his scion. He was out a short while later with his mother. I flashed the don't-worry-I-send-him-back-in-one-piece smile to his parents before bidding goodbye.

Guess how surprised am I when he told me that his mother thought I am blissfully married.

Incident #2
I was invited to my colleague Jue's open house during last year's Hari Raya. Never to miss a chance on a free meal and the fact I am a fan of her nascent stupendous culinary skills had me to look forward to the occasion to indulge in mythically unaccountable holiday binge. Though not quite in the league of the anal-retentive Bree in Desperate Housewives for her penchant in having out-of-this-world party, I was still astounded by propitious mélange of scrumptious Malay delicacy rolled out by Jue and her lovely housemates.

Jue later told me later that one of her housemate thought I am the neighbourhood kid who got lost in his way to his home.

Maybe I gave a false impression sartorially speaking as I was dressed in average white-collar formal wear in the first occasion and in flagrantly casual clothing in the latter.

Credit Card

2008-08-23T15:06:00.003+08:00

One of the perks you are entitled to when you step into the workforce is that piece of plastic which symbolise the fin de regime of fashion gaffe in the forms of bulky wallets and purses in case you are on your relaxing holidays or shopping spree--for chronic shopaholics both of the leisure activities coalesce as there is no better excuse to restock the entire wardrobe to go with your brand new tan. Strangely enough how that insignificant inorganic piece of thing have the disproportionately squeezed in significant amount of responsibility into my life. Sure there are a lot other maturity-dictating, adulthood-defining parameters to reinforce the notion that you have escaped the mindless meandering of the not-a-child-not-yet-an-adult limbo. For me that sense of maturity and responsibility came trickling in when I was waiting aimlessly to pay my credit card bill.

Stranded miserably in the never-ending queue and looking into the the faces of apathetic teenagers with their obsession of the latest fad or effervescent children running amok with the hapless maids, I realised that I am no longer the youngest in the crowd. You know how we wish to go back in time whenever we revel in reminiscence of good old time in school and suddenly before you know it you are unceremonially excluded from the youthful milieu. Time certainly waits for nobody.

God. I feel old whining like this.

Moonlight Resonance (溏心風暴之家好月圓)

2008-08-14T08:48:00.009+08:00

Swimmingly riding on the success of "Heart of Greed" (溏心風暴), "Moonlight Resonance" (溏心風暴之家好月圓) definitely ups the ante as far as the emotional roller coaster ride is concerned. I virtually hyperventilate as the interplay of a myriad of characters is rolled out. Aside from the requisite hysterical hoedown and melodramatic meltdown, my favourite scenes on any other TVB show are the nasty bitchslaps. How the sheer joy of vindication of the victorious slappers and the utter sense of schadenfreude for the pilloried "slapped" ones would infuse relief into my veins.

If the raison d'etre for the family feud in the first installment is the 6-billion dollar asset, this time around the lives of six children are inevitably plunged into labyrinthine ramification after a bitter divorce. Throw in an imperious mother-in-law, an insidious aunt and the evil step-mom, they take the term vociferous into whole new level. The spotlight yet again fell upon Susanna Kwan (關菊英) who played the role of Aunt Sa (莎姨) -- a pugnacious pain-in-the-ass and shameless money-grabber who intransigently kvetching on the most trivial matters. Special mentions go to Louise Lee (李司棋) who took the helm as the matriarch (荷媽) and her innate mellifluous tenor is such a soothing calm amidst the never-ending shouting match. No second guessing here as the gauntlet is invariably taken up by her to save the day and hopefully unify the family with the least amount of casualty. No TVB show is complete without the villain--this time it is reincarnated in the form of a double-crossing, cold calculating step-mom played by Michelle Yim (米雪).

The theme of the show is surrounded on mid-autumn festival and you know what that means......time of the year for moon cakes.:)

The Dark Knight

2008-08-12T09:43:00.007+08:00

It is a rare achievement to have wild box office success and universal critical acclaim at the same time--what is more astounding is the fact that both of the much desired qualities fell upon a film about a caped crusader in tights. "The Dark Knight" burst on the scene in the generally lackadaisical 2008 summer blockbuster. With special effects sequence which felt more organic and less generate, the incendiary extravaganza of explosion and destruction would tear away any last shred of optimism and hope left for humanity. Christopher Nolan's audacious reinvention of the comic book superhero maybe the film to break down one of the last conventional barriers to be seriously considered for nomination for top categories at Oscars (as boldly predicted and staunchly advocated by some die-hard critics) instead of the second tier tech wins.

Partly contributed to the indefatigable buzz on the film is the most talked about (or career- defining should the poor chap is alive) performance of Heath Ledger as The Joker. Mechanically menacing Gotham City in his shambolic rampage and borderline acceptable anarchical philosophy, the Joker epitomised the greatest villain ever portrayed on celluloid. Completely threw out the outlandish and campy Jack Nicholson's reincarnation out of the window, Heath has bequeathed the proverbial shoes which is hard to fill should they decided to bring back The Joker for the third installment.

Red Cliff

2008-08-06T14:56:00.003+08:00

Steadfastly accustomed, if not reluctantly chastened, to the adage that a film adaptation will not be exactly what I picture in mind beforehand, I have virtually gave up hope on any cinematic realisation of literary works or famous TV show for that matters. Though not as insufferable and unbearable as "The Resurrection of the Dragon", "Ref Cliff" felt more like John Woo's interpretation of Three Kingdoms which neither belongs to the history nor to you and me.

WALL-E ressurected

2008-08-03T15:08:00.003+08:00

WALL-E resurrected! but lost one of his arms.

Hungry Ghost Festival

2008-08-01T08:25:00.009+08:00

The advent of August also marked the first day of the seventh month in the chinese lunar calendar. According to legend, this festival is a commemoration of Mu Lian's filial piety in feeding his mother who was tortured in hungry chamber in hell. This is the month where ghosts and spirits will emerge from the lower realm and meander among the living. Finicky older generation would strongly advise against having any prosperous celebration--the last thing you need is for the inebriated groom to mistake his blushing bride sans inch-deep garish make up with another ghastly figure during consummation. Of course there is the no late night out rule--perfect excuse for parents to ensure their children's nocturnal confinement to home and cut off the wherewithal for entertainment purposes in the mean time.

This particular period of time bore no significance whatsoever before I encounter a spooky event during my freshman year's compulsory stay at the hostel. It added extra chill to the bone due to the recurring telephonic theme in the horror genre of late. If my memory serves me right, this is how it went--My friend, Jiann Chyuan discovered an odd increment in his prepaid account one day. His shocking discovery of a call was made on one night (while he was sleeping) without his knowledge led to his investigative efforts which came to no avail as his friend whom he supposedly "called" did not remember receiving his call that night. Different theories including sabotaging room mate and accidental pressing were deducted to solve mystery of his fiscal loss before we realised that it all happened during Ghost Month......

What do you think?

Sex"less" and The City

2008-07-26T08:00:00.009+08:00

Finally taking the big leap from the small screen to the big silver one after the initial fallout, "Sex and The City" has brought about considerable excitement to legion of fans worldwide. Kept under wrap for weeks by our overzealous censors, distributors seriously need to consider to retitle it as "Sexless and The City". Better luck in our local political scene where salicious details of exploding mistress and intern sodomy can be splashed all over the paper.

Curious to know how they would transform the wildly popular TV series into the big silver screen, I kept my hopes to a certain extent so as not to be sorely disappointed later. True to my anticipation, the show lost its steam during the transition. Though still filled with shocking moments and witty swordplay, the formula just did not work well in a larger and longer medium. Well-connected storylines coalesced with Carrie's narrative on the series was ineffectively executed in the film. Getting used to write for a half-hour show for six seasons, Michael Patrick King (the same writer for the film) certainly need more honing when it comes to writing for a completely different medium.

All in all, it feels great to have a reunion of the Cosmopolitan-sipping, label-loving ladies. However, one need to watch the tv series instead of the film to fully understand why "Sex and The City" is such a success worldwide.

Poor WALL-E

2008-07-25T21:21:00.007+08:00

Poor Wall E was whacked.

What About The Children?

2008-07-23T09:03:00.006+08:00

When our daily news are gradually substituted with the tawdry tabloid fodders, one of the aptly ignored issue is the compromising situations faced by the grownups. It suddenly occured to me of what kinds of effects these sensationalised reports of the our so-called politicians who act like celebrity wannabes have on our children. Definitely not your wholesome conversation material over the breakfast. You can almost picture the flabbergasted fathers choking on their morning coffees when their ingenuous prepubescent children for whom penetrative sex is still a rumour ask them guilelessly what two men possibly can do that can land them in jail. Imagine the frown over the faces of the venerable ulamas as the children pop the question after they finish tongue-twisting lessons to recite Quran or the reaction of the priests when the overly inquisitive children seeking for answers just as they insert white crackers into their mouths at Holy Communion.

Son : What's sodomy, daddy?
Daddy : Erm... I take you to the zoo this weekends.
Son : That's fine. What's sodomy?
Daddy : I buy you a (*insert a unreasonably expensive item of the latest fad among the young ones here*) today.
Son : Thanks. What's sodomy?
Daddy : There comes a time, son, when a man......look at the time boy, time for school.

Surely at time like these the parents would rather their children to pester them with "where-do-babies-come-from?"

Beijing Olympics

2008-07-14T09:16:00.007+08:00

This post is neither about the awesome architectural achievements nor is it about the welcoming campaign. Dogged by the Tibet controversy, Beijing 2008 summer Olympics has came under fire much to the chagrin of the host nation whose hope to showcase the awakened dragon to the rest of the world was tainted prematurely. Public retaliations in the forms of electronic efflux of nationalism on cyberspace and overt outpour of patriotism on the streets showed that the Chinese won't go down without a fight.

Separatist movements in Tibet and East Turkestan and involvement in Darfur and Myanmar are just one of the few issues that the western media and leaders alike has been harping on ceaselessly to call for boycott of the opening ceremony. Lhasa protest, the ignition point of the conflagration of coverage on Beijing, proved to be more that China can contain domestically. Ironically, leading up the charge is French President who keep forgetting that his country does not have clean slate on human rights record either with the civil unrests initiated by immigrants at 2005 and 2007. How about London who will be hosting at 2012? Do we also boycott them due to their support on Iraq War? Though the boycott movement has softened amidst the open dialogue between China and Tibet, the whole episode has left an heavy stench in the spirit of Olympics. Despite being the occasion where athletes from different racial, religious, political backgrounds to compete in the spirit of the game, Olympics has been repeatedly being politicised and this year we witness its return with a vengeance ever since the Cold War.

Wanted

2008-07-11T13:30:00.006+08:00

As opposed to trademark accidental transformation into a superhero by a foreign substance, biological inheritance is the best shot (or the one-way ticket) for any average salaried office drone to step into an adventure. Evidently in the visual feast "Wanted", not everything has to be explained as the protagonist threw himself into the dangerous world of assassins simply being the inopportune heir to his father's DNA. Who would not step out of the mundane monotony of overworked, underpaid white-collar life and give in to the seductive allure of pledging yourself to a band of assassins capable to snuff out life in a blink of eye?

Despite the overwhelmingly gratuitous violence and dizzying surreal action sequence, there is a recurring theme of wrestling the control of your life. With guys ogling at Angelina Jolie's sexy nondescript tatoo and girls drooling over James Mcavoy's dreamy crystal blue eyes, I am doubtful the message of the final punch line "What the fuck have you done lately?" would get through or not. Narrowly avoiding being type-casted as the dripping wet dream and wish-fulfillment of secret fantasy, the film has injected a fresh new perspective into the action/superhero genre where the protagonist is unwilling to change the world through violence but merely embraces it in the pursuit of self-fulfillment.

Fed Up

2008-07-07T10:28:00.008+08:00

Source

As I read on the latest news of our national political scene, I cannot shake off the feeling how the proverb "plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose" greatly resonates in this high drama . Though there is a radical shakeup on our political landscape on that faithful day of March, the unmistakable sense of déjà vu with the same old assiduous accusations, salacious shenanigans, vitriolic vilifying and multiple anatomical violations lingered on.

Here is the 411 of the news stories.

I definitely agree with Marina Mahathir's strike.

Dina Zaman even drew parallel to "Desperate Housewives".

“We have the murder of a pretty young woman, in which a housewife is supposedly involved. A sex scandal with a family friend (or gardener) – Gabrielle Solis.

“The state of confusion in the biggest political party in Malaysia is similar to the Scavo household.

"The prodigal son of a conservative pious family (the Van der Kamps) that involves a homosexual affair with a friend.

"The power struggle to win the neighbourhood presidency between Katherine and Lynette."

“Orson’s mother that keeps coming back to interfere in the affairs of the Hodge family and simply refusing to sit back quiet in the retirement home."

“Let’s not forget the women and men who keep changing partners, jump here jump there, join this household, leave that household, then come back to the same household. “But in the end, it’s still the same bunch of characters in a small street in Wisteria Lane having scandals with each other."

Read the full column here

Time for us to look into the real issues such as education, rising crime rate, public transportation efficiency and not to dwell on this incessant bickering.

Is Malaysia at the throe of a violent birth?

Hancock

2008-07-05T07:47:00.006+08:00

Upon the first glance at the poster of "Hancock", the first thing that drew my attention was not the tagline but the imprinted eagle at his hat. Something told me that the iconic Americanism imagery will be plastered all over the film. I am proven right after watching the film last night and have no problem at all in spotting the prevalent American Dream subtext (not to mention the political undertone) conveniently flaunted all over the film.

By featuring an African-American superhero, this film has effectively endorsed Barack Obama to be the non-denominational messiah of US . Opening scene of a drunken and unkempt superhero in a hangover represented the state of the US under the 8-year administration of the worst president George W Bush. Saving people by inflicting huge financial losses reminded me of the Iraq War that has further reinforced the military unilateralism as advocated by the hawkish president. The vulgar scene in the prison that involved a certain anatomical assault expressed just how the majority of Americans felt about the aforementioned war--in deep shit. Heeding the advice of the PR consultant, Hancock transformed himself to be the superhero adored by all and saved the world with minimum collateral damage. American dream prevailed and happy ending for all indeed.

You would have thought they ran out of idea to pervade even more Americanism subtext and political undertone after the first half of the film where the happy ending arrived abruptly. The spotlight was now shifted to another group which was also discriminated against--the women. If we look past the ridiculous storyline that the both of the superheroes need to be separated, there is a hidden message the dream team of Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton may sound good on paper but some issues need to be ironed out so as not to backfire the plan.

All in all, "Hancock" suffered from the typical stigma of weak story and poor execution.

Practical Trainee

2008-06-30T08:50:00.005+08:00

She goes by the name of "Wan". A masculine moniker for a petit provisional placement in my department. It takes time to gradually adjust my auditory senses to her heavy accent at first and it's no easy feat to get used to a whole new variant of our national language. The provenance of the accent is Kedah and shares an uncanny resemblance with the "northen" accent of our tea lady. Sometimes I swear it sounded just like a totally new language when I heard both of them joined forces gleefully to chat about......(my best guess is secret recipe or stories from hometown). Incipient difficulty of communication was swept away when she voluntarily toned down the accent to a reasonable extent. My supervisor just gave a sigh and shook his head when he mentioned about her command of English and her refusal to speak any just reinforced what my supervisor has previously implied.

A practical trainee at my own disposal...**wicked laughter**...it is about time to relieve me of some workload. Time to bring out the hidden imperious me, rescind the ebullience in her and finally my very own sycophantic servant that caters my every whim and facy obsequiously...**wicked laughter**...Enough daydream. Back to reality. It felt great to offer sporadic tutelage to the newbie. You know the kind of feeling that engulfs you would have when you are passing down the distillate of your erudition to another person. An absence of her usual bubbly self on a certain morning foreboded a terrible incident. Turned out her laptop was spoiled when it was inundated with rainwater during the motorbike ride back home the day before. More bad news afterward for her when the technician cannot recovered anything from her backup drive where she stored her report that she has been working for the past few weeks. Luck is on her side though when her kind lecturer allowed her to pass up the report later.

Nice knowing you Wan. Hope you can finish the report in time.

Summer Blockbusters

2008-06-23T08:35:00.038+08:00

To have Mr/Mrs/Ms Anonymous personally request me to do a movie review is totally unexpected. By the time I'm writing this, I guess everyone of you have already watched at least one of the blockbusters. His comment made me realised that I have not watched any of the summer blockbusters that had been gracing our shores since May. The hefty marketing failed short of persuading me to join the notorious queue in the cinema near me. If you take a quick glance of the this summer's offering which include the like of storybook hero epics to fantasy/animation flicks, it is not that hard to tell how the storyline (including the shocking twist and turn) would unfold in each of the highly formulated movie.

DISCLAIMER : What you about to read is not a review but reasons why I did not watch any of the summer blockbusters.

The biggest talk of the town was of course Indiana Jones 4. My artificial and untimely arrival to this world at 1984 rendered me numb to this whole Indy frenzy. With clever marketing ploy, the studio execs managed to hypnotise viewers from across the generations to attest to the phenomenon as though everyone of them watch all three previous installments and waited for 19 years for this release. Judging by the casting of Shia Labeouf and Cate Blanchett, the studio intented to gain the maximum profit from the most promising demographic which starts from the hysterical teenage girls with too much pocket money to sophisticated white collar men with too much disposable income and ends with baby boomers (that's the golden 18-49 target group). Pitting Dr. Jones against communists yet again reminded us the folly of the greatest power in the world that has been keep on expanding from British (US fought their independence from England) to German Nazi to Russian Communists to Islam terrorists. Come to think of it, almost everyone in the world hate Americans if we include their anti-French sentiment and the evidence of hostility against them--mostly attributed to their policies--is staggering. Why go on to tarnish the untouchable legendary status of first three installments just like what George Lucas churned out for "Star Wars" franchise? It is like 19 years down the road they want to ride on the success of "Pirates of the Caribbean" by releasing prequel/sequel/spin-off but it turns out to be a complete artistic flop. Wouldn't you wish that they just leave the franchise as it is?

Then there is Ironman/The Incredible Hulk. After making a vow to be skeptical of any movie with the suffix of "man", my first instinct told me that this one would be the same with any other superhero variants. In each of them, the protagonist would be cross-bred with a foreign substance then fought the villains while still grappling with the new found powers. Running gags that include damsel in distress, cool one-liners and dilemma to be a normal person or ~~save the cheerleader~~ save the world are carefully placed to add the spice. Cheap rip-offs on plots and concepts from each of the superhero movie are effortlessly traceable if given a keen observation. Notice how the characters are upholstered neatly in packages that you would immediately establish who is the hero, villain and the ones who are most likely do double cross. Inconclusive ending and a sudden twitch of the dead guy's finger would spur sequels, prequels and spin-offs faster than the rolling end credits.

Chronicles of Narnia and Kungfu Panda would fall into the fantasy/animation category.Speed Racer perfectly blends fantasy and animation together by being the live action adaptation of animation series but the downside is its migraine-inducing whimsical swirling colour palette which justify any sick leave easily on any given day. Talking beasts in Narnia? We have at least two of them in our august parliament. Ugly name-calling during the first debate filled our legislature with bigfoot and monkey. If pro is the opposite of con, then congress is indeed the opposite of progress as our members of parliament un-evoluted into uncivilised primates. Underdog fights his way to glory in Kungfu Panda? We also have them...our People's Justice Party became the biggest opposition party during the recent political tsunami as compared just one seat at 2004 and effectively change the status of Anwar from persona non grata to prime minister in waiting. Just like the presence of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, the boggling mystery remained that as to why the father of a panda is a duck. Anyway, kudos to the animators for paying homage to the golden era of Chinese martial arts films.

The conclusion? Don't you get tired of the movies that are specially designed to cater to the MTV-attention span of today's generation? Isn't it time we have quality over formulaic mass appeal? As famous director Christopher Nolan put it: “Anything you notice as technology reminds you that you’re in a movie theater. Even if you’re trying to portray something fantastical and otherworldly, it’s always about trying to achieve invisible manipulation.”

Pangkor

2008-06-16T12:06:00.008+08:00

The mechanical jolt out of my cozy bed in the wee hours of the morning due to my fine-tuned biological clockwork was the unceremonious prelude to my trip. Four other equally weary travel mates entered into my sight as soon as I reached the gathering point. Unfazed by the recent petrol price hike, scores of local tourists who exuded aura of insouciance swarmed the Lumut jetty as the first day of our trip also marked the birthday of our monarch.

After checked in and "checked out" the condition of our room, we quickly deserted the room and headed for our first meal in the island. Nothing like good old spicy laksa and sweet cendol to kick off our ephemeral escape here in Pangkor. We had a leisure stroll at the sandy beach and planned for tomorrow's activities. Our next culinary pit stop is the abundant seafood in Pangkor blessed by the bountiful Poseidon. The next morning the men took an early morning dip in the sea as the women were still fast asleep. We headed to the town after our breakfast to shop for the local specialty and souvenirs. Our adventure with the sea was continued with a boat ride around Pangkor and snorkeling. The scent of the sea breeze and salty water squeezed into the every last corner of my nostril as I took a deep breath while riding on the boat. The sensation of swimming among the fishes was simply exhilarating. The weariness from the strenuous exercise was compensated with a hearty evening tea and dinner when we explored what Pangkor has to offer besides seafood.

Funny how time flies when we were having fun. Finally, seven fugitives from the hectic lifestyle of the urban concrete bid farewell to Pangkor as we boarded the ferry to return to the mainland.

Dragonboat Festival (端午节)

2008-06-10T10:15:00.010+08:00

It's that time of the year again when we savour the taste of rice dumplings (粽子). The perfect symphony of glutinous rice and mouth-watering fillings all wrapped up in the bamboo leave used to be the annual gastronomical affair in my house when my mother would toil in the kitchen and immerse herself in the labyrinthine process of preparing the ingredients, stuffing them in the right proportion in the bamboo leaves and wrapping them up gracefully. Though learning to wrap the rice dumpling is fun, defeatism got the best of me after several miserable attempts. The scents of the dumplings when they were being boiled would fill the household and send Pavlovian signal to my saliva gland that would in turn activate in anticipation. Hovering around at the kitchen like vultures when they sensed a dying animal, I would open up the pot despite my mother's prohibition as not to prolong the boiling time. After waited for what seemed like an eon, my taste buds finally could revel in joy of receiving the sensation the traditional chinese delicacy had to offer.

For those of you with a little background knowledge of the annual dragonboat festival which falls on the fifth day of the fifth month of the lunar calendar, the occasion is to consecrate the great poet cum politician Qu Yuan from Chu during the Warring States Period. The tale in which the historical figure committed suicide by jumping into the river to bemoan the fate of his fallen home state (he was also wrongly accused of treason) and the people throwing food into the river as to prevent the his corpse from being eaten by the fish may have little relevance in today's world, we may never know why Qu Yuan would take such drastic measure to show his undying loyalty to his home state but one thing for sure patriotism is a value we must instill in each and every one of us.

Petrol Price Hike

2008-06-05T08:51:00.015+08:00

The inevitable petrol price hike caused massive jams in petrol stations nationwide as Malaysians made a beeline for their last pump of cheap fuel. Ignoring the fact that idling their cars while waiting is wasting the fuel and polluting the environment at the same time, drivers thronged the petrol stations as soon as the news broke. Judging by the way people flocked the petrol station last night, the chance of any riot or protest to oppose the price hike is slim as fatalism took its course (or maybe I judged too harshly... there is a July 12 protest scheduled to be held at KLCC...). The biggest profiter at the end of the day are not the petrol station operators but the mobile phone service providers (SMS sent to warn motorist about the price hike).

Never mind that he just lost the two thirds majority in the recent election. Never mind the rumour of ruling coalition members of parliament might cross over to opposition in September. Never mind there are numerous calls for him to step down to assume responsibility of the electoral upset. Pak Lah has decided to raise the petrol price by a whopping 40% in defiance of the people's wish. In his nausea-inducing perfunctory press conference, he announced the decisions without registering any emotion as if it was just another normal occasion. He insisted Malaysia still provides cheaper fuel if compared to Thailand and Singapore which are NON-petroleum exporting nations. It is a wonder to me that Pak Lah would decide to introduce the hefty measure during this politically delicate time. It is either:

a.He slept through the cabinet meeting
b.He is thinking he will hold on to power for 22 years
c.He is thinking how to celebrate his upcoming first anniversary
(9 June) with Jeanne.
d.All of the above.

A Man

2008-05-30T12:32:00.006+08:00

My Life's Charter- According to my songs.

RULES:

1. Put Your iTunes, Windows Media Player, ETC on Shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write that song down.
4. Put any comments in brackets after the song name.
5. Put this on your journal.

1.If someone says, "Is this OK?" You say? balaclava
(Don't know what the hell is balaclava...)

2.How would you describe yourself?
Green Finch and Linnet Bird
(Birds... Soaring in the sky... Free-spirited...)

3.What do you like in a guy/girl?
Whenever You Remember
(Good looks that make me remember them)

4.How do you feel today? Slide
(Slide off my physical self and wander off...)

5.What is your life's purpose?
Overture/And All That Jazz
(Razzle Dazzle them......)

6.What is your motto? Swallowed In The Sea
(Go with the flow)

7.What do your friends think of you?
It's Hairspray
(Hairspray... Chemical product... Artificial and processed?)

8.What do you think of your parents?
Well That Was Easy
(Love them... hate them... whatever....)

9.What do you think about very often?
Sand In My Shoes
(Going to Pangkor next weekend)

10.What is 2 + 2? Breakaway
(Breakaway from ever studying mathematics)

11.What do you think of your best friend? My Lover's Gone
(Hopefully my best friend will not be gone)

12.What do you think of the person you like? She Is a Diamond
(Sparkling in my life... or does it mean she is materialistic)

13.What is your life story? I Am Changing
(Gaining weight... need to go on diet and exercise...)

14.What do you want to be when you grow up? Cruise Control
(Always want to feel how it likes to be the crew of a cruise ship)

15.What do you think of when you see the person you like?
White Shadows
(Shadows that has been haunting her life)

16.What will you dance to at your wedding?
I Ain't In Checotah Anymore
(Move along Kelly Clarkson... Carrie Underwood is my favourite American Idol now)

17.What will they play at your funeral? Into Ya
(Back into the arms of mother earth...)

18.What is your hobby/interest?
Pirelli's Miracle Elixir
(Pirelli's Miracle Elixir... Hair-growing... Is this a premonition that I will be balding soon?)

20.What is your biggest secret? A Message
(An ambiguous sms from an acquaintance... still trying to figure out what it means)

21.What do you think of your friends?
I'm Your Villain
(They bring out the best and worst in me)

22.What will you post this as? A Man
(...I give up...)

I'm supposed to tag 22 people.. so here goes...
...
...
...

Kidding la :)

News Update

2008-05-27T12:00:00.011+08:00

1. A Malaysian group condemned the uniform worn by girls at government schools, saying it encouraged rape and pre-marital sex. "The white blouse is too transparent for girls and it becomes a source of attraction,” National Islamic Students Association of Malaysia vice-president Munirah Bahari said in a statement. Yup... send some schoolgirls clad in white blouse to Pak Lah's functions and events to keep him from dozing off.

2. Brisdale Holdings Berhad, a subsidiary of Selangor state-owned company Kumpula Hartanah Sdn Bhd has been sold for just RM50,000 and this was enough for the Selangor state government to conduct an investigation. “With one clubhouse already worth RM7mil, how can you justify for the entire company, land, and properties to be sold for only RM50,000?” asked Subang Jaya Assemblywoman Hannah Yeoh. I'm pretty sure the analysts who came up with the price are also the ones who are advising Pak Lah on the statistical possibility of the Opposition to deny BN the two thirds majority in the election or his chances of loosing power to Anwar by September.

3. Former Malacca chief minister Tan Sri Abdul Rahim Tamby Chik has offered himself as a candidate for the post of Umno vice-president in the party elections at the end of the year. The man quit as Malacca CM amidst allegations of sexual misconduct with an under-aged girl. "Cleaning up our internal mess is no longer a choice, but a necessity,” he said. All in favour for the respected Tan Sri to be appointed Minister of Irony... say aye.

4. A sum of RM158,000 was paid for the use of a sports facility while RM128,000 was spent on batik clothing for members of the Wives of Selangor Assemblymen and MPs Welfare and Charity Organisation (Balkis) and their husbands. This such a waste! The "desperate housewives" should have use the money to stock up C4 to blow up their husbands' mistresses who mean trouble.

5. The Election Commission wants a fresh voter roll and this will involve the re-registration of the 10.9 million Malaysians who are already registered as voters. Tan Sri Abdul Rashid Abdul Rahman said a new roll which catered to the current needs was necessary and would be acceptable to all parties. Just like the indelible ink which cost RM 2.4 million, another few millions will wind up in the second Bermuda Triangle in the world.

In the mean time, The Election Commission (EC) also informed its officers to be prepared for a snap election, said chairman Tan Sri Abdul Rashid Abdul Rahman. If his prediction is true, then the "Enchanted Charm" can forget about their day job and focus on a career as fortune teller.

6. Petrol stations located in border states like Johor and Perlis will be barred from selling petrol and diesel to foreign-registered cars. Singapore may get Batu Puteh... but oil covers rock!

Recession

2008-05-23T08:57:00.019+08:00

For those of you who are familiar with the boiling over of the subprime mortgage crisis, the consequential credit crunch, weakening of american dollar and rising crude oil price, then you should be aware of the looming recession of the largest economy of the world. The domino effect of the fear sent shock wave to the global share markets. Add in with the recent world food crisis and the outlook is even gloomier.

According to Newsweek, there are several industries in US that are shielded from the effects of interest-rate tinkering or economic stimulus package. Here's a look at some of the examples:

No matter how bad is the economic downturn, people still seem to give them a treat during payday. The gastronomical desire just cannot be quenched by the impending crisis. At Ben & Jerry's there is little worry about economic downturns.

The economic slump may hinder the ladies from spending on Prada or Gucci but cosmetics remains as the commodity they refuse to let go just yet. With the reinforcement of the metrosexual, we can hardly spot a dent on sales of beauty products.

Records have shown that movie ticket sales flourish during hard time. Over the last seven depressions experienced by US, box office hauls grew during five. When hope is low, the public retreats to the comfort zone where imagination runs wild and possibilities are infinite.

The noncyclical business of the funeral service will record sales no matter how low our share markets tumble. Though the increasing number of divorces effectively erase marriage from the list of once-in-the-lifetime affairs, people still fork out money for the special occasions. Another perfect example that belongs to the category of evergreen industry is health care as the luxury certainly is not at our disposal to choose when to be sick or unwell.

As 2007/2008 sports season draws to a close, bookies may take
timeout to recharge themselves before the next big events. With the upcoming Euro 2008 and Olympics Beijing, illegal gambling will come back with full force to give false hope that we cling to as our escape from the rat race.

Source : Newsweek

Khaled Hosseini

2008-05-20T09:41:00.013+08:00

In my previous post about "Life of Pi", I was transported temporarily out of the squalor of the real world. So it makes sense that I would be ill-prepared to be brought down fast and hard by Khaled Hosseini's "A Thousand Splendid Suns" (I read "The Kite Runner sometime ago). Though his works are entirely fiction, the glimpses into the ugly face of war shook me to the core.

"The Kite Runner" tells a friendship between two boys from different social standing against the backdrop of the tumultuous history of Afghanistan. The story would take you on a historical, cultural and gastronomical tour of the war-ravaged nation. As the protagonist embarked on a journey of redemption for both her father's love and atonement for the guilt of betraying his best friend, little did he realise what await for him in the destination.

After a series of disappointment with follow-up efforts ridiculed with the inevitable sophomore curse, "A Thousand Splendid Suns" actually raises the bar set by its predecessor. Two women from different family background and education level are brought together by a cruel twist of fate in the most unlikely scenario must endure hardship and misery brought by the war.

Post Election Meltdown

2008-05-16T14:41:00.005+08:00

I think this is the reaction of our country's leaders when they found out his rakyat has abandoned them through the ballot box. Being handed a resounding victory back at 2004, our leaders thought that they had the rakyat's mandate in the post-Mahathir era--the whole situation is just like when you in Form Four, why work your ass off when you have just obtained a string of As in PMR and you have another whole year to prepare for SPM?

I think this is what our leaders feel like right now. How to get out of this mess? Our leaders must be having a hard time to fumble for the right issue to win back the rakyat's heart. Do we press the Projek Khinzir Raksasa button now? Do we annihilate Karpal Singh for his anti-royal rhetoric? How to deal with Sabah and Sarawak's never-ending demand? Will our test fire for "Empire Strikes Back" against the alternative media work or fail miserably? These are just the tip of the iceberg that they need to deal with.

And let's just hope Pak Lah does not sleep his way through this mess......

Musicals

2008-05-13T09:10:00.021+08:00

For some reasons, the musical genre always have a special place in my heart. There is something about the melodramatic music, eye-catching choreography, flashy yet iridescent costumes, superb art direction and above all else the filmmakers who parlay their resources into the big screen. Here's five of my favourite musicals:

I remember "Moulin Rouge" was the first musical that drew me to this genre. Though the story theme of star-crossed lovers from different social ladder is clichéd, the trademark Baz Luhrmann's flamboyant theatricality and oversaturated colours left an indelible impression in my mind. Critics panned the lead characters' vocal ability but when you have the face that launches a thousand rockets to the moon, the shortcoming can be easily forgotten.

The unforgettable overture "All That Jazz" melts my heart away when it entered in my sight. If your jaw is still left intact over the perfect blend of husky vocal and acrobatic dancing skill of Catherine Zeta-Jones in the opening number, wait until rest of the cast razzle-dazzle you with their equally unique performance style. Being the first musical since 1968 to snatch the Best Picture at Oscars, the inconspicuous blend of hard-edged realism with fantasies in the form of vaudeville acts clearly left the critics and fans alike in awe.

What is it about Johnny Depp playing quirky and unconventional characters on the big screen that not only draw audience to the cinema and also earn critical acclaim at the same time? How could you go wrong when you bring a bold director like Tim Burton who is never afraid to go outside of the box into the picture. Pair them up and you concoct a magical formula like no other. The formidable Tim Burton-Johnny Depp team paired up once again in "Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street". The dark and depressing theme is definitely not everybody's cup of tea.

Featuring the clichéd (...yet again...) biopic of music stars, "Dreamgirls" is loosely based on the rise and fall of The Supremes. Though gained the most nominations, this musical failed to squeezed in the coveted line-up of Best Picture Nominees. Found herself in the classic case of real life imitates art, Jennifer Hudson saw her status switched from American Idol reject to Academy Award winner. Be sure to check out Jake Gyllenhaal's parody of "Am I Am Telling I'm Not Going". Damn Funny!

Link to the video

The limelight was clearly stolen by the casting of John Travolta as a woman. The musical follows a plus-sized Tracy as she brazened through social injustice against physical appearance and skin colour during the 60's. The seamless blend of song and dance sequence into the storyline throughout the film glued your butts to your seat and your eyes on the screen.

To sum up my love for musicals and also my anticipation for the upcoming "Mama Mia", I like to quote the lyrics from the title song - Mamma mia, here I go again, My my, how can I resist you?