Asrif.org

Fowl Play

2012-02-10T21:32:00.008+08:00

I had a lengthy discussion with a few friends about the KFC squabble the other day. Here's our in-depth analysis of the incident.

Press Statement

2012-01-20T22:41:00.002+08:00

Alright. Perhaps it's time I quell the nasty rumor that has been going around.

To those who have lost sleep over it, no, I am not Ryan Gosling's Hollywood body double. I have no idea how the rumor came about and I am deeply concerned over the confusion it has caused. Maybe some schmuck from E! or TMZ spotted me going to the gym. You don't get confused as Ryan Gosling's Hollywood body double just like that. It takes determination, discipline, a strict diet, and a blatant lie.

But let's put that to rest for now. I guess it's just one of the things that happen to you when you start going to the gym. No wonder I've been seeing new fitness centers the size of international airports popping out of nowhere. The promise of a body to-die-for is just a membership away, for RM200 per month, with a 20% discount if you're willing to give out your friend's number, and end your friendship with him. To ensure results are delivered, you are assigned a certified trainer and termination of your membership is usually more difficult than entering North Korea.

Nevertheless, that is the trend nowadays. People commit their monthly expenses to a contract that binds them to a place they'll never go. Not me, though. No sir. I've been shrewd enough to save the numbers of Fitness First and its cohorts in my phone -- just as I do with insurance agents. So dodging their calls is usually a breeze.

Recently, however, my employers decided that their staff members haven't been healthy enough. So in the spirit of promoting work-life balance, 20 gym cards were distributed to be shared by the 200 of us. A generous card to staff ratio, if you ask me. Considering the number of people who actually utilize the card, a ratio of 1:200 would be more practical.

I've never spent much time at the gym. There was the odd visit or two when I was in college. Visits that lasted no longer than 3 minutes. The sight of other students doing 400lb bench presses with biceps the size of Cee Lo Green was demoralizing. I was intimidated, if you will, by the grunts and groans of people pumping iron. And it didn't help that most of them were women.

Considering that fitness isn't really an area of interest in the corporate world, I thought I'd give it another shot. How bad could it be anyway? Half the guys have waistline double their age. So I'm a part of the majority. Competition must be less aggressive around here.

Above all, it's free. At least I don't have to pay to be humiliated.

Hope that clears the air.

My 2011, In Tweets

2011-12-31T19:03:00.005+08:00

Alright you guys have waited 364 days for this so here it is, "My 2011, In Tweets". Goes out to all of my loyal fans out there. Both of you.

January: Married the most beautiful girl in the world, @azaliasuhaimi. Here's the card I made (using her photo). http://yfrog.com/kipnx7j

February: Drove into Singapore for the first time to watch Clapton live. Found out I had pack of Wrigley's in the car all the while. I win.

March: MRSM Pengkalan Chepa Class of 2000 Reunion. A great nostalgic day out with the guys who are mostly married, and permanently pregnant.

April: I turned 28. My wife took me to a boutique hotel on an island up north. Now I can't settle with anything that's not boutique.

May: Man City lifted the FA Cup after 35 years of insurmountable pain. I was bleeped like a Kardashian during a TV interview after the game.

June: Busking Barefoot, our travel blog, was launched. I do the writing and my wife does the photography. Most people come for the pictures.

July: Moved into our own place and welcomed a new member to our small family, Zalo the plastic bag eating tabby cat. http://yfrog.com/h81igcqj

August: First Ramadhan as a married man. A month of self-reflection, soul-cleansing, and failing to wake each other up for sahur.

September: First Raya as a married man. The month I learned why men gain weight after marriage. Two sets of families, friends and Raya food.

October: Sweet Charity and Blues Gang reunion. Minetrane's first gig, on stage with Blues Gang. And United 1 - 6 City. It was an okay month.

November: Kicked off my venture into freelance copywriting. Hit me up if you've got a gig or two. It won't be that bad and that's a promise.

December: My brother got married to the girl of his dreams. Welcome to the family Siti. Sorry the balding gene skipped me for your husband.

2011 has been a great year of learning and re-learning, whatever that means. Sorry for my bad jokes all year long. More to come in 2012. :-)

Heir to No Hair

2011-12-17T10:54:00.000+08:00

There comes a point in every man's life where he needs to make a decision that will determine the course of his being. The action that he takes during this period shall define the journey toward his destiny and equip him for the rocky road that lies ahead. Generations have passed but no man has lived without fearing his encounter with this stage in life.

I am of course, talking about hair loss.

Growing up, I have always been a kid with a generous set of locks. Not that I was the talk of the town or anything. Unless it's on other parts of his body, nobody cares about a kid with hair on his head. But I was in a comfortable position in society.

In school, I had the pleasure of making a mockery out of teachers who were less endowed, on their follicles. Behind their backs (of course), I called them names: "The Shining", "Bald Eagle", "Elmer Fudd" -- you name it. I showed little empathy. Full of disregard over the depression they were probably going through. It was a fun time I would later regret.

Things got better in college. Instead of just the educators, my peers began losing hair as well. Some, as early as freshman year. So you could probably imagine how much the fun amplified. We're talking about college here. The immediate taste of freedom after a dozen or so years of oppression in school. It was a time to experiment, and grow that Kurt Kobain hair you've always dreamed of. Sadly, for some of my friends, the ceiling of their hair growth was Danny DeVito.

Again, I would learn to regret my treatment of my friends at the time.

It's unfair to put the blame entirely on me, though. I had no control over the majestic waves of hair growing out of my head. It wasn't my fault that I could flexibly middle or side-part my do as I wished. I had no reason to worry. Nothing could come near my bangs. I felt untouchable.

There was a slight concern, though. My father, who in his younger days had an afro that would give The Jackson 5 a run for their money, began reflecting when he walked under a light source at the age of 40. Thus, by the logic of science, the same could happen to me. Halfway through that age however, I survived, while my younger brother did not. "Yes," I said to myself, as I witnessed his receding hairline. The gene must've skipped me.

Or so I thought.

I was at the gym the other day when I realized a bright, lighter colored patch near my forehead. Talcum powder, at first I thought. It was, after all, in the changing room. Unexpected sights and particles were all over the place.

Upon further inspection, though, my heart shattered as I failed to grasp the beloved lock of hair usually crowned on top of my head. Memories of past flashed through me in lightning speed as I frighteningly try to reclaim my fading glory in front of the mirror; in shock, horror, and panic. Images of brighter days when I was at the mocking end came back to me. The table has turned. I have just been inducted, to the balding fraternity.

Then again there's always the Trump comb-over.

Puss In Box

2011-12-02T21:15:00.014+08:00

In case I haven't tweeted about it enough, we adopted a cat a few months back.

His name is Zalo, he's a male tabby, he's coming up to a year old now, and his favorite food is my socks.

(My wife gave him that name. Don't ask me how. It's one of the few things in the world only she finds amusing.)

I was a bit uncertain actually, when we first saw Zalo in a box while having breakfast at the neighborhood mamak stall. A bit nervous, maybe, as I never had a pet before.

Well there was this pair of rabbits my grandmother gave us when I was 8. They were such adorable fluffy little bunnies who couldn't stop eating. After realizing that 40% of our household income went to buying their food, my father decided that we had to return them back. It would be 20 years until fate brought me to foster another pet -- one with a more manageable appetite.

Before the image of the bunny rabbits could fade from my memory, my wife was already holding the then-unnamed kitten in her arms; walking urgently to our car in case I change my mind, as if I have a choice. It was part persuasion and part empathy. She has been talking about adopting a cat since our wedding earlier in the year. And for someone who would have to live with my jokes for the rest of her life, it was a fair request.

We drove home with Zalo meowing incessantly. In fear perhaps, on his first car ride. Little that he knew, the guy on the wheel was just as afraid of him.

He did what any cat would expectedly do when we first brought him into the house -- sniff every inch of the area. Like a strict health inspector, he didn't miss a spot. The little guy seemed quite particular about the new place he was settling at. For a move from a Ribena cardboard box to a double-storey terrace though, I reckon he thought it was probably not too shabby.

And so began my journey into the world of pet-owning, under the guidance of the veterinary expert that is my wife. At the nearby supermarket, I ventured into a territory I never bothered to swing by before: the pet aisle. I was baffled, to say the least, by the range of cat food, litter, shampoo, toy and tuxedo available in the market. Suffice to say, the only product that possibly hasn't already been designed (yet) for pets is a pet-owning guidebook.

But choosing the right stuff for Zalo wasn't all that difficult. It wasn't long before we realized that Zalo wasn't all that fussy of a feline after all. He ate anything we fed him, including our food. I mean, especially our food. He jumps from the floor onto the dining table like a Bugatti Veyron speedometer would from 0 to 100. And he dives into the grocery bag faster than Juan Veron before his flop move to Manchester United. The only things that he eats and we don't are Friskies and -- behind our back -- cockroaches. (Zalo, not Veron.) Nevertheless, that's the pest control budget going into our savings right there.

It wasn't hard to fall in love with Zalo. Yet it was pretty awkward during the first few days. I was worried that he would leave his mark around the house, in the form of his bodily waste. A bit like having one of my friends over for the night. So I was wary of his whereabouts, and mine. I kept a distance from the little creature and hid my guitars deep in their cases, only to find him conveniently hiding in there as well. It was a tough period. Until after a while, I learned that Zalo was naturally hygienic and needed no potty training. He knew when to go to his designated area when nature calls -- even better than my friends, at times.

I warmed up to him before long. To see our four-legged friend running around in excitement whenever we come home from work is a bit too heartwarming for a man of my caliber to take. The herculean man among men charisma in me crumbled into the honey-scented charm of a Teletubby. Not to mention the times when I wake up to the little furball sleeping on my chest; unperturbed by the volume of my snoring. Plus we have a few things in common. We're shy when it comes to strangers and we're both afraid of my wife's hairbrush.

Having Zalo as a part of our small family has changed me as a person. I can now see why people adopt pets. They bring out another side of you that you never knew existed. In my case, a calmer and a more sensible version of myself. I curse less, at least. Unless when I'm watching football or driving. I have also probably softened up a bit, to the amusement of my friends. Only to become the butt of their jokes. But that's a small price to pay for the gratification that I get from taking care of and growing up together with the little fellow.

So if you have the capacity to adopt a pet, do give it a try. While it's no mean feat, it's not a walk in the park either. There is a certain amount of time and money that needs to be devoted but it's all part of building your character and responsibility. Somehow, I think pets do know when you're feeling down or blue. Zalo does hang around near me after a bad day at the office, or when he's hungry... more of the latter. Whatever it is, it does give me a certain level of comfort to ease the pain.

They don't ask for much anyway. Just tender loving care, and a pair of socks to chew.

Blue Moon Rising

2011-10-25T00:15:00.019+08:00

The following article was published in The Star on October 28, 2011.

That's way more than three minutes of injury time

At this point of writing, traffic into the Manchester City Wikipedia page is at an all-time high. New fans from around the world are gathering as much information possible about the club's history to claim they've been long time followers. Half of them, former supporters of Chelsea Football Club.

"I've been a fan since the club was known as St. Mark's (West Gorton) back in the 1880/81 season."

But that's the least of our problems. Glory hunters will always be there and they usually come together with success. Or even the slightest hint of attaining any. Gone were the days where I would stop and say hi whenever I see someone wearing a City jersey in the streets of KL. Doing that today would mean I’d have to approach every other stranger out there. Everyone is in blue with the name of an airline company on their chests. Very few of whom, have endured the pain of darker, “Typical City” days.

That aside, the crux of my dilemma now, as a City fan, is figuring out where to begin after witnessing what pun-desperate tabloid headline writers repeatedly call, "Demolition Derby".

It's been a few days now since Mark Clattenburg blew the final whistle of the 161st Manchester Derby at Old Trafford. (This time, without the obligatory “Fergie Time”.) But the buzz from the game is still resonating. I've been overwhelmed by the amount of attention that the game has garnered. We're talking beyond football fans here. We're talking women not posting about their multi-level marketing successes on Facebook but instead, the final scoreline of the match (1 – 6, in case you forgot). Some of them didn't even know which side was in red and which was in blue.

Nevertheless, that's how special this little derby has become. It will be remembered for many things.

We had initially planned to meet up in Hartamas, me and a few other long-time blue-blooded brothers of mine (I know). Unfortunately, with everyone all over the place, we had to call it off, leaving our Manchester born and bred friend Dave to be the sole survivor amidst the sea of red there. "I’ll be on TV! They asked why I’m the only blue here!" he texted us before the game. If only we could turn back time.

So there I was in my fading Man City t-shirt watching the game with my father at home in the living room; barely staying put and mildly hyperventilating -- a Derby Day standard. I thought it would be nice to catch the match with my old man, the man who made me a City fan and put me in football fandom misery for more than a decade. There was a sense of nostalgia in continuing a tradition of watching the derby together while screaming and cursing in front of the TV to the fear of our neighbors.

Only this time, there was little to be irked about. The only time I recall using profanity was when Mario Balotelli was booked for committing probably the most treacherous crime in modern football, asking a question.

"Why always me?"

Fresh from being rescued by the fire brigade after "his friend" shot fireworks in the bathroom and set his house on fire, Balotelli walked into the Theatre of Dreams in his typically coy and unperturbed manner, and graciously gave the Red Devils a nightmare. The first goal was a beautifully placed shot far beyond the reach of David De Gea and the second was a conclusive finish as a result of a clever play between David Silva and James Milner.

The question is not why, Mario. The question is why not. My "Why always me?" t-shirt is on its way.

Deeper in the heart of City's holding midfield was the formidable force that is Yaya Toure and Gareth Barry. Armed with their constantly misreported combined wage of £600,000 per week, Toure and Barry made closing down United's attacks look easier than styling Wayne Rooney's hair. Further down, with only Darren Fletcher's fluke goal beating him, it was a great day out as a spectator for Joe Hart. So much that there were reports of him discussing Glee episodes with Joleon Lescott in the middle of the match.

If the highly-inflated numbers of the English media are anything to go by, the trillions that Sheikh Mansour has pumped into the club have been, to say the least, totally worth it. The investment is for the long run and City's newly announced training center for grassroot development is a glaring evidence of just that. An aspiration surely shared by the Glazers.

On the red side of the pitch, one does wonder about the tactics deployed by Sir Alex Ferguson especially in the absence of their massive prospect wonderboy Tom Cleverley. And having Anderson, a product of their Paul Scholes Tackling Academy to wrestle Silva down at every opportune moment was a rather childish move. Evidently, United paid the price when Johnny Evans was sent off for doing wrongly what City kaptain Vincent Kompany did so professionally right to Danny Welbeck later in the game. Elusively pulling down your opponent without guilt (or getting sent off) is an art form not for the untrained.

The red card for Evans was proven to be the turning point of the game. From being rubbish, United became utter rubbish and the City Slickers capitalized like Simon Cowell on a bad X-Factor contestant.

The game opened up and lived up to its expectation as a mouthwatering affair. City defenders surged up the flanks in the form of Gael Clichy and academy graduate cum Balotelli lookalike, Micah Richards. With so much speed and splendor sandwiching the already lethal combination of Silva and Milner, and accidentally good positioning of Edin Dzeko, tragedy was written all over the green and yellow scarves of faithful United fans who have traveled from as far as London and Singapore. Sergio Aguero brought his club goal tally to 10, Dzeko scored two (one with his knee), and Silva waved his wand around the handsome goatee of fellow countryman De Gea and slot one in between his legs to turn the derby into a seven goal thriller.

I lost count at one point. Then again, who wouldn't? It was, as one Wayne Rooney used to say, a lesson in football.

But let's forget about the scoreline for a moment. The goals are all on YouTube. Let's shift our focus on the man who masterminded a victory that has surpassed the 5 – 1routing of our Silent Neighbors at Maine Road in 1989. With an English vocabulary of only five words more than Carlos Tevez, Roberto Mancini managed to gel a team of five Englishmen and six foreigners into a unit that was so entertaining and unstoppable, only the close-up of Ferguson incessantly chewing gum as his nose grew purple made me shun away from the TV during the game. Forza Mancini.

In hindsight, we know both men have great respect for each other. Before the game, as a part of the mind game ritual of the league, Mancini called Ferguson his "teacher" in coaching while the great Scotsman reciprocated by saying that the way Mancini conducted the Tevez saga was a "management masterclass". Surely one of the journalists must’ve told them to get a room.

In his post-match interview however -- still probably chewing gum -- the most successful manager in the history of the game called the defeat the "worst of his career". We're talking about the same man who was once asked if United will ever go into a derby as the underdog. He conveniently answered, "Not in my lifetime."

Well, tick tock Fergie.

Alas, the game was still only worth three points. And we’re barely halfway through the league. Sure it was the biggest derby win ever. Sure it was United’s first home defeat since April 2010. Sure City is five points ahead at the top. But we need to remember that there is still a long way to go.

United is still in the running to win the league and City players must not get ahead of themselves. Same goes to the fans. The plethora of 6 – 1 jokes on the Internet is starting to get tiring and I for one sincerely hope we let bygones be bygones and move on. Facing the taunts of “CHAMP16ONS” and all is a small price to pay if United go all the way to retain the title. And they have proven that they are capable of doing it in the past.

So United fans, cheer up. Every cloud has a Silva lining.

KL Blues Community Gathering - October

2011-10-11T22:30:00.005+08:00

Taken from the KL Blues Facebook page. That's me trying to sing but instead ended up looking like Rocky Balboa. "Adrian..."

The Sun was just setting after a long hot weekend in Damansara Damai. But in the heart of the Damansara-Sungai Buloh border suburb, Hot Pot Cafe was just waking up from slumber, cruising into the evening with the return of the KL Blues Community Gathering.

It’s been more than a year since the last gathering. And the local Blues scene has been on a break, or hibernating, if you will. The bands have been playing, here and there, but it’s been many moons since the last congregation of makers and lovers of the music. Time was nigh for the community to make a comeback.

The owners of Hot Pot, Dino and Doc Fazah, experienced musicians in the industry themselves, were gracious enough to host the celebrated night. It was a milestone, so to speak, for KL Blues as the event marked the beginning of the organization’s journey to continue its mission in keeping the Blues alive. Hot Pot would be the first of many venues that the community plans to tour to in spreading the music and the love that comes together with it.

Fresh from the historic reunion of Blues Gang the night before at the Dua Raksasa concert with Sweet Charity in Stadium Merdeka, Zizi and Jim got the ball rolling with their energetic rendition of evergreen Blues classics from the back in the day. One does wonder how they managed to lift the spirit of the floor and keep the energy high after a long night at the stadium. We all know that Jim is a seasoned runner, so perhaps we could ask Zizi next time he’s got any petua; and if it involves Tongkat Ali.

Taking over the stage were newcomers Minetrane. Formerly of The Big Pink and The Terence Chong Blues Band, Minetrane is made of four white-collar musicians who have been keeping a close eye on the expertise of their predecessors to keep on learning the tools of the trade. Gathering songs that they have performed separately earlier in different bands, Minetrane paid tribute to the likes of Stevie Wonder, BB King, Bill Withers and Jimi Hendrix. With Dino joining and adding some spice on the piano, it was certainly a good night out for the community’s latest four-piece act.

As the evening got warmer, with faces familiar and new filling the floor, crowd favorite Bluestreat came up to bring their game on. The band had previously, in an earlier KL Blues series, graced the grounds of The Duke in Duta Vista for their Tribute to Dire Straits gig. It’s not every day that you come across a band capable of paying an ode to Mark Knopfler and friends. But Bluestreat is not your everyday band. Performing their own compositions as well as Classic Rock tunes of Pink Floyd, Bluestreat got the crowd moving and dancing to the beat like a bonfire in a dark starry night.

Joining them soon after, making his special appearance for the night, was the Godfather of Malaysian Blues himself, the one and only Ito of the legendary Blues Gang. The writer was in Stadium Merdeka the night before amidst the thousands witnessing the return of his band on stage. But to be inches closer to the man at Hot Pot was certainly a night to remember. With the crowd dancing to his Malaysian Blues anthem Apo Nak Dikato, Ito was joined on stage with his son. It was a father and son fare that signifies the inheritance of the local Blues scene to the next generation; for the old, to pass the baton to the young.

Speaking of the young, closing the night was local harp extraordinaire Zhin Wong and the musician who’s known by all, and has been everywhere, Aznan Aziz. They had earlier joined Zizi and Jim for a beautiful rendition of the Muddy Waters classic, I’m Ready and John Mayall’s Crocodile Walk. But when they took over the stage as the clock ticks closer to midnight, the energy of the place remained upbeat with Zhin’s energetic and soulful mastery of the harp and Aznan’s gorgeous singing and guitar works. The passion in these guys brings chill down your spine.

With Monday looming closer to the end of the weekend, the first “return” of the KL Blues Community Gathering ended on a high note. It has successfully paved a way for the next episode of the series and the crowd simply couldn’t wait as it has now created a buzz in the community. So stay tuned, and keep on sweatin’ the Blues!

Malaysia And Me, A Gastronomic Journey

2011-08-31T10:15:00.008+08:00

The following essay was my entry to the Sun/1MDB "Malaysia and Me" writing contest. Totally shouldn've written about struggles with my inner demons instead of food. Selamat Hari Kebangsaan!

Thank you Malaysia. You have shaped me into the person I am today, an overweight 28-year-old with permanent love handles.

Malaysians love their food. We all know that. Food defines our culture like no other. Without food, we are left with the image of a mat rempit doing a wheelie or a cab driver arguing with a Middle Eastern tourist to portray the country. Imagine that on the cover of a Visit Malaysia brochure.

That's how important our food has become to us. It has become our identity. It goes beyond providing nutrition. It provides nutrition and contributes a large chunk of income to local cardiologists.

"You are what you eat," or so they say. If there's any truth in the saying, then by noon on a normal day, the average Malaysian is a plate of nasi lemak, two servings of roti canai, a glass of teh tarik and a bag of kuaci he's munching at work. The very image of a hardworking Malaysian.

I am no different. Malaysian food to me is what the Batmobile is to Batman. I can't go anywhere without it. And I mean anywhere.

When I was 17, for example, I was offered a place to pursue my studies in the United States. It was a dream come true. Yet, the prospect of being half the world away from the likes of mee goreng mamak and ayam tandoori brought shivers down my spine. Even the famed nasi goreng USA can never be found anywhere in the US.

It was this fear of malnutrition that made me fly to Los Angeles with two large suitcases. One containing my clothing and the other, containing packets of instant sambal ikan bilis, rendang ayam and serunding daging. Half of the ration was chunked away by airport security.

But I survived. Five years of living abroad taught me to appreciate our food better. Nothing comes close to the variety of food that we have here in Malaysia. Sure, America is a melting pot. But as staples of their diet, pizza is Italian and Chinese take-away is well, Chinese. The only purely American food I could think of is the Big Mac.

We have got history to thank for what we have on our plates today. This country was partly built by travelers who came to our port to trade spice. Some settled here for good after marrying the locals and brought in their recipes together with them. Recipes that have evolved into different forms and fusions through our diverse cooking styles.

This beautiful convergence of traditions is the root to the variety of flavors that have been spoiling our taste buds through the years. It forms the stories behind the mamak stalls, Chinese kopitiam shops and dimly-lighted Thai seafood restaurants that we see everywhere today. The same goes to the meals on our dining table at home.

Growing up, I was often told by my mother that I should always be thankful and finish my food because back in the day, only Malay kings and queens get to eat the dishes that we eat on a regular basis today. Back then, asam pedas and sambal tempoyak were the food of the royals.

Even then I knew it was just her way of stopping me from eating junk food and spoiling my dinner. But coming back to her words today, it does make sense because fixing these dishes requires meticulous preparation. One extra pinch of ingredient into the pot and you've practically ruined the entire mix. I can imagine how mind-boggling the chemical equations behind every dish are. And there's no turning back!

Which is why I never believe my aunts when they say all you need to make the perfect Malay dish is to estimate and add the ingredients "secukup rasa". While I struggled to understand Einstein's Theory of Relativity back in college, I did finally grasp its basics. The concept of "secukup rasa", on the other hand, remains a mystery that continues to leave me in a bewildered heap. It's a secret code. A language only Malay women understand and Malay men refuse to understand.

My Chinese, Indian, Sikh, Kadazan and Bajau brothers know what I'm talking about. It's the eating part that we're good at. And herein lies the beauty of Malaysia as a food nation.

Our food builds character. It's the DNA that forms our personality as Malaysians. The palette that provides the many colors gracing the sights and sounds of this beautiful nation. People sitting by the roadside chatting over a plate of rojak and washing it down with a bowl of cendol. The mamak waiter who could remember all 600 orders he's taking and calculate the total by hand (though different amount every time). The Chinese uncle who could fix a plate of char kuey teow on his flaming wok at the blink of an eye. The list goes on and on, from every corner of the country.

Coming from a family of a Kelantan-Negeri Sembilan mix, I was brought up to experience both ends of the Malaysian food spectrum. From the cili padi-laden masak lemak and sambal belacan from Kuala Pilah to the double dose of sugar in renowned Kelantanese dessert delicacies such as jala emas and the oddly-named tahi itik, I have grown to withstand any form of challenge to my tongue and tummy. Perhaps that is also why I am often referred to as being both hot and sweet. At least by my wife.

I'm sure we have read enough about Malaysian food integrating its people. There's no denying that the plethora of food joints that we have across the country are bringing people together. It's a festival of our best culinary offerings which everyone is celebrating, all year long. And the world is taking notice. Malaysians stood tall when we witnessed Penang assam laksa making it to the top 10 of CNN's Most Delicious Food in the World ranking recently.

Food makes us forget about our differences. It opens a new avenue of limitless possibilities for us to explore together as a nation. Food is what people of different races in this country understand.

We don't say "Hello!" in this country. We ask, "Dah makan?"

A short, two-word question that embodies the unity of our people in its truest sense. A question both young and old can understand. A question we can ask each other even as strangers.

Only on this land, where everyone is always hungry.

Busking Barefoot

2011-06-25T11:21:00.003+08:00

The following is a cross-post from a travel blog I'm running with my wife Azalia Suhaimi, Busking Barefoot.

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness." -- Mark Twain

How's that for an introduction? I googled it.

Welcome to Busking Barefoot, our travel blog.

Not too long ago, on a long drive home from work, I said to my wife Azalia "We should write a book. We'll figure out the title later but the tagline would read: He's a musician*. She's a photographer. They're both travelers. This is their story."

The tagline seemed perfect. It depicted our passion for the arts and desire to discover the world. Not to mention the tinge of mystery with the short sentences and all. I could already see it proudly displayed in between The Motorcycle Diaries and Eat, Pray, Love at the Travelogue section.

But there was one problem. We're both very impatient people. And getting a book published is probably the only thing longer than getting your tax return. There's concept development, manuscript draft, editor review, and a host of other lengthy procedures that sound like the ones I'd just made up.

So we decided on setting up this blog. It's online and it's free.

The tales from our travels are presented here in the form of my writing and her photography works. Or, in some cases, her writing and her photography works. You don't want to see the photos I took. This one time I tried taking a macro shot of a ladybird and it ended up as a picture of my elbow.

That's enough background for now. Enjoy your time here and do leave a comment or two. We like reading them.

*I'm not really a musician. While I do have a decent guitar collection acquired mostly during my college days (with scholarship money), I could barely play Happy Birthday to save my life. If I cut an album, it would probably sell approximately 30 copies. Which is not too bad had it not been my mom who bought them all.

Karaoke, The Malaysian Way

2011-06-09T21:24:00.004+08:00

The following article was published by an organization close to my heart, Association of British Women in Malaysia.

We live in a country full of singers. It's true. From security guards to CEOs, maids to MPs, in Malaysia, you can never miss the sight of people mouthing the words to their favorite songs. Be it an evergreen number from the past or a current chart-topper, our air is filled with music (in various pitches) courtesy of the Michael Boltons and Mariah Careys in us all. For good or for bad, singing is a national pastime.

So it's not surprising that there are more karaoke joints than McDonald's in KL. Okay, that's a baseless exaggeration -- we all know Ronald McDonald is taking over the world. But the depiction is not entirely inaccurate. Karaoke joints are growing like mushroom and there's nothing you can do about it. New malls are almost definitely built with one of the many flamboyantly-named karaoke chains like "Super SingBox KaraOK!" and such. On their billboards, "We have karaoke!" is the new "We have cinema!"

The term "karaoke" is derived from the Japanese words kara (empty) and ōkesutora (orchestra). Little that its inventors knew, there's nothing "empty" at all about karaoke these days -- especially in Malaysia. Try standing at an audible distance (15 yards away) from any karaoke session and you'll hear vocals throughout the songs. With verses sung over choruses and vice versa, it's amazing how people could spend hours immersed in each other's voice... myself included.

Karaoke joints in Malaysia run the gamut from the smallest and tightest to the widest and most extravagant of spaces. Mostly located near video game arcades, the karaoke box is perhaps the simplest and cheapest option for karaoke enthusiasts. Built no bigger than a portable toilet for two (if there is any out there), locals call these charming little boxes "karaoke jamban". That's right. Directly and rather crudely translated, it means "toilet karaoke" in English. A rather fitting description at times considering the sound coming out of it.

The most popular joints in town are probably the mid-high range venues located in shopping malls. These places offer the latest songs and a wide variety of group packages. Very confusing group packages. For some reason, the cost structure for these group packages were designed to be so confusing you might end up thinking you're paying for parking as well in the room charges. There's the individual charge, hourly charge, cover charge, and a host of other charges targeted at confusing the customers so that they give up and just pay the damn charges already!

Nonetheless, these mid-high range joints have always been the preferred gathering venues for families and friends to have a little get-together and torment each other unique renditions of I Will Survive and Careless Whisper. From birthday parties to hen parties, baby showers are probably the only event that has yet taken place at a karaoke joint. For now.

Possibly the only karaoke joint where everybody sound good is the karaoke pub. Often filled with less than sober customers, karaoke pubs are usually where hardworking businessmen wind down after a long week at the office. It's where singing "I Just Call To Say I Love You" with the lyrics of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" is acceptable. Colored by the sights of scantily-clad waitresses and the sounds of wine bottles popping in its glory, karaoke pubs are where serious office workers roll up their sleeves and have fun even when they're caught with their pants down, literally.

Apart from the commercial joints, karaoke is present in almost every other function out there. There's always the little karaoke setup at Malay weddings where Pak Mat and Mak Limah relive the glory days of Pop Yeh Yeh from the Swinging Sixties as they twist their way to the music of The Siglap 5 and The Zurah II. Such spectacle of their true colors from yesteryears is often followed by the baffled gasps of the young ones.

In the corporate world, the setup is more elaborate and usually geared toward -- for lack of better words -- kissing the bosses' behind. Just as they do in golf, where the bosses gets the best clubs, buggies and flights, corporate dinners are typically equipped with state-of-the-art karaoke sets complete with an Auto-Tune machine to fix the pitch of every wrong notes they hit. Basically all you need for your boss to sound good when belting out Copacabana, before you call him the next Barry Manilow as he walk down the stage.

As we can see, karaoke has become a part of the Malaysian lifestyle. And karaoke joints have become a place for us to go out there, sing our hearts out, and live our dreams of becoming a singing superstar; at least within the four walls of the room. Who knows, the next Justin Bieber may just be singing in a tiny karaoke jamban at a small shopping complex in Kampar as we speak. Not that he has to sing that well to be like him anyway.

The writer and his friends having too much fun they don't care if they're singing into a bottle of grape juice

The writer and his friends congratulating each other after successfully butchering I Just Called To Say I Love You

Boarding School Blues

2011-04-10T08:06:00.003+08:00

Seconds before the teacher who owned the motorcycle chased us away

Looking at the letter in my hand, I could only think of the things I’ll miss. No video games, no comics, no biking and most importantly, no live football on TV. Nothing uncommon in the priority list of a 15-year-old. Yet, I was a signature away from forgoing them all. It was a time when the condition of my action figures took precedent over the condition of my report card grades. It was a time when going to school meant doodling cartoons in class and loitering around during recess. It was a time when education meant unlimited enjoyment. And I wanted it to last forever.

Unfortunately, my parents begged to differ. When I received the letter offering me a place in boarding school, the only options I had were to say yes now or say yes later. Within a week, I was on an eight hour drive heading East Coast, to the state of Kelantan, to a place where I eventually called home for two years of my life, MRSM Pengkalan Chepa.

Founded in 1972, the school is the oldest MRSM in the country. Something I could already tell when I entered the dorm. The creaking ceiling fan, the hanging closet door, the random nails protruding out of the wall, I was welcomed into a roomful of vintage charms. Not to mention the artworks of its past occupants i.e. graffiti on the mattresses. From caricatures to words to band logos to unfathomable shapes, every bed tells a story. Mostly profane.

Naturally, the most excruciating part of moving to a new school is being the new kid. Luckily, we were spared. With only form four and five students in the school, everyone was the new kid. Which meant everyone had to endure the awkwardness of living with each other; at least in the beginning. You know, one kid may be perfectly okay with throwing his boxers all over the place while the other couldn’t even bear the sight of his own. And they could be fortuitously placed next to each other, causing conflicts of epic proportions. Such is the beauty of dorm life.

The students came from all over the country with the majority coming from the home state. So for out-of-state students, communication issues were inevitable. Being half-Kelantanese though, I fared well in conversing in the dialect. In other words, unlike my fellow outsiders, I managed to chat for more than two sentences without dropping my jaw in bemusement.

It wasn’t long before everyone was fluent in Kelantanese though. And I think I may have a hand in it. As for a while, I was our dorm’s resident translator; which was not easy. While the Malay word ‘gaduh’, for example, means ‘to fight’ in English, it means ‘to rush’ in Kelantanese. So you can imagine the number of random fights I had to break up whenever we were rushing to class.

Among the many things that we had to adapt to, the most significant one for me was the schedule. Everything was scheduled. For five days a week, it would be breakfast, class, recess, class, lunch, afternoon prep, tea, sports, dinner, night prep, supper, lights out. A far cry from my lifestyle back home. Gone were the days where I’d be pounding on my PlayStation controller in the wee hours.

Nevertheless, we had a total of six meals a day. Six scrumptious meals prepared by the adorable ladies of the dining hall who, in their Kelantanese generosity, were never short of the state’s most important ingredient, sugar. If it weren’t for the two hours I spent on the basketball court everyday, I would’ve graduated weighing a few pounds short of our aging school bus. Therein lies the beauty of the system I suppose. It evens itself out.

Our weekends were on Fridays and Saturdays and students were allowed to go out on alternate weekends. We’d squeeze into a 'prebet' (privately owned, not too legal taxi) and for RM1 each, we’re off to Kota Bharu, the state capital located about 10km away. More often than not, our outings involved reading comics for free at the roadside stalls and bingeing on fast food -- a luxury at the time.

As regimented as life was, most of us eventually got the hang of it. Essentially, it was an early encounter to living independently. Well there were varying levels of learning curves. And I’d be lying to say I’d never witnessed any. A dorm-mate once soaked his school pants in bleach. He later became the first student in the school’s history to come to class in faded slacks. Our teacher was barely amused.

It’s been more than a decade now since our graduation. And through the years, there have been too many instances when I’ll be taken back to my days in boarding school. Mostly reminding me of the wonderful time I had there.

Today, my schoolmates are all over the country. We do catch up for futsal every now and then. And there are the weddings which would usually turn into small gatherings. Those are the times when we’d talk about our lives and expanding waistlines.

I don’t think it would be long before I see one of them talking about their success stories on TV. Perhaps when the day comes, I could tell my children,

“Kids, I went to school with this guy. He used to come to class in faded slacks.”

Fastball

2011-03-13T18:23:00.009+08:00

Here's a quick update. Or in Charlie Sheen's word, a fastball.

My wife does vintage baby photography now so if you're interested, do head on to her website here. I did ask her if I could be the first model but all I got was a resounding no.

Also, below is her entry to the Cutout magazine Eco Care Bag Design competition. If you like it, do go here and 'like' it on Facebook. Google made 'google' a verb, Facebook made 'like' a verb... I'm gonna make bazonga-zonga a verb someday. Watch this space.

Be back with actual entries soon... ish.

The Family Guy

2011-01-20T13:44:00.005+08:00

Well there goes my Maybe 365 project. Then again, 5 is still, ‘maybe 365’ isn’t it?

On a far more important note, I got married on January 8th to the most beautiful girl in the world, Azalia Suhaimi.

(Not too sure if she’d say the same of me... about being pretty, not a girl -- though that does occur at times.)

The akad went smoothly i.e. I only had to recite it once (Booyah!). And the receptions on both sides made us possibly the happiest people on the planet during the past week.

She had her dream wedding by the lake with lights, flowers, music, and us walking down the aisle to All You Need Is Love. (Read all about it here.) While I had my dream wedding as well, filled with laughter of bad jokes from my schoolmates and more bad jokes from my father’s schoolmates.

Endless gratitude to our parents, family members and friends for all their support. If I could plant you a mountain of flowers overlooking a double rainbow after a sunshiny Sunday morning rain, I would. In the meantime, I hope this blog post would do.

Above all, thank you God for this incredible gift. Alhamdulillah.

Some photos by our wonderful photographer Nik Aizu, and his team, Shazni and Amir.

Set 1: http://www.nikaizu.com/2011/01/wedding-azalia-asrif.html
Set 2: http://www.nikaizu.com/2011/01/reception-of-azalia-asrif.html

The Maybe 365 Project: 5.1.11

2011-01-06T23:39:00.002+08:00

And right after my first working day of the year, is my last working day before my long leave. Our friend Junaidi was kind enough to bring some cake from his hometown of Kuching, Sarawak. Bless the man. Adios office!

The Maybe 365 Project: 4.1.11

2011-01-05T22:38:00.002+08:00

First working day of the year. Welcome back traffic jams, floods, and endless streak of curse words on the road. Not everyday that you get to use your phone in the car right in front of the traffic police though.

The Maybe 365 Project: 3.1.11

2011-01-04T18:55:00.004+08:00

Moved in the first batch of stuff into our place. What I was trying to recreate here is a graph of my fiancee's things compared to mine. That's right, only the ball is mine.

Sent my youngest sister Sarah for her first day in secondary school. She seems happy enough. Every year, when school starts, I'm reminded of my own ordeal back during my first day in school. Here's my recollection of it, written around this time last year: Don't Leave Me, Ms. Maureen.

The Maybe 365 Project: 2.1.11

2011-01-03T14:17:00.005+08:00

I spent two years living with these guys. And those probably were, the funniest two years of my life; no matter how bad the jokes were.

Ayam Golek Pantai Dalam lunch with the MRSMPC schoolmates.

I don’t even know how we began calling ourselves The Godbros (okay, it was The Godfather but play along), while preserving our dislike for people who name their group of friends.

Then again, we’re not friends. We’re brothers.

A brilliant final weekend as a bachelor.

The Maybe 365 Project: 1.1.11

2011-01-01T23:28:00.022+08:00

I haven’t been updating this blog that much toward the end of last year. Apart from the re-posts of my articles in The Star, I’ve practically posted nothing. In other words, I’m wasting precious domain hosting dollars and cents.

The number of readers hasn’t been that encouraging as well. Bar those who stumbled upon the site after googling “spleen sandwich” or “itchy groin” (beats me), the average number of visitors to the site for the year ending December 31st, 2010, was three per day.

That’s right. Even Kim Jong Il Looking at Things garnered more attention than my website.

So for the upcoming year, to boost the activity of this site, I plan to post up one photo everyday with probably a story to go with it. You heard me right. By the end of the year, I’ll have 365 new photos; if I’m dedicated enough. Which is probably why people on the Internet cleverly call this kind of project, -- wait for it -- that’s right, The 365 Project.

But as I said, 365 photos will only happen for me if I’m diligent enough. And I rarely am. As demonstrated by my half-complete USS Constitution ship in a bottle and Richard Simmons jigsaw puzzle.

That said, I’m going to call this project the Maybe 365 Project. At the rate I’m going, all pumped up and ready to go, I may well end up with 637 photos but knowing my momentum throughout the year, I’d be lucky to have 3 photos.

This man successfully did it for 18 years with his Polaroid camera right to the day of his passing. An amazing feat. But I'll only be doing it with my phone's camera. Can't afford to lug around a proper camera and I'm only as good at photography as Khloe Kardashian at being polite.

I guess it’s a good way for me to keep myself active with my writing as well. For the only way to write better is to write more. There’s always Twitter but 140 characters would only allow me to write so much, especially when my subject of interest includes Paleontology -- which in itself, is already 165 characters.

Plus 2011 will be a special year. I’m getting married in a week’s time, we’re moving into our own place, my band is wrapping up on our first record, I’ll be writing more articles for publication, and Manchester City is on its way to world domination. So there is a lot talk about.

I guess I’ll sign off with my first installment to the project, for 1.1.11.

Spent the first day of the year helping my fiancee move out of her apartment. A monumental feat considering she's got stuff enough to fit a mansion. So we were bound to be driven bonkers. At which point I thought it was funny to perform this little trick I used to do as a kid with the sarong.

Amidst frantically boxing her things in the dusty room, she didn't find it too amusing. I did. Still am.

Wearing it as I'm typing now.

2010, Tweeted

2010-12-31T17:04:00.002+08:00

As posted on Twitter.com/asrif.

It's the last day of the year. Guess it's time, for my 2010 Year In Review. :-)

January: Welcomed 2010 with a bang. Yes "Bang!" was the sound of me knocking my head on the wall from toothache. 8 root canal visits ensued.

February: Took @azaliasuhaimi to the lake to propose to her. It's usually quiet there but the loud fishermen couldn't help it. She said yes.

March: UK road trip with the family. Witnessed the amazing sights and scenery of the isles including Scotland, Wales, England, and Pakistan.

April: Turned 27. @azaliasuhaimi amazingly gathered my friends for a surprise. Too happy but didn't drop a tear. Not until later that night.

May: Threw my first ever surprise b'day party. For none other than @azaliasuhaimi. I expect an Oscar nomination for my directing and acting.

June: Bought my first car off my dad. A 2005 Honda City. That's right. A 1.5L mean driving machine that will surely scare your sleeping cat.

July: World Cup South Africa. Spain outclassing Holland, Paul the Octopus, and the sound of the vuvuzela still buzzing in my earBBZZZZZZTTT!

August: Recorded 6 songs with my band Fed Hi for our debut EP. Lost my voice by the fourth track. Final mixing and release by mid-year 2011.

September: My 3rd article in The Star: http://bit.ly/9U4fsW -- Getting the hang of it after getting my writing featured in Classifieds only.

October: Moved from Planning to Branding at work. Still don't know what I'm supposed to do in office other than annoy people with bad jokes.

November: Parents went to Hajj & I was in charge of things. House got robbed, my MacBook stolen, City lost to Wolves. But it's all good. :-)

December: Wedding countdown. Everything's in place apart from my manly mani pedi sesh with the Godbros. http://plixi.com/p/66826804

And that, was my 2010. A beautiful year full of love, learning & trying to be funny on Twitter while failing miserably (more in 2011 sorry).

Here's to an awesome 2011. May it bring us smiles as we learn more about life. I surely look forward to @azaliasuhaimi's smile everyday. :-)

The Journey Within

2010-12-05T12:39:00.007+08:00

The following article was published in The Star on December 5, 2010.

Caught on camera, the two seconds when I wasn't weeping that morning

The haj changes a pilgrim, as well as the people he leaves at home.

The sun was just peeking as I got out of bed on that cold November morning. A sombre one too, I should say. As it has been the past few days.

I saw my parents taking out their luggage as I peered through the door, half-awake They were already in their ihram, the white garment worn for the haj. A sight that, while foreign to me, got me choked up a little.

It wasn’t too long ago when we were told that they would be performing the haj this year, although I’m sure it had been in their plans for a while. The time was right, I suppose. My father was a year into retirement and my younger sisters, who used to go to my mother for the smallest things, are big enough to do some of those things themselves. Or make mum make me do it for them.

The plan was to drive to the neighbourhood mosque where some of our family members were already waiting to pray Subuh together before bidding my parents farewell. We would then head for the Tabung Haji Complex, their final stop, before boarding the bus that would take them straight to Kuala Lumpur International Airport. A straightforward itinerary, had it not been for all the tears I had to hold in.

You see, I haven’t been the most obedient of sons. I had my share of mischief. Suffice to say, I have given them enough headaches to consistently make Panadol the number two item in our grocery list, after random candies my sisters throw into the trolley.

So sending them for the haj, as simple as it seemed, was a daunting task for me. And explaining why is just as challenging.

It’s not that I’ve never been apart from them in the past. There were those two years in boarding school and five in college abroad, compared to the 30 days they would be spending in Mecca and Medina.

But having them away to perform one of the pillars of Islam is an entirely different experience. You can feel the magnitude of the voyage as they join millions of other Muslims, the chosen ones for the year, in the glorious pilgrimage.

The weeks leading to the day of their departure for Jeddah brought me closer to their preparation for the journey and, consequently, closer to them.

As the eldest of their four children I wanted nothing more than a smooth-sailing haj for them. I felt the need to be responsible for ensuring that things are okay at home while they’re away.

All I wanted for them over there was peace of mind... something they were denied during my coming of age years, thanks to my antics. The sleepless nights I caused them; the misadventures I stumbled into as I made my transition from childhood to adulthood.

These were the images that crossed my mind as I was driving them to Tabung Haji that morning. I couldn’t help but reminisce about the times when I could have paid more attention to what they said, made better decisions, and not given in to the immaturity of youth. Only to realise there’s no way of reversing the bad turns I’d taken in the past. And there’s no point regretting.

Alas, those were lessons I probably couldn’t have learned better otherwise. And through it all, they had stood by me. Never short of the love and care they’ve given me since I was a child; which I couldn’t be more grateful for.

At the departure gate, I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer as I hugged them goodbye. The macho, impenetrable man in me was thrown out of the window and boy did I weep. Probably the loudest I’ve cried since Finding Nemo.

It’s been two weeks now since my parents began their journey and things are going well. They have completed the requirements and are currently on their way to Medina. Over here, apart from the fast-food diet I’m feeding my younger siblings for breakfast, lunch and dinner, things are fine.

We’re all eagerly waiting for them to come back. While we have been in contact through phone, there are simply too many stories to be told and anecdotes to be shared. Tales from what seems to be, as we’ve only witnessed in pictures, a breathtaking voyage.

I’ve surely learned a lot while my parents are away. Well, even before that actually. And I look forward to their return. For I plan to be a better son, brother, and soon, husband.

That’s the beauty of the haj, I believe. It doesn’t only change those taking the journey, but also their loved ones at home.

Ujian Penilaian Surat Rasmi

2010-10-17T09:35:00.007+08:00

The following article was published in The Star on October 17, 2010.

So, do you know the answer?” she asks.

Perhaps the curious look on my face isn’t good enough to hide my confusion. Well I have been staring at the same question for a good seven minutes now. It’s getting obvious that I’m as clueless as a clown at a bachelor’s party.

It’s my sister Sarah. She’s sitting for the UPSR and I’m trying to help her out with Science, my favourite subject in primary school. Partly because I got to perform surgery on frogs. But mainly because it wasn’t in the exam.

That’s right. In 1995, we only had four subjects for UPSR: Pemahaman (grammar), Penulisan (writing), English and Math. In fact, we were the last batch to have four subjects. The following year, the Education Ministry felt that five was a nicer number and included Science – which made our juniors in school hate us more than they already did.

On hindsight, clearly we had it easier back then. Plus, questions were only in one language. Students these days have to wrestle through Maths and Science in English and Bahasa. It’s a miracle that the English paper questions aren’t translated into Bahasa as well.

But that’s me talking today, at 27. When I was 12, UPSR was all that mattered. It was the biggest deal, after comics. Doing well in that exam would take me to the top of the world. Flunking it was an unimaginable disaster.

I was under intense pressure. Imagine Messi at the World Cup, Phelps at the Olympics, or even Mawi at Akademi Fantasia 3. So much hope was placed on me by my parents. And the expectations of teachers I had to meet. I couldn’t bear the pain of letting anyone down.

UPSR was my first big test in life. The starting point that led to other milestones such as going to college, getting a job, paying taxes, getting married and paying more taxes. It was a bridge that I needed to cross before I could make the transition from blue to green school pants. A hurdle I had to leap over into the world of secondary schooling, where things seemed a lot cooler.

So there I was in front of the school gate on the morning of UPSR Day 1. Standing still amidst the swarm of Year 6 students making their way into the compound. Anxiety was in the air; it was nerve-wrecking.

Even the school gardener seemed dramatic, as if he was trimming the trees in slow motion ... before I realised that it was his actual speed, being 70.

The sun was shining brightly, silhouetting a shadow that followed me as I made my way into SRK Sri Subang Jaya, Selangor, my battleground for the day. I threw a glance back at my parents at the gate as they witnessed their first child make the walk. Probably his biggest since the day he took his first step.

From a distance, I saw a ray of hope in their eyes. The same ray I saw after our solat hajat (prayers) the night before. It was only appropriate that I reciprocate with a smile, and a raised eyebrow inspired by The Rock ... to signal my confidence.

I was ready.

The first paper was Pemahaman, designed to test the student’s understanding of word usage. I breezed through the multiple-choice paper. Years of watching Malay-translated Japanese cartoons finally paid off.

Penulisan was tricky. As a subjective paper, there were a million ways of approaching it.

The possibilities were endless, not to mention that your results depend on the mood of the person marking the paper. In other words, you don’t want your paper ending up in the hands of a mother with three kids running around, while the husband watches football on TV. Make one error, and you’re doomed.

The question I chose required the student to write a letter to inform his/her class teacher that he/she wouldn’t be able to attend school as he/she needed to take care of his/her brother.

The following is a reenactment of my thoughts at the time. You can read it in the voice of Morgan Freeman.

“Right. So they want me to write a letter to Puan Rosnani and tell her I can’t come to school because my brother can’t take care of himself. Now is this letter surat rasmi (formal) or tidak rasmi (informal)? It’s not like we don’t know each other. I go cycling with her son all the time. I’ll just write her an informal letter.”

Which turned out to be a letter I should never have written.

Walking out of the exam hall, murmurs began to creep into my ear. Everyone was talking about the questions, especially the letter, and especially how easy it was, and especially, about how it should be formal, and how wrong I was.

The world, as I knew it, came to an end. Evident enough, when the results came out, I had to settle for a B.

Which wasn’t too bad considering how dire my grades were in college later on.

“Do you know the answer?” she asks, again.

I’m back in the living room with my sister’s Science workbook. Images from my UPSR days vanish into thin air. I gaze at the ceiling, momentarily reflecting on her question. Then I look at her to give my thoroughly pat answer.

“Google it.”

Raya, yesterday and today

2010-09-26T09:58:00.002+08:00

The following article was published in The Star on September 26, 2010.

YESTERDAY, I was eight. Back then, at this time, I wouldn’t be indoors writing this. I’d be out there on my grandparents’ lawn, running around with my cousins in the bright afternoon sunshine in Kampung Laut, Kelantan.

Today, I’m 27. It’s 9.40am on the second day of Syawal and I’m parked in front of the computer. Trying to pin down the magic of Raya; the youthful exuberance that has lost its energy; the excitement I may have left behind, together with the songkok I blew up in 1991. (More on that later.)

Yesterday, Raya was the most eagerly awaited time of the year. Even before Ramadan, I’d ask my parents if we’re going back to Kelantan (my father’s side) or staying back in Kuala Lumpur for Raya (in Kampung Pandan, my mother’s side).

Travelling to the East Coast meant that I would have to brush up on my Kelantanese, or endure the taunting of my cousins, who would laugh mercilessly whenever I fumbled on the dialect. As a kid, the approval of cousins your age meant the world.

Today, the most eagerly awaited time of the year is the English Premier League. Raya is just a few days’ leave from work for me to regain the weight lost during the fasting month. So that I can fit back into pants that are getting loose, and not have to buy new ones.

Yesterday, Raya meant new clothing. From top to bottom. New songkok, as my head was getting bigger. New baju Melayu – just like the women folk at Malay weddings, I couldn’t be seen wearing last year’s colour. New sampin as I tore last year’s in a makeshift tug-of-war. And new shoes as the lifespan of an eight-year-old boy’s pair ends well before you can walk to the cash register.

Today, I’m typing these words in a Pagoda T-shirt and kain pelikat. Not quite the attire you’d see in a Raya commercial on TV. In fact, you’re more likely to see a flying sled.

Yesterday, Raya was a source of income. Not being a member of the Hilton family meant that I didn’t have a steady allowance to support my “needs”, such as X-Men figures and Tamiya cars. But thanks to the beautiful tradition of duit Raya, I was able to gather enough funds to last me until the following year.

(Statistics show that no more than 2% of children nationwide save their duit Raya in the bank. The other 98% splash it all by the third day ... unless the toy stores open on the second day.)

Today, I live in a parallel universe. Instead of raking in money, the ringgits start flying out of my wallet even before I can reach my sandals after Eid prayers. Kids flock to you that early.

Perhaps that’s why the baju Melayu is designed with all those pockets. For children to keep their notes and coins, and for adults to gather dust.

But all is fair I guess. I squeezed money out of their mums and dads when I was younger. That’s just how our economy evens itself out.

Yesterday, Raya was a time for war. That’s right. It was when children headed out to the battlefield, armed with fireworks (bought legally back then). We’d set up our arsenals on the field and attempt to out-blast the other kids in the neighbourhood.

Being the youngest among my cousins, I was more of the Sergeant General Observer. But when it came to preparing the fireworks, there was no question of whose songkok would be used to place the fireworks in position. My way of saving Private Ryan, I suppose.

Today, Raya is still a time for war. A different kind of war. You’ve got the Battle of Seremban or Dungun, Muar or Pekan, Tawau or Jasin, as couples criss-cross the country to head home for Raya.

While the winners of the balik kampung battle may triumph, they may still have to sit through their spouses’ long face throughout the journey. Hence the old Malay advice, “Cari yang dekat. Senang balik beraya” (meaning, “Look afar, and prepare for war”.)

Yesterday, Raya was great fun. Mainly because I had nary a care about everything else that was going on in the world.

Raya meant looking sharp in new clothing at 7am and having it all smeared in rendang by 10. It meant running around the house chasing chickens and goats for no reason before they chased us back.

It meant staying up past my bedtime because we wouldn’t let the other kids beat us with their fireworks, even if it meant a temporary loss of hearing. Today, Raya is, well, a bit different. The euphoria and non-stop excitement are simply no longer for me. Thing are quieter. Maybe it’s time to adjust myself and get into the groove of things – as an adult during Raya.

Then again, oftentimes these days, Raya is when adults sit at the hall and look at their cellphones while the children strangle themselves to get a hold of the PlayStation controller.

Alas, Raya yesterday or today, those dreadful movies you see on TV are here to stay.

A Wish

2010-09-12T09:30:00.000+08:00

Not So Fast

2010-08-29T13:16:00.004+08:00

The following article was published in The Star on August 29, 2010.

One boy mans up when he confronts his own thirst and hunger during Ramadhan.

AS a 10-year-old, nothing gave me more joy than not being treated as a 10-year-old. It was a time when I wanted to do everything I couldn’t. Drive a car, go out on my own, work, earn money, buy stuff, snore, curse ... I practically wanted to do everything adults were doing. Except pay taxes.

And fast.

I feared fasting. I couldn’t imagine playing the routine round of catch during recess and not chugging away my 1.5-litre tumbler afterwards. I may have been the school’s catch champion but, without water, I was only as fast as Kuala Lumpur traffic at 6pm.

I began fasting a bit later in life compared to my peers. Some started as early as seven. When Ramadhan came, as my friends diligently observed the holy month, I diligently observed them coping with hunger and thirst instead. Meanwhile, at the canteen, I’d shamelessly wolf down a plate of mee goreng.

I had tried fasting earlier. But my initial attempts either lasted no more than three hours, or didn’t actually count. I would “accidentally” drink, or, as a last resort, beg for my parents’ mercy to end my starvation.

Realising my frustration with my own vices, I was often consoled by my mother, who told me that I would still be rewarded with pahala (spiritual merits) for my effort.

However, as the Ramadhan of 1993 approached, I made a resolution to fast properly for a whole day. No more “half-day” fasting. No more accidentally breaking my fast.

And more importantly, no more recess with the small kids. It was time for me to man up, and be one of the big boys. Which is why I chose a Saturday to fast for the first time. We didn’t have to be in school.

The challenge began as early as 5am. As I was (again) playing catch with the Care Bears on a rainbow in dreamland, I was awakened by my mother’s voice to get up for sahur. But waking me up at five is no different from waking me up at eight. You’d need to rev a Harley near my ears before I could open my eyes. And as she didn’t have a Harley, I had to be dragged to the dining table.

It was a battle between the mind and the heart. While my favourite dishes had been prepared for me to prepare for the big day, I had the appetite of a runway supermodel. I did realise that I had to fill myself up to face the next 12 hours.

But even after washing my face, I still could barely munch anything. After a bite of bread and a gulp of water, I was on my way back to my beloved bed to continue running with the Care Bears.

Waking up at 8am, I headed straight to the living room to catch my weekly dose of Saturday morning cartoons. “This should be a breeze,” I thought. The usual sequence of cartoons would run until noon and I wouldn’t even notice the time.

Or so I thought.

By the end of Goof Troop and the beginning of DuckTales, my stomach was grumbling as I recalled the bowl of cereal that would usually sustain me through noon.

Images of golden frosted flakes swimming in a pool of milk began to appear in my head. But the young warrior in me didn’t budge. As I held tightly to the sofa and kept my eyes straight on the TV – switching it off whenever the junk food commercials came on – I managed to reach the end of TaleSpin as the clock struck noon.

Half the battle, won.

I had expected the rest of the day to be tougher. The temperature was rising and I could feel the scorching heat even under the ceiling fan, which was on full blast. There I was in the middle of the living room staring at the clock whose hands seemed to defy gravity. Time was moving slower than ever. I felt powerless. “Five more hours,” said mum, as she witnessed her son’s misery.

“Five more wha--?” I said.

The sound of running water in the kitchen alerted me to the majestic beauty of its flow. And its ability to quench my thirst. A part of me wanted to just run and drown myself in a full tub of water and drink it all. But I barely had the energy to lift the TV remote, let alone crawl away.

“Two more hours,” I heard as I blinked and took a glance at the clock. I’d slept. But was too tired to dream of anything.

The rest gave me some willpower to carry myself to the dining table, where I sat with my head lying flat on its surface. The aroma of the dishes mum was preparing crept into the hall and one plate after another made its way to the table.

I could only look and hope that the clock would miraculously go to 7.28pm suddenly. Or that somebody would mistakenly recite the maghrib prayers earlier than he was supposed to.

Neither happened.

As the clock finally ticked down to maghrib, my hand was holding tightly on to a huge jug of ice cold air tebu. Nothing would ever come between me and my first drop of liquid for the day. Not even the never-ending stream of commercials on TV leading to maghrib.

As the sound of the azan filled the air, I had probably the longest chug of water ever. I could feel the air tebu branching out into my veins, turning my blood green.

It was one of the most satisfying drinks of my life. A treasured memory I could barely describe in words. One that taught me the wonders of Ramadhan and its reward for those who fast.

After our meal, I reflected on the day and, surprisingly, found myself looking forward to my second day of fasting.

But that didn’t happen until the following year.

Marker on A4 #1: That Again

2010-08-06T10:05:00.002+08:00

Cuddly Poetry

2010-08-04T21:34:00.003+08:00

A good friend had just returned to poetry writing. And in the early pages of her notebook, she wrote the following. Words could barely express our gratitude. Thank you Lia. You rule.

Yaya and Asrif,
When I think of you, these pop into mind.

Polaroid Cameras
Sunshine and Moonlight.
Satire and Giggles.
Roti Durian.
Man vs. Food Malaysian Edition.

Vintage Dresses.
Footprints across a sandy beach.
Dusk and Dawn.
KL Traffic Tweets.
Baju Kurung and slippers.
Poems and Postcards.
Dancing on a stage to a Latin Beat.
Photowalks.
Surprise Birthday Parties.

Finding joy in the simple things in life.
Family and Friends.
Laughter.
Happiness.
But Most of all, I see Love and two halves of a whole when I think of you two.

Celebrate your lives together.
Make it full of happy memories,
Laughter, Love, mess, food, creativity and people who love you.
This will carry you through life’s little bumps on the road
And together, love will see you through.

By: Angelia Ong
04 August 2010.

Life Is But A Dream

2010-08-03T17:26:00.003+08:00

Hollywood have tried so hard. Talking robots from outer space, vampire-human-werewolf love triangle, Sarah Jessica Parker.

All they ever needed was a movie with Leonardo DiCaprio, the guy from 500 Days of Summer, Ken Watanabe and Juno in the same team.

I’m bad at reviewing movies. Let’s just say Michael Bay is the Justin Bieber of the film industry, and Chris Nolan is Pink Floyd.

Going, Going, Gong

2010-07-29T15:11:00.010+08:00

You know how songs take you back in time to a certain place and paint the picture of a past event. A picture so vivid you could almost feel the atmosphere of that occasion. Happens to me all the time.

I bet you recall the time you turned a badminton racket and ping pong ball into a makeshift ice hockey stick and puck whenever you hear Queen's "We Are the Champions" -- from The Mighty Ducks.

Okay, that was me.

Maybe you remember lying on your bed holding a copy of Smash Hits with Lance Bass on the cover in a room filled with posters of Peter Andre whenever you hear "I Want It That Way" by the Backstreet Boys.

Okay, that was me as well.

You get the picture. Music is a time machine. It creates a continuum where you're free to pick a point in the timeline and go there just by exposing your aural sense to a melody, or even a sound.

It's true. Even a sound. For every time I hear a gong bell ringing, I'm brought back to a fateful Wednesday evening in 1996.

WWF "Raw is War" was on TV. And just as any 13-year-old at the time, I was watching it, with my younger brother. The main event was The Undertaker vs. Kane, whose guts I hated more than the dentist because he thrashed Shawn Michaels, my favorite wrestler of all time, the week before. So I rooted for The Undertaker, who walked into the ring to the sound of -- yes -- a gong.

The epic battle saw blood, sweat and tears smeared all over the ring as the two gentlemen grappled their way to the cheer of a jam-packed arena, most of whom still firmly believed that professional wrestling is real. It was pandemonium in the squared circle. But it wasn't until the dying minutes of the clash that saw The Undertaker turning Kane upside down and delivered his signature Tombstone Piledriver knocking him out to snatch a victory.

In the heat of the moment, and excited of the euphoria of it all, I turned my brother upside down and did the same to him, but on the sofa instead of the floor (as a safety measure). Little that I knew, there was a plank underneath the sofa. So let's just say he felt the impact just as Kane did on TV, if not worse.

He screamed of pain and rolled on the floor as I panicked in fear of the consequences that I might endure. It was one of the scariest moments in my life.

I may be banned from watching professional wrestling forever.

But that's my story. What's yours?

What's for lunch? A study on Twitter

2010-07-17T10:22:00.015+08:00

According to the guys who invented it, "Twitter is a real-time information network powered by people all around the world that lets you share and discover what's happening now."

The key words here are "share" and "discover". Twitter allows you to broadcast your thoughts and learn about others'. "Thoughts", in this context, refers to ideas, emotions and feelings. It constitutes everything that the human mind could possibly think of. Including "My crotch is itchy."

I posted my first tweet on a lonely April 29, 2009 evening and it read, "How does this thing work?"

The question remains unanswered.

In fact, the system has become so convoluted that I had to take a step back, and assess the situation.

The situation

As of Tuesday, July 13, 2010, I've tweeted 2,648 times to 102 followers, while following 75. I've tweeted about music, sports, love, food, love, travels, love, movies, and love. Those who follow me would attest. And I've broken all the rules of tweeting. Everyone has. Simply because there aren't any. Twitter is freedom of speech with only one constraint: 140 characters. (Ignore the cretins at TwitLonger.)

After a year on Twitter, I've come across presumably all the different styles of tweeting in existence. I can never possibly list down all of them here. But let's just say it ranges from "@MrSeriousPerson: The growth of world's third largest economy slowed down in the second quarter. " to "@fluffywabbit: my new handbag is so pwettyyy jyeah LOL!!!1" to "@itweeteverything: Ha... choom..."

In other words, I've exposed and engrossed myself in too many things I don't have to know. No matter how pwetyyy the handbag was.

I became preoccupied with checking on Twitter updates. Picking up my BlackBerry and scrolling through UberTwitter turned into a norm. A habit I knowingly do while realizing that it adds very little value to my life. I see no reason for me to know what my friend had for lunch. Yet, I still read about it. Before I tell the world what I had for lunch as well.

Admittedly, a part of me is receptive to the sensationalism that Twitter brings. It's like watching reality TV, in texts, updated live, in real time. These buzzwords portray the extent to which the world has become smaller and smaller. And how the life stories of others are just at the flick of my finger.

Thing is, I've always been a person who rather not know when it comes to the dramas in the lives of others. I prefer watching those in movies, where it's fictional. The world is rough enough as it is already.

But that was before I was pulled into reading tweets. A stream of which, is a tsunami of emotions and whether it's good or bad, positive or negative, happiness or sadness, it's contagious.

Society's typical reaction to profane tweets

The assessment

Twitter users in general do get overwhelmed, more often than not. And the common remedy has been, expectedly, taking a break. Ignore Twitter. Don't check for updates for a day or two. Hide that Twitter application on your phone.

Cold turkey or not, people find breathing space in this -- with some withdrawal syndrome, to a certain degree.

I got overwhelmed by Twitter recently. The sentiment of not having to know what I unintentionally knew, grew stronger. I was fed with too much information, too much details, too much 140-character anecdotes and too much happenings. Most of which, I could live without.

But that's just me on the receiving end. Being where, I was assimilated into the trend of projecting my thoughts incessantly as well. Telling the world things I don't really have to. Simply because I learned, from other users, that there's nothing wrong with it. Twitter became the platform for people to let out to people who may or may not care. And I was one of them. Pot calling kettle.

At the same time, I still believed that Twitter is a powerful tool, if utilized to its optimal best. I believe that Twitter brings out creativity in people. It creates a culture of being concise, and a community that appreciates information that are delivered directly without beating around the bush. Twitter is capable of making things more efficient. It saves time.

To find a balance between these two extremes, I conducted a little experiment to see how I'd adapt to change. While taking a break may be a short-cut way to see how I would react, I opted to do the reverse, and spent more time on Twitter.

The little experiment

Using my own account, I unfollowed half of the people I've been following, and replaced them with BBC News. So at one point, my Twitter consisted of individual accounts of people tweeting about their lives, and BBC News, who tweets on average 3 to 5 headlines from around the world every 10 minutes.

The hypothesis was that I'd reach a thoroughly balanced stream of tweets blending stories of the people I know, and the happenings around the world -- the ideal Twitter. A healthy blend of useful and useless information. Yes, useless information can be useful, given the right amount.

The result

The setting ran for 32 hours. Every now and then, I'd check to see the pattern of tweets I subscribed to.

Following are some observations:

I couldn't be bothered by most of the news that came in. While I do read the news daily, I learned that it's best to read about them via the website as I could ogle around and filter the things I intend on reading. I'll usually pass when it's not about Lindsay Lohan.

The news tweets came as headlines, with links to the main news story. None of which I clicked because 1) The headlines weren't intriguing enough for me to know further 2) I was too lazy to click on the link from my phone and 3) None of them was about Lindsay Lohan.

The news to individual tweet ratio was roughly 4:1. Which is fair as I did try to retain the active tweeters i.e. those who tweet "Morning!", "Afternoon!", "I forgot if this is dusk or dawn!" and "Night!"

Reading personal tweets (the individuals) between general tweets (BBC News) creates a fluctuation in terms of importance level in the information that I receive. After graphing it out (Fig. 1.1), I noticed a sinusoidal shape where the peak is "world domination" and the trough is "a strand of hair protruding from one's ear".

I felt bad for not following some of the people who were following me. Some. There seems to be this unspoken obligation to follow them back, somehow. Probably because I use Twitter to communicate as well.

And because of that, I felt somewhat left out when people I was still following "talk" to the people I used to follow. In front of me. I felt betrayed. Insert sad smiley.

Fig. 1.1 - Importance of tweets

In a nutshell

Shortly after feeling I've studied enough, I duly unfollowed BBC News, and went back to following the people I unfollowed for this, academic purpose. I've come to the conclusion that the stage I was at, prior to conducting this research was already the optimum usage of Twitter.

Filtering what to read or not is to be done manually. It's all about coordinating the eyes to send a signal to the brain and tell it that a tweet is not worth reading by the third word.

There's no way for one to reach the ultimate balance in filtering the content he follows on Twitter. If I ever needed to read the news I want, there's always this old thing called websites.

Twitter is for me to know about your lunch.

Note: While I could've just skipped this trivial study and used the "List" function on Twitter, let it be known that I just needed something to update this blog. Cheers.

The Tale Of One City

2010-06-27T12:13:00.007+08:00

The following article was published in The Star on June 27, 2009.

With my old man at the City of Manchester Stadium Clearance Store, where we won't be shopping had the owners bestowed their wealth to the supporters as well

Before the money started flooding in, it was a football club on a rollercoaster ride with only one thing to boast – loyal fan support.

WHEN my boys were growing up, I taught them the truth. That there are only two teams in Manchester, England: Manchester City and the Manchester City reserves,” my father used to say.

And that’s the truth I believe in.

You see, I’m a Manchester City fan. No I didn’t omit “United”. I’m a supporter of Manchester City Football Club. The Citizens. The Blues. City. Or, in the words of one Sir Alex Ferguson, “the noisy neighbour” – probably because his team isn’t located in Manchester.

I’ve been a City fan all my life. And by “all my life”, I don’t mean since September 2008, when a takeover made it the richest club in the world. I was a City fan when we were playing Colchester in the third tier of English football. Those were the dark days when the only football action I got was scurrying for its result in the Sunday morning newspaper.

The fixation began from a fascination. As a child, I often wondered about my father’s fluctuating emotions when watching football. From shouting at the top of his lungs to grumbling words I couldn’t write down here, to the deafening silence when he switched off the TV in the middle of a match.

At that age, I couldn’t grasp the concept of cheering for 11 men who couldn’t hear a word even if you went berserk in front of the TV. At most, it would give the neighbours a headache. But seeing him so affected by the game was an eye-opening experience. There’s got to be something about it that made my then 40-year-old father dance like Billy Elliot.

From an observer, I slowly braved myself to start watching football together with him. While his sudden roars often put me at risk of premature heart attack, I began to understand the mechanism of the game.

I began to feel a connection with the team. I began to know the names of the players. I began to capture the drama, the mesmerising movements of the players, the difference a split-second decision makes, and, above all, the electrifying joy whenever the ball hits the back of the net.

And before I knew it, I was jumping and screaming like a madman alongside my dear father whenever City scored. I was officially a City fan.

Which also meant I had a hard time in school.

Of course, the other kids were supporters of either Manchester United or Liverpool. (Chelsea was yet a Russian billionaire’s fantasy football team at the time.) So following a team whose achievement was no more than winning the Second Division play-off proved to be difficult.

I still remember a discussion about “the greatest player in the world” among my friends. As they threw in names like Cantona, Giggs, Rush and Fowler, I howled Kinkladze, a City cult hero. A momentary silence followed, before they burst into laughter that shook the classroom. A day in the life of a schoolboy City fan.

City is known to often stumble at the brink of success. Lady Luck was rarely on our side, which has earned us too many “typical City”’ moments, among which was conceding a goal after the goalkeeper got confused when a balloon came in from the stands.

Not to mention that City is the only team in history to ever be relegated in the season – after winning the League. It could only happen to City.

Suffice to say, we’ve slipped on too many banana skins. And I shall end this painful paragraph here.

But therein lies the beauty of supporting this incredible football club. Following City teaches me a lot about life. Watching a 90-minute City match reminds me that life is full of uncertainties and twists of fate.

That there is always a silver lining. That you must be honest to yourself. That you have to remain optimistic – even if it means waking up at 3am only to see the players battered by a lower division team.

Through the years, City fans have gained a reputation for being some of the most loyal supporters in England. Their stadium attendance remains one of the highest, considering the club’s success, or lack of it. And that has fostered generations of passionate fans who have never lost the faith.

Here in Malaysia, the number of City fans is growing. But that wasn’t the case until the recent acquisition brought us a fortune.

My first meeting with the small group of City fans is still fresh in my mind. A group of gentlemen 10 to 20 years my senior who are never short of stories about their City misfortunes. All told with great humour. It was a time when City supporters were so rare that we’d approach any stranger wearing a City kit on the street.

Our gatherings were small yet colourful. It was always a family affair. The guys would bring their kids and, occasionally, their wives. And in the confused eyes of the children, I saw a glimpse of my bewildered self looking at my overjoyed father more than a decade ago.

This football club has done wonders in bringing families together. Perhaps, someday, it would be my turn to scare my kids when I jump up and down watching a City game. Someday, it would be my turn to tell my children the truth.

I hope they can handle the truth.

I'm not here!

2010-06-18T16:38:00.004+08:00

Guys, meet Tony.

He's 4. He enjoys watching Ben 10, playing Ben 10, drawing Ben 10, and screaming at cats. He likes to eat Twisties, Snickers and Play-Doh. And when he grows up, he wants to be a policeman because his friends are afraid of the cops.

In case you're wondering, Tony is not in love with the pole he's hugging. He was playing hide and seek. And he was hiding.

As you could probably tell, he was the first to be found. I was there when it happened. It took the seeker 30 seconds to find him... before they got into an argument. Tony said he was Tony's twin and the actual Tony was hiding elsewhere.

"I swear!" he convinced.

I, for one, was fascinated by the whole account. Witnessing Tony confidently hiding behind a pole half his size reminded me of something I learned not too long ago: believe.

Helping You Helping Us

2010-06-09T12:51:00.006+08:00

Dear Malaysian Customer Service,

Hope this letter finds you in good health.

And by "good health", I hope you're not making people listen to Kenny G until the next available operator comes back... from his week-long annual leave.

It wasn't too long ago since our last engagement. Such a lovely day it was. I'd just switched back to Streamyx after I was disappointed with P1 WiMAX. As impressive as their huge 'Potong' billboards were, they forgot to mention that to get connected, you'd have to be on the roof holding the modem like a ballerina.

As I was saying, my separation from Streamyx was cut short. We were reunited at TMpoint, the "one-stop center for excellent customer service and communication solutions in Malaysia". A motto so convincing I was adamant that they'd serve me in no time. At least until I got my number (3889), and noticed the currently served number (3018).

But how could one not be giddy walking out of that place? With a 'Streamyx In-A-Box' from their 'Blockbuster Deals', I simply couldn't wait to "Transform My Home" and "Boost My Internet Experience". If only they'd blown up "3-Business Days Activation" in large fonts as well.

Alas, Internet service providers are Internet service providers. They could throw a picture of people enjoying their Internet service underwater and you'd still buy it.

I did.

I only wish that they could be a bit more honest, you know. A lesson or two from the immigration office wouldn't hurt. Those guys never do false advertising. And that's simply because they advertise nothing.

It's true. They won't tell you that the lines won't be longer than the ones at Disneyland. And you'll only get a number for longer lines at the end of it. They won't tell you that only two of the fifteen counters are open. And the other thirteen counters are still out at lunch. (It's 4pm.) They won't tell you that the KIOSK machines have been broken since 1998. And they serve as the security guard's smoking area these days.

Alas, there is nothing wrong with that. Because they never promised anyone the "ultimate passport-renewal experience".

But you're not all, entirely bad apples you know. Domino's Pizza gives me a free pie whenever they're late for delivery. Even by a minute. Which is why I refuse to answer the door any earlier than 31 minutes after I order.

And then there's Integricity, who's hosting my website. I e-mailed them about a problem the other day and their guy called me personally and got it fixed within minutes. He even offered me some cotton candy at the end of the call. If only my mom allowed me to take candies from strangers over the phone.

All I'm saying is, Malaysian Customer Service, as often as you cause headache to the people of the nation, you really do have the potential to make us happy. For starters, try putting on a smile at the counter. You can't be constipated all the time now, can you?

Looking forward to seeing you.

Not too soon though.

Sincerely,
A. Customer

P.S: I'm still on hold here. Kenny's playing Songbird.

Photo: Azalia Suhaimi

In The Jungle, The Corporate Jungle

2010-05-24T19:05:00.007+08:00

We walk too fast.

It's true. I was walking to work the other day. And just as I was about to get into the lobby, a swarm of people stormed out of the train, rushed to the exit, and walked through me like a violent mob of high school girls at a Justin Bieber concert. (Not that I've been to one... yet.)

Bemused, the 30-second fiasco left me in a bewildered heap. I could only ask myself "What, was that all about?" and "Why, is that guy's pants tucked into his socks?"

It's a puzzling enigma.

I guess they don't call it 'rush hour' for nothing. It's a span of time during which people alarmingly march to their workplace as if their bowels are about to explode. Imagine the Korean army after a nasty dose of kimchi. It's the time of day when women the size of Shirley Temple could easily knock you down -- or in my case, injure your ribcage -- with the shove of their handbags.

It's a riot out there. Take it from me. I've been squeezed by the horde every morning for three years now. Life in the city allows you to witness men and women of corporate wilderness running rampage to outdo each other. All in pursuit of the ultimate prize: swiping their IDs by 8am... before going out for breakfast until 10am. The irony resonates immensely from the clacking of their towering stilettos.

But what is the rush for actually? There seems to be this constant urgency that demands us to be hurrying like roadrunners all the time. And it gets depressing when everyone looks like Judge Dredd in constipation. The corporate workforce could be a fickle lot. One minute you see elegant men and women in sleek suits. The next, they turn into savage beings of commercial badlands.

I believe the phenomenon roots back to the chain of fear that is being instilled through the ranks. You know, the company threatens the big boss who threatens your boss who threatens you who's got no one else to threaten. So you resort to threatening the cat down at the parking lot -- at least I do (before he threatens me back). And everyone starts to panic. And begin walking like the Super Mario Brothers on fast-forward. And you get a chaotic pandemonium of selfish people devoid of simple human values e.g. not breaking my spine by ramming me on the escalator at 758am.

That's all there is to it I guess. That said, let us all calm down now. Take a breather and calm down.

There's more to life than taking ourselves too seriously.

Kuala Lumpur Design Week 2010

2010-05-06T11:40:00.012+08:00

Won't you just look at that sweet little smile I forced her to put on.

It's my little sister Sarah. And she's in one of the photos from my set for KLickr's '20 Photographers | 10 Neighborhoods' installation at Kuala Lumpur Design Week 2010.

The project involves 20 photographers covering images from 10 neighborhoods around Klang Valley -- two for each town. I partnered my fiancée Azalia and we roamed the streets of Subang Jaya, my hometown.

In essence, I'm delighted with this set because it's my first exhibited work. Those who know me would agree that I could only take photos as well as a one-armed pirate with an eye patch.

Photos will be on display at the KLickr booth, Level 1 CapSquare KL from May 1 - 9, 2010. You can view the other photos from my set on Facebook and Flickr as well.

Also, Azalia will be exhibiting her photography and poetry artworks as well as selling collectible postcards of her own design at the Azalia Suhaimi Photopoetry tent, Level 2 CapSquare KL on May 8 - 9 (day and night), 2010. And we'll be playing some music there too.

More on her exhibition and collectible postcards at www.azaliasuhaimi.com.

To think that we were both at the same event last year and didn't cross paths. Life is quite magical like that.

See you there.

Image: Adi Arfan

Radio Killed The Radio Star

2010-03-02T18:09:00.009+08:00

You walk into your car, you start the engine, you switch on the radio, and you hear, thumping incessantly into your ears,

"I've got a feelin' pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa... that tonight's gonna be a good night pa-pa-pa-pa..."

You turn off the radio, you stop the engine, you get out of your car, and in undivided angst, you run to the nearest lamp post to give it a heartfelt, Chuck Norris signature roundhouse kick.

Or at least that was what you had in mind.

But how could you not, though? That's the sixth time now that, at the start of the engine, the speakers blare out the same track. As if the car would automatically play it when the spark plug ignites. A feature you would've preferred knowing from the salesman before you signed the papers.

You've lost hope in tuning to the other FM stations anyway. Hitz couldn't stop playing music for high school proms, Mix couldn't stop airing home loan ads, Fly couldn't stop talking, Traxx couldn't stop pitching 1Malaysia, and Lite, well, they're the least guilty one I'd say -- playing Michael Bolton after every other song isn't too bad in my book. The man has got a fine, fine voice. And hair... back then. Also, there is of course BFM who plays decent stuff from time to time albeit their exhausting discussions.

Cruising in the car to good music is just not as straightforward these days. While we can always argue that popping a CD into the player would solve the whole enigma, I'd still very much like the option of tuning into a station and listening to some good music as I curse at drivers on the road. You know, get comfortable on the seat, put my belts on, get my shades out of the dashboard, mend my hair at the mirror, rev the engine, switch on the radio, and nod my head while singing "Sweet home Alabama, where the skies are so blue..."

And not, "I kissed a girl, and I liked it pa-pa-pa-pa..."

Maybe I know too little to understand why this is happening to the radio broadcasting industry. Maybe I'm not seeing how it all boils down to dollars and cents. Maybe I can't quite decipher the logic behind the market supply-demand of the airwaves. Maybe I'm not appreciating music as I should, now that we're in 2010.

Then again, maybe I don't have to. For I am a listener and all I need is some good music on the radio. Perhaps it's just a part of aging and I'm still stuck in the time when Billie Joe's hair was green, the Gallagher Brothers were brawling on stage, and Britney Spears could fit into her red, 'Oops I Did It Again' suit.

All in all, it is an entirely subjective matter. Music to my ears may be noise to yours. And there can never be a time when every single song on the radio could satisfy all listeners. But all I'm asking, in general, is for the stations to not play, for example, Taylor Swift after every other song. Listening to her singing about being 15 every half an hour is not as easy as it sounds.

Okay maybe except for that one time when it was pouring outside. Oh how my 26 year old guy heart beckoned.

Pick Me Up, Love

2010-02-09T11:12:00.001+08:00

Guys, a lot have changed in us since the Paleolithic era. Well it was 2,600,000 years ago. Most of our cabinet ministers were still toddlers then.

We don't go out scavenging wild game as much. We don't gather uncultivated plants as much. We don't use tools made out of bones as much. We don't -- unless you're Dennis Rodman -- cover ourselves in animal skin as much. Above all else, we surely don't, to win their hearts, go knocking out women and drag them back to our caves, as much.

At least I don't. I don't live in a cave.

What we still do, as much, however, in appealing to the ladies, is pickup lines.

It's true. We do go way back.

The art of blending wit, humor and most of all, class (well relatively) in engaging with members of the opposite gender is ancient. Among the traits of masculinity, it has been as constant as the songs of Canadian rock band Nickelback. And anthropologists worldwide would collectively agree that the first person to ever put it to practice was Barney Rubble. Who else would you think came up with the following classic,

"Well I'm no Fred Flinstone but baby, I can sure make your bed rock."

I guess the man was only guilty of being inspired by Fred in sealing the deal with Wilma.

Today, pickup lines are as widespread as singing to Lady Gaga while doing your laundry. It has become a part of life. In essence, the negative connotations that have been associated with it have been gradually cushioned by such acceptance.

Before I continue, ladies, agreeably, it is true that at times, pickup lines can be more of a vice. You know, in clubs, with booze spilling around the smoky ashtrays at the bar counter. A guy with his utmost confidence would come to you in his proudly unbuttoned shirt and majestic greasy hair, dip his hand into a glass, grab some ice and throw it onto the ground before going,

"Now that the ice is broken, can I have your number?"

Creative? Yes. Effective? Questionable.

I believe pickup lines go beyond that. As essentially, and as mentioned, I see it as a form of art. The play on words that it involves does require some intelligence. Some. And it crosses the many borders and barriers of languages. In fact, some of them are only applicable in certain languages. A good friend of mine had just delivered an instant hit in Malay, yesterday over a drink,

"Mantap la teh yang makcik buat ni. Manis. Macam anak makcik."

Little did he know, the only child in the makcik's family is her son. Unless he was going for the makcik herself. We're not too sure. You know who you are, Syah.

Pickup lines create warmth and it shouldn't be confined within the territories of strangers. I see no reason for husbands to still not use them once in a while with their wives. Given that they're alright with it. And it's not "Are you wearing space pants ‘cos your ass is out of this world!" and its derivatives. Then again, she might like that. I, for one, wouldn't mind.

Perhaps the more charming ones with stars in her eyes and knots in your heart and the likes would be more appropriate. Most importantly, I reckon keeping it original is the key to a successful pickup line. Surely the tales that you both encounter together in life are aplenty. Like that time she got mad at you for screaming at 3am while watching football. You know, something about the way she didn't look like a witch at all as she threw the broom at you, half-awake.

Then again, I'm in no position to really say a lot about this, as much as I'd written about it here. I'm bad at it myself. My girlfriend would hold evident the number of lines that had gone down the drain; in the earlier days, at least. To date, the following seems to be the only pickup line I could claim glory for,

"So what time is cool for me to pick you up?"

Told you.

I Ain’t The Walrus

2010-01-29T10:10:00.002+08:00

And all I could see is darkness. For opening my eyes would only bring me back to the chaos in the room.

My shoes are oceans apart. I’d flipped them off the minute I slammed myself through the door. The right side, hitting the TV tuning it into the American Idol auditions -- as if I’m not in enough pain already. The left, hidden deep beneath the obscurity of my bed. Surely I’ll find some gems while looking for it. I believe my treasured box of Geri Halliwell cutouts from 1996 are still in there.

(I was 13. Thanks for making our prepubescent years colorful, Ginger Spice.)

I’m on the chair now. My hands clasping tightly onto its legs. My feet, stomping incessantly, thumping away sounds that will surely wake the neighbors up. Not that I would regret it, though. The cretins have been on my back for the past few days themselves. While I embrace our differences in musical preference, looping the Black Eyed Peas at the volume of a jumbo jet isn’t entirely courteous. Oh there it goes again.

Yes Fergie, tonight is going to be a good night. At least until I smash the stereo.

I get off the chair and head on to the bathroom. Barely three steps on the tiles, I see there, in the mirror adjacent to the sink, the image of possibly the scariest figure I’d ever seen since Joan Rivers. How did I even get that necktie wrapped around my forehead anyway? Why am I looking like Rocky Balboa after that final, tumultuous round with Apollo Creed? That’s alright, I guess... I’m starting to talk like him already anyway. And my hair is akin to someone familiar ringside, Don King.

I’m still in my office attire. Well, partly. The buttons are all torn apart. I shouldn’t have reacted like The Hulk after losing a bet on his racehorse. This is, after all, one of the only five shirts I have for work. I suppose I’ll just have to make do with the safety pins for now. At least I’ve still got my pants on..and there you go. Sliding down right onto the drenched floor. Just what I needed. Then again, my belt has, been as loose as a politician’s promise.

Turning the tap on, filling the sink full, I drown myself into its shallow waters and try screaming within the dampened acoustics of it all. Bubbles emerge on the surface as if a group of frogs had just bawled a huge croak in unison underwater. And I lift my head rapidly gasping for breath as I again endured the painful sight in the mirror, of a now soaked –- imagine not -- Don King/Joan Rivers crossbreed who talks like Rocky Balboa. Not without a necktie on his forehead.

I tremble on to the ground, rolling into the parquet floors of the room and crawling onto my bed. Punching the pillow remains a placebo and kicking the bedposts proves to be no more fruitful than banging my head on the wall. Which is what I’m planning to do. If only I could reach the wall, first. Or lift my head, at the very least.

I guess I’ll just lay down here, on my back, close my eyes, and think of random things. I see a gnome running around a polka dot mushroom now.

Stupid bloody toothache.

Nice Pants

2010-01-15T11:44:00.003+08:00

Tell me. How do you guys do it?

It’s 905am at the office. You need your early morning coffee to kick-start the day and waste more time before you start doing actual work. So you walk out of your cube and off to the pantry you go. You say "Good morning" and "Hello" and "In your face glory hunting Man United rag" to the cubes leading you to the coffee maker.

On the corridor, you meet people walking by, holding their mugs or newspapers or gym bags or kids... for the maid, had run away, again, last night. And you say pretty much the same things to them: "Morning" and "Hey" and "Nice pants" and "In your face glory hunting Man United rag" (to the kid).

You brew your caffeine and walk back to your cube, happily. Except for the minor burns suffered from walking with a full mug of blistering hot coffee. All in all, though, it’s all good.

It’s 1034am. You have yet to open any office e-mails. As the harvesting of your pumpkin crop circles on FarmVille, takes precedence over the company’s tanker stranded in the Pacific Ocean. Above all else, however, is the urge to take a restroom trip that suddenly creeps in; after all that coffee.

And you walk, out of your cube, into the corridor, where, from a distance, you see Jim, your colleague, whom, this morning, you’ve greeted, and enjoyed a small talk about sports rims. You don’t usually talk much with Jim; just as you are with everyone else at the office. Well, you do talk to them. But you’re not blessed with the eloquence of Perez Hilton. In other words, you can’t simply bump into them and talk about the Kardashians.

Not that anyone cares.

So you walk toward each other -- you and Jim, not Perez (as much as you want to) -- and you’re both torn. Do you guys look up and smile to each other? For a good few seconds before you’re both on the same latitude and longitude. But what kind of smile would it be?

A huge glee supposedly directed at the same humorous subject matter (e.g. the grunts in the men’s room this morning)? A tiny snicker? But all that would do is create an awkward, empty space within the time continuum of your journey to the loo. One that would flirt with your masculinity as you’re forced to look into each other’s eyes. Or, do you guys just walk, and look at the floor as you throw glances at the nothingness of your sides? Until you’re both within inches and throw a cool "Ssup?" his way, vice versa.

Newspapers would usually, ideally come in handy for me. I personally find it helpful. For when a figure is in sight, as I walk through the passage of the corridor, my fingers would swiftly flick on to a page as I stare at it with a convincingly concerned face. Waiving the need to greet. Full of vigor, as if engrossed with the unintentionally selected ‘Dazzling Night Gowns’ article.

Alas, that’s just how I do it. Maybe you can share then, your office corridor stories. College corridor ones work just as well.

Looking forward to your responses, I’ll be heading to the copier room now. Not without today's newspaper.

Don’t Leave Me, Ms. Maureen

2010-01-03T17:58:00.001+08:00

"Every year also like this. School time come then I always need to fork out money one. Your kid how old leh?"

And I snorted iced tea out of my nose. The last time I checked, it was January 2010. I was 26, not married and couldn't recall adopting a child. My ID clearly didn't read 'Madonna'.

"I'm here for my sister actually."

Perhaps she didn't notice the South Park t-shirt I was wearing.

"Oh like that ah. I'm here for my boy. Going to Standard 1 on Monday. So scaredy-cat one. Today crying already... want mommy."

I looked at him. He was facing down, kicking pebbles in his white shoes. One hand, busy wiping off the incessant flow of tears falling down his cheeks. The other, clutching on tightly to mommy's arm. I could hear the echoes of the sobs he was trying to hold in and let drown in his heart.

Perhaps he was doing all he could in reclaiming his masculinity; which had just been crushed by his own mother. As his tears dry off, the boy finally lifted his head, and looked at me. The prideful ego of a man in the presence of another was already apparent in the youthful innocence of his watery, squinting eyes. Through which I saw myself.

For I was once, in his shoes.

I'd be lying to say that I had a smooth transition from kindergarten to primary school. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that I had an easier time adapting to boarding school and later on, college overseas. Well maybe the open shower thing we had in the dorms was a bit difficult. Nevertheless, I'd still take anything else over January 1, 1990.

It was the first day of school and I was due to register as a Standard 1 student. A day I wasn't looking forward to. Even as a 7 year old, I already knew way beforehand, then, that the whole experience won't be anywhere near fancy. Maybe I was a bit too at ease in kindergarten that I couldn't quite get out of my comfort zone just yet.

In other words, I simply couldn't imagine myself surviving the following years without biscuits and Milo at 10am.

Going into primary school meant more than just being in the white and blue uniform. The buildings will be bigger. There'll be more people in the classroom. We'll only get one break for the day during recess. I'll have to start buying stuff on my own from the canteen and bookstore. Even the teachers, were somehow, two to three times the size of lovely Ms. Maureen I had in kindergarten.

Most of all, I was dreading the whole process of making new friends. You know, questions lingering in my head. Who should start talking? What do you say first? What language should you use? What is that kid doing? Why are his shorts so tight? Shoot how does he even walk in them? How long until I could make fun of this guy? And won't you just look at his Jem and the Hologram tumbler. I bet he got it switched with his sister this morning. Ha ha.

Where was I?

So from these concerns of mine, and being the pure unadulterated soul that I was, as a child, I had no other choice but to express my dissatisfaction through the acts of crying my lungs out, wrapping my arms to a lamp post, sticking my legs in between the gates, and biting the guard's ear; as I stepped into the school compound with my parents. The word unjust comes to mind whenever I'm brought back to the incident and be wrongfully accused of cowardice.

That wasn't cowardice. That was merely an expression of angst and frustration over all that was not right with the system. Evidently, the Che Guevara in me rebelled like no other as I tried to slide my way out of the classroom window. Only to get my neck stuck in between the panes. Though the struggle, was all worth it. I simply had to fight, for my right.

As the images of the past fade away, I was back to where I was. On my knees, I placed my hand on the boy's shoulder. And said to him...

"Sit near the window without the panes. Just, run."

2009, Tweeted

2009-12-31T20:17:00.000+08:00

January 2009: Fireworks at the banks of River Chao Phraya... "2009 will be the year, @flyikkyfly. It will."

February 2009: The Big Pink & Zhin, reborn. Brown Black Blues 40th Anniversary. Got our mojo working with the best audience ever.

March 2009: Jakarta dan Bandung with MRSMPC schoolmates. 10 years since we first met and collectively hate Badol... 'til today.

April 2009: Turning 26. Perhaps the biggest b'day bash I'll ever have. Thanks @izzudinabrahim, @syahrizan, @razzario and @flyikkyfly. Love.

May 2009: Hanoi, Vietnam. Binging on pho overlooking the quaint French colonial buildings while talking about life with Freddie Kelate.

June 2006: The Big Pink became Fed Hi. You know what it means. Some of you go through it everyday, to work. EP recording project begins.

July 2009: Lost my laptop after some asshat broke into the house. Drafts of materials gone. Only to be found yesterday at the office PC.

August 2009: I forgot what happened in this month. @razzario was still not funny that's for sure.

September 2009: Lost my voice after going berserk at Safiz Hartamas when Adebayor ran 100m down the pitch to show some love to the Arses.

October 2009: EPL Premier Skills. Sprained ankle, twisted knee, burned skin and loved it. Joined the Subang Jaya Community Youth League.

October 2009: How could I forget. My first acoustic gig with Imran as Flattops. Daikanyama, Changkat BB. Lovely, lovely audience. You rule.

November 2009: Sabah with the Godbros. Islands, beaches, mountains and jungles. Malaysians, please go there. Thanks @syahrizan and family.

December 2009: @azaliasuhaimi :-)

2009 is the year then, @flyikkyfly.

It's A Bit Like Being A Male Nurse

2009-12-18T02:06:00.003+08:00

Long weekends. You have to love them.

An extra day off for you to treasure and cherish for it only comes as often as Bar Mitzvahs in China. Plus few could surpass the joy of waking up to your alarm clock and throwing it away instantly.

Well at least for three minutes. Before the SpongeBob theme ("SpongeBob SquarePants! SpongeBob SquarePants! SpongeBob SquarePants! SpongeBob… SquarePants!") blares out of the TV, flushing away your deep slumber before you could even puff out your final snore.

Enter cousin sleepover.

It was the school holidays. And just any other breaks, our household will host arguably the biggest Barbie showcase in the country; dwarfing those you’d usually see at the malls. You know, the endless racks of pink boxes stacking on top of each other into walls of magical fairies and dainty princesses that would apparently scare parents just as the Sun -- of all things -- would on the pale vampires of Twilight.

Chaired by my sisters and attended by our cousins, whose cumulative age is barely half of mine, the gathering would be an elaborate celebration of the dressing and undressing of 11.5-inch tall plastic figures in their room, where the slightest sight of me, is forbidden. Unless I feel like stepping on miniature stilettos and cursing as I run away from their flying hairbrushes.

And hangers.

At other times though, i.e. when they need a ride to the mall, I'm more welcomed into their domain than the entire cast of High School Musical combined. Which is not too bad actually. It’s not everyday that you get to go out with six Hannah Montanas. And listen to Taylor Swift (and maybe sing a bit) in the car. And argue how Toy Story 3 won’t be out until June. And wait in front of Forever 21 for an hour. And explain to staff there how "No, I’m not a male nanny."

They bring me back, however. They do.

To the days when I would hide in the kitchen whenever I was at my cousins’. With hope that my parents would somehow, eventually, leave for home only to realize later that I wasn’t with them. And, for some other awesome reason, decided to leave me to continue playing with my cousins at their place for another week. Not to mention allowing me to not shower during the period. And maybe, you know, send in Geoffrey the Giraffe to shower us with a bagful of Ninja Turtles.

Which is quite sad if it was, actually, the case… the forgetting about me part. Geoffrey and the Turtles are good.

None of it ever happened. For most of the time I’d be dragged into the car. And sent right into the shower later.

So, girls -- yeah, I know some of you are reading -- be thankful that your parents are kind enough to let you do sleepovers and have fun together. Even if it’s at the expense of me waking up at 7am to Miley Cyrus belting out "Best of Both Worlds". (How do you even wake up that early anyway?)

For back then, things were a bit tougher on us. Apart from hiding in the storeroom, we had to, at times, pretend to be asleep, not without a pitiful posture, expecting our parents to go, "Aw, look at him dozing off all tired with Optimus Prime in his hands and half a candy still in his mouth..."

"...well not this time, mister. Wake up, we’re taking off."

Dangit.

Eastlands Here I Come

2009-11-17T10:42:00.010+08:00

"Why?”

I’m often asked, when talking about Premier Skills. To which I’ve yet to have the answer for. There were simply too many reasons leading me to applying for the program.

1. I was itching to get back into coaching
2. I needed formal training
3. I wanted to obtain the certificate
4. I have a thing for soccer moms
5. Participants will get free kits and boots

Above all, I believe that I have the potential to become a decent coach someday. For when it comes to playing the game -- and it hurts to actually admit this -- I'm rubbish.

Of course, there are those occasional flashes of immaculate footballing brilliance that I tend to showcase during futsal with my friends. What usually brings me back to the ground, though, is the fact that I could only do so because they are, at times, to put it mildly, equally rubbish.

You look at the best managers of the modern game; Mourinho, Wenger, Scolari, Eriksson… very few had illustrious playing careers. Which goes to show that to mastermind the game, you don’t really have to be that good at playing it. Even the great Maradona struggled in taking his national side into the 2010 World Cup.

That said, given my own dreadful playing career, the stats are on my side.

Premier Skills is a program designed by the English FA where Premier League coaches are sent to various countries worldwide to conduct training sessions with the local coaches for them to then cascade down to their respective communities. A noble effort, in my book. One that got me instantly intrigued. So upon learning that the British Council was organizing one, I applied in a heartbeat.

Supported by FAM, Nike, ESPN, the National Sports Council, the Education Ministry and I believe, Banana Boat sun block (judging by the 18,382 bottles I consumed, to no effect), the program targeted on selecting 40 applicants to experience the fully sponsored 5-day course at the MSN complex in Bukit Jalil. A small pool considering the number of football lovers in our country. So when I got the call, I was so overjoyed I sounded like a Teletubby by the end of the phone conversation.

Expectedly, I felt like the new kid in school on the first day. Most of the other participants had already known each other. Consisting of state, academy, club and school coaches, the majority of them have been in the circuit for a while. So there were, admittedly, these few awkward moments where I had to just dive in to a huge group laugh without knowing the head and tail of the joke. Before drifting away into laughing alone.

But I was quite fortunate. The guys were a warm bunch. One bad joke after another, it wasn’t long before they opened up and gradually absorbed me into their groups. It does help that I have the capacity to speak in different dialects. Which made it easier for me to get along with the East Coast and Northern guys. And harder when I’m hanging out with them both at once. Where I’ll end up talking like a Penangite to a Kelantanese.

I thought we had the finest group of coaches possibly assembled to facilitate the program. Headed by Bob Glozier of the West Ham Academy, the other coaches were Mark Gaitskell of Fulham, Lee Collier of Wigan and Mark Philips also of West Ham United. Some of whom who’d previously facilitated the program in Egypt and China.

I was in Mark Philips’s group. A Hammer since forever, Mark is probably the nicest guy you’ll ever meet. There was simply never a dull moment. The man’s passion for the game is incomparable and every bit of it can be seen through the energy he emanates when he’s instructing. So energetic that you’d want to avoid standing too close when talking to him on the pitch. As otherwise, like yours truly, you’ll be drenched from a shower off the gracious gentleman’ salivary glands.

Nevertheless, Mike, if you’re reading this. No, wait, if you manage to switch on the computer, get on the Internet, and then read this, we love you. You’re a top man. The Hammers are alright. Though Man City is always classier.

I was under the impression that the course wouldn’t be too physical. Given that it’s a coaching, rather than playing program, I’d imagined that the bulk of the education would take place in the lecture hall. So looking at the schedule gave me quite a ball-shrinking scare. Throughout the five days, participants are expected to be on the pitch for four hours everyday; under the scorching hot sun.

Two days into the program and a dozen darker tones later, I couldn’t have imagined a better method of carrying out the course. You simply have to go through the drills yourself before you could impose them to your players. For that’s the only way for you to capture the essence and understand the philosophy behind the techniques. The well-crafted structure of their system had taught me the importance of a clear, practical and balanced training program.

Gone will be days of my pointless drills. I shall never make my players juggle the ball with their shoulders anymore.

The last day loomed over us like an unwelcomed mother-in-law. Just as we were getting the hang of ripping and taking the piss on each other, it was time to bid auld lang syne. Drills were learned, friends were made and badges were earned. Not to mention pointing out that "the only club in Manchester is blue" on TV. Thanks for the interview, ESPN.

We’ve all proudly become graduates of Premier Skills Malaysia 2009.

As clichéd as it may sound, what seemed to be the end of a journey, was actually the beginning of a bigger vision. We left for our hometowns with the promise of giving back to the community and eventually, Malaysian football. The privilege that was given to us to undergo the program was only for us to share with the people.

It’s been three weeks now since I first began my role as a coach with the Subang Jaya Community Youth League; with the Under-14 and Under-12 teams. The experience has certainly been a refreshing one and getting involved in football this way has given me a gratification like no other. Plus, the absence of politics in youth football only flourishes the beauty of the game further. Kids would tell you upfront if they hate you for making them run ten rounds.

Before you make them run another two.

Oke Bah Kalau Kau!

2009-11-11T20:24:00.005+08:00

It was all too fitting, I guess.

I began the year wanting to tour South East Asia. The idea was to spend the long weekends with a trip out of the peninsular, on a shoestring. And by September, I was fortunate enough to have covered Bali, Bangkok, Singapore, Jakarta, Bandung and Hanoi… which is nothing to shout about really. That’s barely half of the ASEAN countries, three of them are in Indonesia and I was in Vietnam for business.

More importantly, I’m missing arguably the region’s most exotic location: Borneo. Third largest in the world, the island boasts lush green rainforests and majestic mountains as natural habitats, providing refuge to some of the planet’s most endangered species. Or at least that was what they wrote on the Internet.

It was quite embarrassing to realize that I’d never been there in my 26 years of living, as a Malaysian. Maybe I was too keen on venturing out of the country just for the sake of it. Maybe I’ve underestimated the stories of those enchanted by the island. Or maybe, I’ve become complacent by the fact that I could go there anytime.

So it was all too fitting, indeed, for me to fly off to Kota Kinabalu, Sabah… with the Godbros.

Tinggi tinggi Gunung Kinabalu, tinggi lagi sayang pada kamu,
Biru biru hujung Kinabalu, tengok dari jauh, hati saya rindu.

Syah apart, none of us had ever been to Borneo, let alone KK. But that’s possibly only because he’s actually from Sabah as otherwise, I doubt he’ll travel beyond Taman Desa. We were quite excited, in essence. Perhaps not knowing what to expect only fuels our anxiety and judging by the extensive itinerary that Ikram had meticulously prepared after inquiring with about 46 Sabahans for the past two months, we knew deep inside that the trip would be epic, and half of the planned activities will not happen.

Upon our arrival at Terminal 2 of the KK International Airport, we were warmly greeted by our self-elected ‘host’ Syah who was actually (and oddly enough) on the same flight.

“Welcome to my turf! Losers!" he howled at our faces as we landed our maiden steps onto the soils of the Land Beneath the Wind. I’m guessing that there is a more customary way for the locals to welcome their guests. The notion was still, nevertheless, embraced.

Kinabalu dekat di Kundasang, banyak sayur boleh pilih pilih
Apa guna pergi luar negeri, naik Kinabalu, hati saya rindu.

After checking in at the Imperial Boutec (great location, by the way), we drove north toward Tanjung Simpang Mengayau near Kudat. Driving through the towns of Tuaran and Kota Belud, the 3-hour journey got me rather immersed in the sights and sounds of Sabah. Mountains and paddy fields paved the way along the road, into the jungles as we approached our destination. On the radio, was Othoe, possibly the state’s most popular DJ, whose tagline is “ATUKOI!" which he’ll shout out randomly; especially when you least expect it. Pretty much explains why Syah enjoys screaming into Ajep’s ears whenever he’s asleep in front of the TV.

Tanjung Simpang Mengayau, otherwise known as the (northern-most) Tip of Borneo, means ‘lingering junction’ where South China Sea ‘lingers’ and meet up with the Sulu Sea. A bit like Uluwatu, overlooking the Indian Ocean in Bali. It’s actually the tip of the wolf’s ear if you look at the map of Sabah. The breathtaking view is only to be witnessed, I suppose. I’m having a hard time describing it. There are just too many words for it. A pointer though: enjoy the sunset with your loved one. A part of me dies a little every time I recall myself being at these places with no less than three guys.

Sumandak sumandak pun ramai menunggu, menari-nari lenggang Sumayau,
Sekali melihat melepak kulitnya, saya jatuh cinta.

A lot has been said about the seafood in Sabah. Legend has it that they are the freshest. And cheapest in the world. Which is true. Unless it’s in downtown KK. Where we went. Where they had almost probably everything from the sea. Except for mermaids. And maybe Nemo. Where we wiped clean four aquariums. Before we nearly went back to the hotel with a gonad less each.

So unless you’re prepared to eat like Jabba the Hut and spend like Mike Tyson, drive a few kilometers away into the suburbs and check out the seafood restaurants there. Those are a bit more humane. Nelayan Restaurant in Bukit Padang is pretty good.

What you can’t find anywhere else but downtown KK, though, are the legendary Roti Cobra and Soto joints we found. Roti Cobra, FYI -- apart from being the greatest culinary creation in history, and as the name implies -- consists of regular Roti Canai initially smoldered with barely cooked sunny side up egg on top to play the role of as the adhesion matter which would later have to endure the wrath of curry and dhal with the option of chicken, beef or mutton. So the sensation endured when eating the first bite is that of twisted harmony where the untouched portion of the Roti is finally matched with the other sides as if fairies are dancing on your tongue. It’s just so good I couldn’t make sense of things anymore. Kedai Makan Islamic dan Hotel (don’t ask) located opposite of Maybank in Kg. Air is the way to go.

Soto in Sabah, on the other hand, comes in a variety of fashions. There’s the light one where the soup opens up a thousand possibilities for you to alter and improvise on the desired taste upon your utilization the condiments on the table. My, kind of badass Soto comes in the unforgiving form that could only be found at Restoran Happy Muslim (again, don’t ask) in Sinsuran. With the perfect combination of spices in the soup and generous portion of chicken or beef garnished with the right amount of herbs and a zing of lemon on top, the fairies you had dancing earlier will reappear and dance on your tongue yet again. Be a bit patient at the restaurant though, it could get a bit packed.

Other notable mentions include Rojak Daging, Ambuyat, Nasi Lalap, Nasi Goreng Liking, Buah Tarap, Kuih Cincin and Syah’s favorite local delicacy, the Spicy Chicken McDeluxe.

Saya sayang sayang Kinabalu, Kaamatan pesta bulan lima,
 Sayang sayang kita pergi tamu jalan Tamparuli, hati saya rindu.

You can’t go to KK and not hop on the islands. A mere 30 – 45 minutes boat ride from the Jesselton Point would take you to the islands within the Tunku Abdul Rahman Marine Park namely Gaya, Sulug, Manukan, Mamutik and Sapi. Being the adventurous souls that we are and in pursuit of quenching our thirst for action, we opted for the first boat out to Gaya Island for a fishing trip. No more than 20 minutes into the merciless waves of the ocean however, Ajep and our new friend Sarip were the only men standing. The rest of us, on the other hand, were in the restlessness of wanting to throw up from being seasick. We weren’t as steadfast as we thought, apparently. Well that and the fact that Syah took off his shirt -- never a sight to endure.

Being the kind men that they were, Ajep and Sarip dropped us off at Sapi Island with our snorkeling sets before jaunting off to the other side of the rock for more fishing action. Swimming through the blue waters of the area, wandering deeper into the ocean, I struggled to locate the spots that could live up to the expectation built by stories of the Sabahan underwater. Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps the stories were about diving instead. Or perhaps other islands could offer more. Snorkeling there was a bit sub-par, for strangely, all I could see were eels. All belonging to Judd, Syah and Ikram, probably. Which were also sub-par.

Forget I ever wrote that.

I shall not write much about the nightlife in KK. Let’s just say that it’s only for the visitors to unearth.

Kinabalu dekat di Kundasang, banyak sayur bulih pilih pilih,
 Apa guna pergi luar negeri naik Kinabalu, hati saya rindu.

I’ve never been that big on souvenirs, to be honest. The smiles of the locals were memorable enough for me to bring home and cherish forever. Plus, there are always pictures. The rest of us, on the other hand, would even bring home the entire Jesselton jetty, given half the chance. So you could imagine the commotion involved as they were bargaining around at the Filipino Market. Featuring a wide range of local handicrafts and pearl jewelries, I reckon the place could occupy you ladies out there a few good hours (or days, if you’re there with Judd).

The sellers were quite amused, at the very least. Witnessing the guys push themselves to the limit in trying to sound like a local was entertainment like no other. As in KK, it’s hard for you to sound like a local unless you’re a local. So adding ‘bah’ or ‘suda’ after every sentence may not necessarily work. Alas, they had to resort to Syah to haggle around. Still to no effect, as they’d usually call him up after agreeing on a price, only to tell the seller that he’s from Kuala Penyu.

Sumandak sumandak pun ramai menunggu, menari-nari lenggang Sumayau,
Sekali melihat melepak kulitnya, saya jatuh cinta.

I’ve always had a soft spot for Kuala Penyu, though I’ve never been there. Located about two hours south of KK, via Papar and Beaufort, Kuala Penyu is famous for its beaches and proximity to Tiga Island, where they shot the first season of Survivor. Syah has been talking about his beloved hometown for as long as we’ve known him. So going there, I for one was rather intrigued in knowing more about this township.

Laidback, and void of traffic, I could say that we fell in love with the place quite instantly. It’s just far… away… you know. Away from the nonsense that we’re constantly occupied and bugged with in life, in the city. Away from the noise that we’re used to have wrenched into our ears. Away from the price that we’ve been paying for industrialization. In Kuala Penyu, life, is much simpler. The way it should be.

Our arrival was greeted by the warmth of Syah’s family at the home of Cikgu Ali Hassan, his father. While we wasted no time before prowling around the household to snap pictures of younger Syah -- or Awang, as he is known at home -- Ajep had the opportunity to catch up with the family, who knows him very well. Quite appropriately and accurately, we're better off known by Syah's mother as the chubby one, the polite one, the dark one and the one without a sense of humor. Who is which is all for your guessing.

We were then brought to the Kuala Penyu jetty, known to be the longest in Asia. Stretching at about 1km, I was initially baffled in figuring out its actual function. There weren’t any elevation leading to the bridge and there were no boats in sight. After further explanation from Apik, Syah’s younger brother, who knows the place 150 times better than he does, the jetty is actually currently used for fishing. Deep water probably, judging by shore fishing standards. The view was marvelous and within sight, was the infamous Tiga Island.

At home, dinner was ready. Syah’s family was all too gracious in preparing us with a huge, seafood feast and the long-awaited Ambuyat to top it all off. Ambuyat is a traditional delicacy made out of sago. We managed to stop by a market in Beaufort on the way to grab a bag on the way earlier. It’s basically a sticky matter to be rolled with a chopstick before you dip it in the gravy of your choice. Alternatively, and I’m not sure if the locals do this, I could see the potential of the same dish to be turned into desert should you dip it in condensed milk or shredded coconut. Ecstatic.

Our utmost heartfelt gratitude for Syah’s family for the amazingly great time.

Saya sayang sayang Kinabalu, Kaamatan pesta bulan lima,  
Sayang sayang kita pergi tamu jalan Tamparuli, hati saya rindu.

The last destination before heading home was Kundasang, near the valleys of Mt. Kinabalu. And joining our journey was our good Sabahan friend, Jasper. The trip up to the village took no more than two hours and along the way was Tamparuli, the hometown of one of the country’s most adored songstress and my true love, Marsha. Few have claimed otherwise, unsurprisingly.

We stayed at the Kinabalu Heritage Resort, securing a chalet for the six of us. Given that our arrival was already quite late in the evening and it was raining, though, there was nothing to be seen.

The next morning, however, I was awoken by the sound of a ravenous grunt coming from the other side of the hall. As our chalet was located quite close to the heart of the jungle, the thought of a Sumatran Rhinoceros dropping by did cross my mind. Maybe I didn’t have to venture deep into the jungle after all to get a glimpse of the near-extinct creature.

Upon further investigation, though, I was devastated to find out that the sound was actually coming from the nostrils of the guys who were still sleeping like a row of logs. And there I was, enjoying the majestic view of the great Mt. Kinabalu with the sound of my snoring friends filling up the air.

What have I done wrong to deserve all these?

Sayang sayang kita pergi tamu jalan Tamparuli, hati saya rindu.

As any other memorable vacations would lead to, leaving KK couldn’t be any more difficult. Six days flew by too soon and possibly only another visit could do for us to spend more time discovering all that KK has got to offer.

We saw new places. We ate new food. We did new stuff and most importantly, we made new friends. Jasper, I guess we’ll all be feasting out whenever you’re in town. Ada, Joy, Aimi, Raihan, you guys have been remarkably wonderful hosts and only a turn for us to take you around would suffice in repaying your awesomeness. Rol, I don’t know if you’ll ever read this but, let it be known that you are much cooler than your cousin Awang; if that’s complimentary enough by any measure.

We left for KL with the heaviest of hearts and the bulk of us couldn’t stop looping Sayang Kinabalu on the stereo. I will always have a hard time figuring out where to begin in talking about KK. There are simply too many things to talk about. From the trenches of the ocean, to the heights of the mountains, to the depths of the jungles, KK has got it all. I suppose it’s the serenity of its nature and the opulence of its culture that bring out the warmth and kindness of its people. The warmth and kindness that portray, embody and represent everything about Sabah.

There’s simply no reason to not go there.

Unless you’re going with this guy.

Lyrics: Kimin Mudin - Sayang Kinabalu

Here Come Old Flattops

2009-10-26T09:02:00.001+08:00

You're Beautiful, and We're Late

2009-10-10T11:06:00.001+08:00

They had an interesting discussion on the radio this morning. The DJ was asking listeners to call in and talk about men.

Men who beautify themselves.

No I don't intend to take a dig at some of you gentlemen out there who prefer to live a fabulous life of threaded eyebrows and shimmery glistening fingernails. I thoroughly respect the choice. If it's the radiant glow of your T-zone after a 3-hour, RM849.37, facial rejuvenation treatment that makes you happy, then I say go for it... girlfriend.

What caught my attention however, was a caller who voiced out her worry about her husband who had suddenly developed a strong concern over his appearance. Which did sound a bit odd at first. For most of the recently married guys I know face the struggle of getting used to grooming appliances e.g. a comb.

Anyway, according to her, they're facing some trouble getting out of the house on time for work. With the husband now taking more time in the bathroom and in front of the mirror, she's forced to wake up much earlier to dress up. In other words, her personal space has been indirectly invaded simply because her husband wants to 'bejewel it like Beckham' in the morning. And I, for one, do feel sorry for her.

You see, guys, the license to spend ages getting dressed is, I believe, every woman's birthright. They're warranted to do so. There's no two ways about it. It's a universally agreed understanding; whether we like it or not. A luxury, we're guilty of robbing from them should we ever question the logic behind say, putting on some makeup before they get out of the car; to pay the toll for example.

Even if you have to wait in the car -- or, worse off, in the living room with her younger siblings who'll just sit there and awkwardly stare at you -- for three hours, you are only to shower her with praises when she's finally (if ever) ready. It doesn't matter if you're already late to that Twilight sequel you both got tickets to. No of course she was the one who chose the movie.

For all that matters is that, she looks as stunning as Scarlett Johansson. Or at the very least, you lead her into believing it. As much as you have the strong urge to do so, pointing out how the three hours made no difference is never, and I mean never never ever, an option.

Legend has it that after growing impatient while waiting for his then girlfriend Pattie Boyd to get ready for a function, Eric Clapton wrote a song. One that would later become one of the most heartfelt love songs ever written. And what did he say to her in it?

"I say yes, you look wonderful tonight."

Goes to saying how long it took her to get ready, though. Long enough for Eric to write a chart-topping hit.

What crisis?

2009-10-01T11:57:00.008+08:00

I've always been ambitious. Even as a child, I would never settle for anything less than the best. I went to the under-10 tryouts despite being three years younger. I attempted to save up for a Nikko Ferrari Enzo, only the hottest remote control car at the time; costing no less than a kidney. And in my effort to win the heart of the most beautiful girl at our playground, I wrote perhaps one of the most compelling poems in history.

None of the goals ever surprisingly materialized. The handwritten poem was found nicely crumpled in a gutter. Yet, just as well, none of them ever bogged me down either. I've been quite resilient to failures and believe me, there have been one too many. Maybe I'm a firm believer in the 'things that don't kill you making you stronger' philosophy. Or maybe I'm excessively human that I can somehow accept mistakes as a work of nature. More probably though... I just got used to blunders.

Recently, however, a string of thoughts have led to the notion of putting both my ambition and resilience to the test. There seems to be this bombardment of ideas suddenly surging out of my brain. A host of things that I suddenly want to get myself involved in. A strong urge to push myself to the limit. A sudden expansion on the list of things that I plan to do in life; which previously only had '1. Judge Miss Universe' on it.

I wanted to accomplish things by the age of 30: release a record, get a book published, write a screenplay. I wanted to cover South East Asia by the end of 2009 and the Oceania in the coming year. I wanted to run four days a week with a round of football at the end of it. I wanted to surpass the number of dates I was out on in the past year (0.5, she left half-way, a call came in, her cat died, for the second time... nope, same cat).

All of which, were parts of a phase, I initially thought. Until a good friend of mine mentioned the rather dreaded 3-word term, 'quarter-life crisis'.

A possible conclusion that I won't discount. While I could painstakingly describe the term as 'a crisis that you face when you reach quarter-life', QuarterLifeCrisis.com -- yes, it exists -- defines it as 'a period of anxiety, uncertainty and inner turmoil that often accompanies the transition to adulthood'; which only makes as much sense as a straight member of the Village People in my book.

Why call it a crisis though? If that is what I'm actually going through. A crisis is a disaster, a catastrophe, an emergency, a calamity, a predicament and everything else that is ever represented by Lady Gaga. Wanting to do a bunch of things all of sudden, unless it involves terrorism, is nowhere near a crisis. It sparks questions, true. But it's not too bad, at all. In fact, I'll go as far as to saying that it is to be embraced.

At 26, and three years into my career as an analyst in the chemical industry (yawn), I believe the phenomenon is largely due to the stagnant state of my life. I drive for an hour to the office in the morning, spend eight hours in my cubicle, spend another hour on the road cursing at other drivers, head on to the treadmill in the evening then maybe work on some music or waste my precious time on the Internet (i.e. sites like this blog) before I hit the sack, five days a week. If it weren't for the weekends, I'll only be as human as Robocop. And nobody can bear doing the same thing for the next 30 years now, would they? Venturing into new domains seems all too fitting then if it keeps you alive.

Considering the majority of the readers on here are my peers, probably some of you out there are going through the same thing. And to you, my friends, in the words of one of the largest sportswear conglomerate in the world to the disgust of hippies everywhere, I say just do it.

In addition, I believe we could all agree as well, that if there's any crisis it out there at all, it's in the form of the oddball that is Lady Gaga.

One More Hour

2009-09-16T23:23:00.003+08:00

A layer of remorseful sorrow blanketed my soul as I set my eyes on the scene. My heart, shatters into a million little pieces of grief at the disheartening sight of children laying flat on the ground, looking seemingly devoid of any hope. Some crawled aimlessly around my legs while others, slouching on their backs, mumbled what seemed to be their last words in life. Images from the tragic scenes of Hotel Rwanda flashed by me. Perhaps, just as Don Cheadle in the movie, I was sent in as a savior to these helpless young beings.

Puzzled as I was, in their eyes I found the answer. None of them stared in a different direction. And as I gazed along the same path, leading to clock on the wall, it was clear that I wasn't their savior. For she was in the kitchen, in the form of our lovely grandmother, preparing the evening's feast while conveniently 'comforting' my little cousins by telling them that there's "only an hour to go"... for the past three hours.

It's been a good few weeks now since the beginning of the fasting month and we're all well into the big family's buka puasa session at my grandparents' in Kg. Pandan which, for your information, is nowhere near Rwanda. With the incredible blend of scents emanating from the mountain of plates -- from my uncles and aunts' home kitchen to the dinner table -- it wasn't too long before I found myself hobbling pointlessly together with the kids. The closer we got to Maghrib, the slower it was for the arms of the clock to move. Time simply stood still.

When we finally reached the final two minutes before the azan on TV, the kids held their own countdown, one memorized Ramadhan ad after another; tightly clutching on to their drinks in the process. And rightfully, the clock struck 716pm. While the adults calmly minced on some dates and sipped in plain water, their young ones were deservedly gulping into glass after glass of their favorite glucose-induced drinks. During which, yours truly struggled to keep his plate empty. Possibly still seen as the growing boy that he was 10 years ago by the relatives, the food just kept on coming my way.

At the end of the day, it was gleaming smiles all around.

Which is what, at least to me, the month is all about. A time of reflection and a period where your patience is being put to the ultimate test. I could barely recall the number of times I get downright groggy over having to face last night's dinner at 5am under the appetite of an anorexic supermodel. The number of times I had to hold my anger in from belting out the usual curse words when I'm on the road. The number of times I howled a huge, stretching yawn during an afternoon meeting at the office.

The many things that I've overlooked since last Ramadhan, which was also the last time I had any sense of appreciation for the smaller things in life. The joy of wolfing down on a plate of nasi lemak in the morning. The joy of chugging down a cold bottle of Gatorade under the hot sun. The joy of basically having the ability to consume food, for energy, for the things that we plan to do in life. Even the simplest of things.

And it's with such realization that I managed to utilize the past, rather sedentary, month to plan out the many things that I've been meaning to do. As much as I used to dread the fasting month as a child, time has matured me into seeing it in a much clearer perspective. The many underlying messages that the holy month brings are only for us to unearth. And it is, quite amazing how you are brought to those discoveries. For which, I couldn't be thankful enough. Hopefully my little cousins could feel the same as well someday.

On that note, before I sign off for the week-long break, my sincerest apologies for any wrongdoings in the past and may you have a brilliant Raya ahead.

No apologies for the picture below though. I ran out of decent ones.

Dawn of the Dads

2009-08-17T23:42:00.001+08:00

This past weekend, my family had the pleasure of hosting the monthly neighborhood security watch meeting at our place. And little that I know, never having attended any of the previous meetings, and playing the role of my parent's right hand man for the day, apart from rigorously coordinating the F&B setup and logistic arrangements, hosting such a gathering would also mean having to endure, above anything else, bad jokes.

Especially when you're the sole representative of your generation.

With the kids already locking themselves up in the playroom seconds into entering the house, the moms meticulously analyzing the new curtain and no one from my age group within sight, I was left with no choice but to hang out with the street's kings of comedy (or so they thought), the dads.

They're always a lively bunch... the dads. And I'm pretty sure you've seen them before. They're everywhere. From weddings to open houses to reunions to the golf course, usually seen in a circle and generating occasional burst of laughters loud enough to deafen a baby elephant, the dads can never get enough of their own jokes; most of which revolve around the subjects of politics, their wives, work, their better halves, sports, their life partners, the traffic and the mothers to their children.

“Here's a good one, here's a good one... I got it off the Internet and tried it out right away. We were getting ready to go out the other day and I went, honey, you can definitely dress to kill, can't you? Surely you can cook for that too! HAHAHAHAHA!”

“HAHAHAHAHA!”

They do make me wonder, though. Given the number of men who share the similar trait once they become dads and are well in their 40s and beyond, would I, some time in the future, end up like them as well? Sure they are, more often than not, much adored and revered for being the lovely men that they are. Yet the prospect of living a life of finding enjoyment in bad humor -- which some say we already are, doing -- does terrify me.

What terrifies me further, though, are the glimpses of them that I'm starting to see in us. Usually during gatherings, I usually find myself inadvertently forming this circle with my friends. One that resembles that of the dads'. And before you know it, we're already replicating their iconic burst of laughters. Only that, our jokes, are always of the most superior of qualities.

To which people outside the circle, however, would usually strongly beg to differ. Together with the majority of our girl friends, who often label our jokes as, mildly put, utterly dreadful, my own little sisters have been our harshest critics. As every time I crack a joke that would never fail with the guys, I receive nothing more complimentary than a hairbrush being thrown my way.

I guess those are the very reasons behind people's variety in accepting different types of humor. The dads are, in fact, old enough to be our dads. My sisters are actually young enough to believe that becoming a 'princess' is a valid career aspiration. And our girl friends are, as far as we can tell, women. Age and gender differences' role behind it all are simply all too significant.

But I reckon through time, the whole cycle would still eventually repeat itself, whether we like it or not. As much as we'd like to age like Sean Connery, we'd still have to reluctantly admit that our waistlines are getting no smaller, our hairlines are getting no thicker and our sense of fashion are, at least according to the girls, so last Thursday. Just as we're finding the elderly's jokes unbearable today, our kids will someday find our jokes just as dire.

For we are all, after all, men; us and the dads. And what makes a man, are his charisma, and sense of humor. I'm sure our future wives could back us up on that someday. So long as... they're not literally on our backs and breaking 'em! HAHAHAHAHA!

Oh dear.

The Bald and the Beautiful

2009-08-05T15:23:00.005+08:00

I don't think it was that long ago when I wrote about my single most horrified fear as a child: my cousins.

While most of my peers back then feared Freddy Krueger, Herman Munster, Beetlejuice and our neighborhood dentist, it may have sounded a little strange of me to be afraid of boys my age who weren't even old enough to zip their own pants; without risking their manhood.

Alas that, was the reality. For these boys were wholly responsible for causing me emotional distress from their constant jibe for being the only cousin to be circumcised at the tender, tender age of 3-days old.

"The one you had 'didn't count'..!" they used to jeer into the nightmares that haunted me for years to come. And I'd be lying to say that imageries of having to someday line up for the snip-doctor together with my own kids never crossed my mind.

But gone were those days. Growing up, I've been educated sufficiently enough in school, and over the Internet, to understand that the one I had... did count!

Nevertheless, I am but immortal; as anyone else. And fear, can never be foreign enough to us. From their kids, I have now become afraid of my uncles.

It's not that they scare me off like Santa do babies or anything. Though I do recall one of them disguising himself as a moving blanket to spook us out; before tripping down.

That aside, my uncles are perhaps some of the finest gentlemen around. As much as they are loved and revered as great dads, it is their receding hairline that frightens me.

Being related by blood to them, with my dad already surrendering to shining baldness and my younger brother losing hair faster than the speed of light, it is not impossible that I may one day appear on Oprah... as Dr. Phil. As researches show how 25% of men begin balding at the age of 30, the potential of my own, genetically-induced hair loss, in four years time, has become increasingly, eerily inevitable.

I've been fortuitously spared, thus far, I can safely say. Perhaps, I was blessed with my mom's gene. As photo albums of old hold evident, a family picture of my mom's side from the late 80s could give any big hair rock band a run for its money. So, there is hope.

Is it really that bad though? I don't even have to go any further than some of my own friends to point out how baldness can actually work to your favor. In fact, while some of them began losing hair as soon as they hit puberty (instead of the other way around), these guys have had immense success in the social scene; dwarfing the likes of Alfie, Van Wilder and even to the extent of making Austin Powers look like Napoleon Dynamite.

Well, figuratively speaking.

Polls have shown how women find bald men appealing. The phenomenal achievements of Vin Diesel, Jason Statham, Andre Agassi, Michael Jordan and Homer Simpson are perhaps proof of just that. "They look wise..." and "It makes me wanna smear honey all over..." were some of the many complimentary remarks I've heard of bald men; told by women and men with questionable orientation. Who said which, is your call.

It remains a dilemma, I have to admit. Many would agree. And given the option, I would very much prefer to have the choice to either style it out or shave it all off; as I wish. As it stands though, I have only so much control over my bodily functions.

Here's to making enough money to afford Donald Trump's hairstylist. Or whatever it is that he actually styles.

Serih Ireland: A Photo Essay

2009-07-22T22:57:00.005+08:00

If you don't know it already (shame on you), I was born, to play futsal.

Ah, futsal... the miniature version of the world's game, or rather, the beautiful game, that is football. Ten men of two five-a-side teams running after the ball on a pitch ¼ the size of an official field brawling their way in the fast-paced tug o' war of egos with the aim of outdoing each other's wit and athletic prowess for, well... if they're like my friends, about 6 minutes before they lay flat on the ground gasping for air.

But it is what we do every Friday night; gasp for air. In fact, for the majority of us, it's the highlight of our week. Which is quite sad when you consider that it involves ten sweaty guys having a go at each other for 90 minutes.

Last Friday, however, we had the privilege of having an up-and-coming, aspiring photographer friend of ours Ihsan Khairir by the sidelines. Perhaps we could ignore, for the time being, that he was actually there to check if he could play; 'cos he was around the area. For he had with him, his trusty camera. A serendipity, all too fitting possibly, for him to capture the magic that is my footballing wizardry.

And upon witnessing the result of his exceptional photographic skill in capturing my athletic brilliance, I said to myself, “Damn I need a haircut...” and later, “Surely, this needs a photo-essay of its own.”

With that, may I present to you, a literary take on the real-time football match experimental film concept of 'Zinedine Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait'... 'Serih Ireland: A 26 Year Old Virgin'.

Yes, Serih Ireland. That's my name on the pitch... a mesh between my nickname in school and a tribute to arguably one of the greatest players to ever don the sacred Manchester City shirt, Stephen Ireland. Aptly, I can be seen in this shot working very hard at my pre-game warm-up routine: 'The Riverdance'; where I'll Irish tap dance around the field like the great Michael Flatley. Hence the title's connotation to virginity. Sigh.

I think this was a few minutes into the game (3, to be exact) where, as a trained professional, I needed a few gulps of Gatorade. So I had to direct one of the guys to run to the nearest 7-11 and grab me a bottle. To which he duly responded something really unpleasant, and rhymed with 'truck few'.

Oh, this is a good one. It was like a few minutes before half-time when I was just about ready to get back on the pitch 'til everyone called for time-off as it was, yes, half-time. Where I'll get back to the bench gulping down their drinks... as I was for the majority of the first half.

Right, don't be fooled by this one now. This is not 'The Riverdance'. I was actually telling Ihsan to get a shot of the others as well. Now while I do acknowledge the fact that my Cruyffian 'Total Football' orchestration was just too mesmerizing for his lenses, I still felt that the rest needed their 15 minutes of fame as well...

...before I get back into the frame of course. I believe this was the final existing shot of his from that night. And aptly enough, it was the last shot of the game as well. As you can see, I was in the middle of a rather acrobatic kick to, you know, end the game on a high. Which really happened judging by the distance of the ball from the goalpost.

Ihsan, thanks for making some time and sending me the glorious shots. And not quitting photography after this.

Ring me up! Before you go, go!

2009-07-12T12:19:00.004+08:00

The thing about living in a household with two sisters young enough to fight over Barbie dolls is that, apart from having to surrender the remote to them and consequently sacrificing the TV to the Disney Channel 24/7, you're committed to spending half of your time at home, as their phone operator.

A large portion of my childhood was spent in the early 90s where cellular phones, were just as alien as cassette tapes today. Thus outside of school, the only mode of communication that I had with my friends was the home phone. And since the phone was shared by the whole family, it was only suiting that my usage of the phone was limited to discussing about school e.g. homework, timetable, schedule and occasionally, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Today, however, despite the advancement of cellular technology which has allowed children as young as 3 to own personal cellphones (my sisters included), our home phone remains as hot as ever between the two girls. Every time it rings, they race their way to the phone as if it's the Jonas Brothers on the line. Which may be quite close at times, to their despair though... when it's actually the Jega Brothers, our friendly neighborhood security guards. Never fails to crack me up.

As painful as they can be, the girls do strictly adhere to our parents' monthly cellphone allowance for them. A little too strict perhaps now that they've valued their cellphone minutes to be only second to the value of our house. Thus, their utilization pattern has been cellphone = SMS and home phone = calls. A rather smart approach if you ask me; with some room for improvement though. Especially when they are still sending short messages like "k", "totally!" and ":-)".

I've learned to ignore the phone when it rings. For as I mentioned, we already have two future national sprinters dashing their way to answer it. Unfortunately, the phone is located right beside where I spend the bulk of my time at home: on the couch, in front of the TV, when it's not airing the Disney Channel. So whenever it rings in the middle of a catfight between the ladies of Desperate Housewives -- to which I usually give my utmost attention to -- I'm left with no choice but to pick it up.

With 95% of the calls coming from either their school friends or cousins, picking up the phone would also mean enduring minor hearing damage as more often than not, girls their age collectively possess a vocal pitch worthy of fronting a mid-80s rock band. And in the instance of answering the call when they aren't at home, I'm usually led to having a rather lengthy phone conversation of my own...

"Hello, may I speak to Sarah?"
"She's not around."
"Where did she go?" 
"Out with her mom."
"When will she be back?" 
"In a bit."
"How long has she been gone?"
"About an hour."
"Who are you?"
"Her brother."
"What are you up to?"
"Nothing. Just hanging. Watching some TV."
"E! True Hollywood Story?"
"Yeah. No hang on, how do you know?"
"Ha ha... I know you. You're the 'loser brother'."
"Screw you."
"Mooooom... Sarah's brother is telling me to scr..."
"Toot. Toot. Toot. Toot."

Alas, it's hard to ignore the adorable sights of them talking on the phone sharing stories and laughing out loud though I, may be the subject of their mockery. The little girls who used to just pick up the phone, press some random numbers and pretend to be talking to someone have all grown up now. From talking to a dial tone, they're now talking to their peers with topics ranging from math problems to Hannah Montana.

I guess it's only to be embraced; that the girls are still using the home phone. For time flies. And I don't think it would be long before they could afford to fully use their own cellphones. Which would then, leave the home phone in seclusion, not ringing anymore and collecting dust before we actually decide to just terminate the line. A taste perhaps, of the changes to come.

Maybe I'll just savor the rings while it's still around. Not when I'm in the middle of E! True Hollywood Story though.

What's wrong here?

2009-07-07T21:50:00.012+08:00

Let the page load and move your mouse cursor over the picture (for a while) to find out...

It's been a long day.

Romancing the Gallstone

2009-07-04T20:23:00.005+08:00

Yesterday, in between the subjects that we usually engross ourselves in (e.g. cars, gadgets, sports, Hanis Zalikha), me and my friends we had the pleasure of discussing about something that was somewhat, out of our norm. An issue, or rather, a problem, if you will, that has been bugging us for quite a while now. One that had barred us from gaining that extra mile i.e. going beyond the reachable lengths in our social lives, if any. At the very least, it called us to get out of our comfort zone.

Some of you may wonder, "Could this 'problem' in reference pertain to the size of their genitals, or lack of it?" to which I would have to duly disaffirm "No, kind sir. I, unlike my friends, for one am not in the position to worry about being well-endowed."

For our issue of focus at the time was instead, self-confidence.

History has proven how self-confidence leads to outstanding heights among great men. Genghis Khan wouldn't have led the Mongol Empire, only the largest contiguous empire of all time and once the owner of Central Asia, without it. Napoleon wouldn't have shaped 19th century European politics without it. Barack Obama wouldn't have been the first African American president of the United States without it. Above all, my good friend Din wouldn't have picked up that blazing hot chick at the bookstore the other day, without it.

Lucky bastard.

But would it make any difference though? Cursing Din for successfully hitting on a girl after he'd inflated his own balls to approach her. He deserved it. For all you know they could be sharing a bowl of her favorite ice cream at this point of writing. He wasn't lucky. We were. We both found the girl but he was the only one with gonads worthy of enduring the warpath of a battlefield before approaching her; leaving me stranded in the midst of the aisles of novels stacking themselves up and forming animated faces on their covers ready to have a laugh at me in unison. At least that was how it happened in my head.

Among the many things that we talked about, were the underlying reasons that lead to our lack of confidence; particularly in the presence of a member of the opposite gender. I recall writing about how we roar like the king of the jungle in our own company but bring a girl near the table and we'll squirm away like little kittens. The way she affects the atmosphere at the table boggles the mind; the way she turns us, into these uncomfortable beings.

One minute, you'll have a bunch of guys talking like Mr. T; outdoing each other's bravado with stories about manly things e.g. exhaust pipes, with profanities to boot. The next minute, however, the very same people would turn into this group of over-sensitive men who'll give their utmost attention to the girl's stories even if they're about things that they've never seen in real life e.g. potpourris; sounding like Clay Aiken in the process.

Such timidity arises from a certain form of fear. The fear of faux pas; the classic social gaffe that has turned princes to paupers and riches to rags. A self-destructive error that happens without warning, let alone permissible control.

We were in the company of two very pleasant, newly-acquainted ladies recently and things seemed to be going very well with everyone at the table exchanging his/her favorite traveling stories. During which, one of the ladies shared a very inspiring tale of her hike up Mt. Kinabalu...

"It was no easy feat and I could barely catch any breath until, we reached the peak where none of it mattered. I was on top of the world!" she said, her eyes glowing.

"Wow! That's totally amazing! I wish to do the same someday!" I responded, my eyes glowing as well.

"Yeah, impressive. You must've been what... half your size back then?" a friend of mine, whom I shouldn't name here, swiftly reacted, with the straightest of faces.

Inevitably, the awkward silence that follows calls for me to ring up the waiter for the bill. And that rendezvous shall remain the one and only meeting we'll ever have with our new hiker girl friend.

While this may come as a surprise, the level of ignorance, as demonstrated by my good friend in the above anecdote, is all but rare among guys. Was he really saying it with the intention of demeaning the girl? I doubt it. It was merely an observation but what guys need to start acknowledging is that, with us, honesty, is not necessarily the best policy. When in doubt, shut the hell up. If only he had known that questioning a girl's weight is as big a taboo as say, I don't know, beating up the Jonas Brothers?

Ironically, apart from the fear that we have over the stuff that our big mouths could utter, there's also the fear of, yes, each other.

You see, one of the most satisfying feelings a guy could have is the enjoyment of making fun of his friends. Hence, what better platform is there for a guy to screw up then in the presence of a girl, in front of his friends. The guy who asked about the hiker girl's weight earlier would agree. It could happen in so many ways. From choking to mixing up words... I've seen it all, if not done it myself.

In closing, dear friends, if you do happen to have a pointer or two for us to overcome this perplexing situation of ours, please do share. For we would gratefully appreciate your insights.

Who knows? It may well make the world a better place. Or at least, the Jonas Brothers, spared from a good beat up.

Kids Draw the Darndest Things

2009-06-01T22:25:00.004+08:00

Thought I'd share with you my 10-year old sister's perspective on the concept of a complete food chain. Or at least one that's logical whenever she's mad at me.

The scruffy caricature in the middle -- sandwiched by the uncomplimentary figures -- is anyone's guess.

From Hanoi, with love... you long time!

2009-05-24T22:54:00.017+08:00

Quite perhaps, my friends' wish has been fulfilled. I finally had to wear a face mask. Though for health reasons as opposed to complying with their constant derogatory naggings for me to do so to alleviate their eyesore, I reckon it would still do the imbeciles just fine.

I was Hanoi bound and the company was generous enough to provide me with a top-of-the-line 3M face mask as a preemptive measure in traveling amidst the H1N1 flu outbreak.

"Sweet!" I initially thought to myself.

My childhood dream of dressing up as Shredder, the mysterious enemy of the Ninja Turtles, had come true. For none of my previous attempts back then ever succeeded without my babysitter chasing me around the house. Let's just say my lack of resources to an actual face mask forced me to rummage through her closet and improvise on her garment to make one of my own; occasionally causing lack of support on her part, I have to admit.

Vietnamese sunrise. Circa 5am. Sigh.

My hour-long stint at the departure gate got me engrossed in observing a heated discussion between four Vietnamese ladies in their 50s at the nearby seats. Tourists they were, I would imagine judging from their uniformed caps with charming little flags jotting out of them. What got me initially intrigued to their debate was simply nothing more than the sheer magnitude of the volume at which they were conversing. In essence, I could've put myself at risk of minor hearing damage had I placed myself any closer to them.

As I stepped onto the grounds of Noi Bai Airport, though, many more resemblances of the commotion between the Vietnamese ladies took place. From the baggage claim area, to the immigrations and customs clearance, to the arrival hall, taxi stand, and right into the lobby of the hotel, people were quarreling everywhere.

What's the deal with all these conflicts? Why was everyone unhappy with things? Has it got something to do with the political climate? Or was there a natural disaster making its way to the land? What the hell is everyone aggressively talking about? These were some of the many questions I had lingering in my head as I scrutinized the way the locals communicate.

"Kris won?! Argh! I tabled $400 on Adam Lambert damnit!"

Moments after I stepped into our office in Hanoi, I noticed the same thing. Three of my newly acquainted Vietnamese colleagues were in the middle of a squabble; outdoing each other's voice by the second. I couldn't take it anymore. There has got to be a justification for all these cacophonies. Swiftly, I stepped into the middle of their dispute and demanded an explanation; to their bemusement... before their burst into laughter.

Apparently, they were just figuring out what to eat for lunch. And as it is over there, the way they talk to each other may seem belligerent to foreigners, usually in the manner of a WWE wrestler before a ferocious grapple. Though in actuality, all they could be doing was just throwing out a 'knock knock' joke.

As a matter of fact, the language in itself is wordy by nature. For example, "I say, quit staring at my crotch, kind sir!" translates to "Tôi nói, bỏ thuốc lá staring tại tôi crotch, loại sir!" in Vietnamese. Well, bad example. But you get the idea. It is still, quite enchanting.

"So why did the chicken crossed the road again?"

In his book, 'A Cook's Tour', Anthony Bourdain recalled his experience with the Vietnamese traffic and penned down the following,

"There isn't a single second when we're not paralyzed with fear, bracing for impact, or at least certain that if we were to speak, or distract him (the driver) for even a split second, it would surely cause our instantaneous deaths."

Not too long after journeying into the heart of the city, I suppose Bourdain was rather accurate in describing it as near-suicide, or so to speak. Traffic lights were just as relevant as deodorants to bus conductors while cars, motorcycles, bicycles and pedestrians roam the street with equal rights. As much as a bike can be seen cruising through the walkways, a man can be seen clairvoyantly making his way along the circumference of a roundabout, together with the other vehicles.

And there was never a pause in the flow of traffic. From dusk 'til dawn, the roads were packed. Not to mention the amount of honking they resort to in their day to day driving. Upon a clarification from our driver, I soon learned that honking is just a mere way of saying "excuse me" or rather crudely, "make way" to other road users. So by translation, people over there excuse themselves on average 384,493 times per day. I'm going to get the driver one of those 'Honk if you're horny!" bumper stickers someday. Just for the fun of it, you know.

No you do not wanna mess with her.

My first morning in Vietnam was spent gorging upon a bowl of phở (pronounced 'fur'), one of the nation's most prominent dish. It's basically rice noodle soup with thinly sliced beef served with basil, sprout, peppers and lime, paired with condiments ranging from their infamous fish sauce to salted garlic.

Usually served during breakfast, lunch and dinner, phở represents the very essence of Vietnamese cooking; basic, no frills and unpretentious. The straightforward preparation of their food limits the gap between nature and a dish. Very minimal 'manufacturing' is involved. And that very fact was evident enough, at least to me judging from the scarcity of factory produced food in their consumer goods market. In sum, I guess the philosophy goes: if you want noodle in broth, skip the chemical laden pre-packed ramen in boiled water and get yourself sorted with some rice noodle in soup proper. If you run out of beef, maybe thrust a spear right into one of those wandering around out there in the lawn.

My only qualm with their food however, was the lack in taste. As much as you can mix and match with the number of condiments that they have, there was still this barrier that seems to be blocking my way into journeying the tantalizing euphoria of tastes that I've encountered with food from other parts of the region. A far cry, in other words, from the blend of spices that we grow up consuming in Malaysia. Alas, perhaps that is the very reason behind the negligible amount of obesity cases in their country.

Breakfast of champions... Vietnamese style!

I didn't get to do much sightseeing during the trip; as always the case with business trips. From the hours I spent in the car looking around whilst holding on to my seat in fear of again, 'instantaneous death', colonial French architecture was present in their buildings; both retail and residential. Tall 3 to 4 storey buildings stand attached to each other heralding signs from none I could decipher anything.

Ain't no curb too high. Ain't no divider low.

The view from my hotel room wasn't too bad either. Overlooking the lake belonging to the Hanoi Zoo, the different parts of the city weren't too obvious from up above. The government buildings aside, everything looked rather similar. Being an administrative city, in contrast to the more vibrant Ho Chi Minh down south, Hanoi is more laidback and modest, possibly, escaping the modernization of commercialism that its sister city is going through.

You get a lot of adorable sights down the streets though. Kids jumping around encircling old ladies carrying baskets of fruits on their shoulders walking back and forth families sitting down over a cup of Vietnamese coffee with their dog licking itself nearby, is a regular sight.

I manage to jaunt into a record store and spent quite some time there talking to the shop owner. In his 60s and not letting a second go without puffing a smoke, he walked me through the range of collections in his possession. From the pricey audiophile record of Chopin to a 60 cent pirated copy of the Black Eyed Peas' latest album in a photocopied album cover, he had it all. And he knew them all as well. He brought out all the John Coltrane, Ray Charles, Diana Krall and John Scofield records I asked for and duly played them out. I did mange to leave him in a bewildered heap when I asked for a Ramlah Ram CD nevertheless; though he did ran through his store just in case there was one somewhere in there. Bless the man.

Now where has that Grease soundtrack gone...

Hanoi isn't really a place to shop though. Maybe the plethora of shopping that I've encountered people doing in Bangkok, Singapore and our own Kuala Lumpur could easily dwarf the opportunities for retail therapy here. Then again, do bear in mind that I am a member of the male gender hence my judgment on shopping is just as good as Ozzy Osbourne's take on the global economic crisis. For my female counterparts deemed the 48 hours they had for shopping still inadequate.

We did drop by at the night market at the Old Quarter. Not surprisingly, exceptional bargaining skill is required in order to shop here. Nevertheless, the language barrier was still a constraint, as demonstrated by the following dialogue, which I had with one of the sellers there.

Me: Okay, these three... how much?
Seller: Up to me.
M: Alright, how much?
S: Up to me. Up to me.
M: I know, how much?
S: Up to me! Up to me!
M: Sure, your call. Just tell me... how much?
S: Up to me! Up to me! Up to me! Up to me!
M: Hang on... you mean, 'up to you'?
S: Ah... yeah yeah, solly... up to you, up to you!
M: Right, I'm totally gonna write about you man.
S: Yeah, up to me, eh, up to you hehe...

Again, bless the man.

"Dlink this! Make you stlong! Make good love!"

I left for the airport on a sunny Saturday afternoon, going through yet another duel with death along their divider-less road, enduring perhaps my last few dozens honks before we reach there.

Trying really hard to sum up the trip, looking at the paddy fields out the window, I barely managed to construct the right words together. There's this uncertainty about the country and I just felt that there are more to uncover. Being there on an official visit bars you, somewhat, from exploring its subtleties. I do believe that behind the loud conversations that locals have on the streets, there are a million stories to tell.

I guess a trip to Ho Chi Minh would allow me to uncover those stories. As corny as it may sound, I should've dropped by one of the museums to at least discover the place a little deeper; in the interest of time. The locals told me that you'll be able to get a more extensive introduction to the country via Ho Chi Minh; which is possibly a valid pointer. I could perhaps echo the same notion.

At the end of the day, should you plan to go there, the decision is all, up to me!

I mean, you.

Hanging well, Hanoi.

Thank you.

2009-04-13T23:09:00.000+08:00

6 Degrees

2009-03-29T01:03:00.006+08:00

Bwahaha Eleena you are a genius!

Details: http://blog.enaphotography.com/2009/03/6-degrees-project-the-results

"For anyone who’s interested, the photos above and photos from the photographers who are involved in this project will be up at the KL Design Week exhibition which will begin this Friday, 28 March till 4 April at CapSquare, KL. The KLickr (KL Flickr) section will be located on the first floor, right as you head up the escalators from the entrance next to Starbucks. Hope to see you guys there!"

Yeah baby.

The Big Pink & Zhin for Earth Hour

2009-03-25T20:33:00.001+08:00

Djakarta, Bandoeng & Pak Badroel

2009-03-11T19:41:00.004+08:00

For the past few months, I've been the subject of my friends' merciless ridicule. My trips to Bali and Bangkok, with six other guys (three on each occasion, thankfully) have provided an avenue for them to make fun of me; mainly on issues relating to my sexual orientation.

A ‘sausage fest wizard' I was called, once. And on a more ruthless occasion, ‘Richard Simmons'. Their name calling spree forced me to reach an ultimatum. I couldn't bear enduring the look of joy and satisfaction on their faces as my dignity is being made an article of mockery. I had to make a stand and vowed to convey just that on my next trip. I shall nevermore travel with three other guys no matter how confident we are with our masculinity. For society (i.e. my idiot friends) will never tire from deliberately misconstruing the truth.

And so I flew to Jakarta and Bandung, with four other guys.

Brotherhood of the Traveling Di..nevermind

Just as any other journeys, I didn't quite know what to expect of Jakarta. At least the stories I've heard of Bandung have all been pleasant: great shopping, beautiful girls, historic architecture, stunning ladies, scenic views, mind-boggling, ridiculously attractive looking women, so on and so forth. The narratives that I've read on Jakarta have ironically been anything but explanatory; especially for the most populated capital in the region. Perhaps the mysteries of the city are only for its visitors to unearth. And what better way to do so than exploring the food.

It's quite safe to say that you can never go wrong with Indonesian food. As my good friend and fellow traveler Ali put it, "The mixture of various flavors challenges the tongue, putting it to the ultimate test as the different taste buds are pushed to its limit through..." I forgot the rest. I was a little too busy gorging down Nasi Padang when he was about to finish the sentence.

The art of enjoying Nasi Padang never fail to fascinate me. Your food is served even before you could land your behind on the chair after the waiter races you to your table. This, however, seemed a bit discomforting for our friend of 10 years, Badol, the more competitive one of the lot. After securing his seat and winning the race with the waiter, he orchestrates the distribution of the different side dishes on the table. "Anyone fancy this one? No? Alright, let me put it aside. How about that one? Roger that." he said, putting on a curiously focused frown as if the plates were artillery tanks on a WWII map.

"Right. Now follow my lead boys..."

Certainly, his expertise didn't come without a price. The amount of travesty he suffered during our Bali trip -- after he had to force himself into finishing a bowl of cow spleen gravy -- appear to have matured him, somewhat. Our boy is all grown up.

Full from consuming food possibly surmounting the amount required to feed a considerably dense city (e.g. Tokyo), we leaned on our backs, smiling in contentment. The waiter soon swung by again to lay two huge bowls of fruits; always a pleasant surprise. "Let's gobble upon this one bowl first. Don't wanna waste food and be charged for both bowls now, do we?" said ourselves to each other, in the form of gestures. Perhaps still celebrating the liberation in finally not screwing up a Nasi Padang meal (which frustrated me, oddly enough), Badol paid little attention, wasted no time, and swiftly delve into, yes, the other bowl. Tears fell down my cheek as the decibels of my laughter matches that of the traffic outside. All is not lost.

Screwing things up... one meal at a time

As a measure of getting the landmarks visit out of the way, we dropped by the National Monument a.k.a. Monas, spending a few minutes snapping pictures, and a few dozen other figuring out where to go next. Since a lot have been said about the malls of Jakarta, we made our way to Grand Indonesia and Plaza Jakarta, where the nearby roundabout statue is a familiar sight of the capital as well. Little that we know, we were about to be introduced to another iconic symbol of the city on the way there. I am referring to, of course, the traffic jam.

There goes half of the website's traffic

The locals call it macet, pronounced "MAH-chet", which literally means ‘road congestion' or ‘hell' depending on its severity. The Jakarta traffic jam is by far the worst I've ever been in. And this, coming from a guy who grew up crossing a congested traffic to go from his class to the canteen during recess. It dwarfs the KL traffic and makes Bangkok look like 3am traffic all day long. Vehicles roam freely no matter how much supervision they seemed to be under. The lines on the road are being made to look like nothing more than mere decorations. Motorbikes squeezing through the tightest of spaces, such as a truck's mud guard, is not a rare sight. Why the Dakar Rally is never won by an Indonesian is beyond me.

Well it does sound right phonically

There were times when we would be in a total standstill, even when the lights are green; all too inevitable for such a chaotic phenomenon. It was during these idle moments, though, that a few other things moved, our hearts. From the windows of our Toyota Kijang, we had a first-hand encounter with the reality of the metropolitan's social gap. It's disheartening to experience two extremities being separated just by the seconds of a head's turn. You could have a 5-star hotel standing tall, scraping the sky on your left while 180 degrees away, barefooted kids are splashing on a puddle overlooking the slum they call home. Their smiles and laughter, only misfits to the depressing state of the sight.

We made our way to Bandung at around 8am the next day. After a grueling 16 hour ride (2 hour drive + 14 hour macet), we arrived in the city the Dutch once called Parijs van Java (you know what it means) in one piece. Our necks however, were in at least a few dozen pieces. Not from the bumpy road leading up to the high altitude town, but from turning out heads around... ogling at the beauties along the roadside. Truth be told, the accounts on the people of Bandung's exquisiteness is no myth. The reality behind Ali's story about one of them smiling at him, on the other hand, remains a mystery.

Our apologies for ruining the day's business

I, for one, felt a bit uninformed as we journeyed deeper into Bandung. Crossing the plethora of colonial structures under the shady trees, we arrived at an area which seemed a lot like home to me. It wasn't the buildings nor the food or weather that felt Malaysian. It was more of the people. The way they looked, dressed and talked; there appeared to be a reasonably large Malaysian community over there. I am of course, referring to the factory outlets. Throw a stone there and you would most likely hit a Malaysian. And while you're at it, why don't you throw one at Badol as well if you spot him somewhere, taking his own sweet time browsing through the clothing as we wait for him outside for a few eons before he comes out with nothing because, and I quote, "I wanna browse the other stores first..."

On that note, men, be prepared to camp outside the stores while waiting for your better halves to finish browsing. The same applies to you ladies too should any of you actually, end up tying the knot with my very considerate friend Badol.

$10 says the Sttellone truck was heading this way

We had the pleasure of trying more local delicacies around Bandung. The bunch of them, coming from various parts of Indonesia such as Surabaya, Jogjakarta and Kampung Pandan. Our approach was quite simple really: 1) Open up the menu 2) Pick the ones with the weirdest sounding names and of course 3) Don't sit too close to Shamir or risk half of your portion vanishing into his tummy. We tried it all... Nasi Timbel, Nasi Gundeng, Oncom, Nasi Liwet, Gurami Kipas, Pempek Kapal Selam Adaan, Marang Kerapu Kepunden Marang Sekeper and, -- I'm pretty sure this one never made its way into the state of Kelantan -- Mee Kocok.

"Mee ni make nga sabun ko guano?"

Rather knackered from tormenting our digestive systems, we headed up to Mt. Tangkuban Perahu on the second day in Bandung. It was a rather calm climb, going up the hills. The cool and breezy air had us winding the windows down to enjoy the sceneries. What really caught my eyes nevertheless, were the cute little wooden shacks underneath the green trees, lining up all the way up to the peak. The special thing about these charming huts were the adorable bunnies they had hopping and wandering amiably as they munch on their greens. Curiosity crept into me to inquire further about the locals' fascination on keeping rabbits as pets. Before the driver's explanation shattered my heart into a million little pieces.

"Ha, bapak... di bahu jalan ini semuanya kedai Sate Kelinci. Boleh dipilih terus akan disembelih terus dibuat sate dagingnya. Bisa dipilih mahu-in besar mana dagingnya pak. Bagus ni pak, sedap sekali! Segar bangat pak!"

Having pictures of Bugs Bunny on the huts' banners wasn't really necessary then. I'm still shaking at this point of writing.

I don't know... make up your own caption

Our three night stint at the neighboring country ended on a pretty quiet Monday morning. It's always the same, somber mood no matter where we're taking off from. In essence, nonetheless, it has got nothing to do with going home. The sense of relief is always there as home, is where the heart is. Where the heart would cringe in going to, on the other hand, is the office. Yet again, gone will be days where we'll be able to laugh at our phones as they ring, conveniently leaving us the liberty of ignoring calls from the office.

Pak Sahril beramah mesra sama rakan sebaya

I still couldn't sum up the trip even after thoroughly putting my mind into it. Maybe too many things went on in little portions of incidents. Maybe four days weren't enough. Maybe I needed more time to absorb into the culture and mingle more with the people. Forget the middle-upper class urbanites revving their Escalades and Hummers around town. I want to talk to that kid playing the violin in front of the cars when the lights turn red. I want to plug in my guitar and jam with that mobile Dangdut band by the street. I want to just sit down at the stall, eat Bakso until I'm full and pass out after only one suck at an unfiltered Dji Sam Soe ("Janji sampe soerga!"). I want to know more. I need to know more.

Nothing more on Sate Kelinci, though.

Me so ronery me love you long time

Faux Pas

2009-02-25T17:06:00.001+08:00

Homer Simpson (wise man) once expressed, in portraying his frustration over a situation going against his preferred liking, the following...

"Doh!"

While some may argue that the expression is merely his spontaneous reaction toward a catastrophe (e.g. Kwik-E-Mart running out of Squishees), and analyzing the saying of a fictional, animated character would be a major waste of precious time -- let alone one whose IQ score is no more than the number of fingers on his hands (8) -- I do believe that we couldn't really discount the significance of such a concept in our daily lives.

Frustration is perhaps one of the most natural emotional feelings among mere mortals like you and me. It's a situation that no one could escape from. Unless of course, you are Chuck Norris. People of different backgrounds, nationalities and languages across the globe convey their disappointments in many different manners; both verbally and physically.

Somewhere in the Arctic region, an Inuit man is seen snapping his sphere into two in aggravation over getting his tongue stuck to the wall of his igloo. Not too far across the Kalahari desert, little N!xau of the Basarwa tribe tied the tail of a zebra to a tree after he lost a bet on it in a race. In his bedroom near Kuala Lumpur, a man in his mid-twenties contemplates on ramming his head onto the monitor while writing what could possibly be his worst article yet; one that includes a frozen tongue and an entangled zebra, among others.

In the following paragraphs, I shall be sharing with you a few instances from the recent past to demonstrate how apparent Mr. Simpson's infamous 3-letter word has been in my life. The reason I'm doing this is beyond me. What I can assure you of, however, is that if you're reading this at the office, you're better off doing actual work.

We were at a theme park the other day and while waiting for our friend Judd to get into his morally wrong swimming trunk, some of us enjoyed a few cigarettes in front of the changing room. Being the courteous citizen that I am, noticing a slightly sizable woman within sight, I advised my friends to move elsewhere as "that lady over there is pregnant" in an audible volume; yet without any intention of letting her know that I was the considerate one among the bunch. Moving away and feeling pretty good about myself, it suddenly occurred to me that not all sizeable women are necessarily pregnant.

I was enjoying a rather delightful meal with a few friends not too long ago. The place was cozy, the food was nice and for once, I had the pleasure of making that face guys would usually want to punch in heartbeat, enviously as they ogle at the lovely ladies on our table; which is not necessarily pleasant to be honest. Within seconds into the meal, they wasted no time before getting engrossed in a discussion about marriage. After a few rounds of guessing who's next et al, one of them got her phone out to show pictures from a wedding she attended recently. Little that I know, by ‘attending', she meant being with the bride since 6am and making her up for two hours. Only for me to make the following smartass remark while flipping through the pictures,

"So how long did it take to scrape off the layers of make-up?"

It was just another one of those night runs. The setting seemed nice enough. I was the only one on the track, the wind was just breezing nicely and they've fixed the spotlight; so no more stupid eerie figure in white flying by as I run. You see the great thing about running at night -- though I don't get to see the netball girls as much -- is the peace of mind in running without the fear of a 60-year old man demoralizing your effort as he takes over you even if you ‘think' you're going at the speed of light already. Yes, it happens, a lot. So I had some Jazz on the MP3 player and ran like it was nobody's business. Pacing up, going into the sixth lap, I felt it... the Usain Bolt in me unleashes its velocity, gaining momentum as I visualized myself running in the Olympics with the crowd cheering. Except that, it wasn't me they were rooting for. My moment of glory fades into thin air as the same 60-year old man swiftly overtakes me yet again. What gives... isn't it his bedtime already?!

And now, as I'm typing, memories of other, similarly unfortunate events flash by me. At any rate though, they remind me that we are all only human after all. Plus, as the saying goes, people are bound to make mistakes... that's why they have erasers on pencils. Misfortunes come in various forms and if you could look at it positively, there's no reason why you couldn't learn, make the best out of it, and move on. Things could've been worse anyway. What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. While they may hit you when you least expected, we can't deny that life's ups won't exist without the downs.

I feel pretty good actually, writing all of these overused clichés out. Putting them into practice however, would be a whole other story. I have issues with putting things behind, apparently. That said, 60-year old cheetah reincarnation man, if you're reading this, bring it on! See you on the track!

Meh. I'll just hit the treadmill.

The Big Pink & Zhin. BBB's 40th. 8/2/09. KGNS.

2009-02-17T07:04:00.008+08:00

On behalf of the band, and I reckon Zhin share the same notion, I would like to thank Brown Black Blues for inviting us to play at the celebration of their 40th anniversary recently; a week before our own 1st anniversary on February 14th.

It was indeed an immense privilege and honor for us to be playing alongside you guys, as well as Rosin, Tabularasa and Bluestankers. Not a second went by without delightful music from your inspirational souls resonating through Dewan Tunku that night.

Lastly, our utmost gratitude to the amazing, amazing crowd. The pleasure, is always ours.

The studio made us customers. The music, made us friends.

Setlist: Hoochie Coochie Man, Days of Old, Got My Mojo Working (encore)

Videos on Zhin's YouTube.

Images on Justin Ong's Flickr.

The Big Pink & Zhin. KKlub. 1/2/09.

2009-02-11T01:18:00.003+08:00

Images: Facebook gallery (Photography by Juaini Shamsul)

Videos: Zhin's YouTube

Thank you.

Bleeding Gums

2009-01-23T01:47:00.004+08:00

At times, it does occur to me that possibly, hidden deep beneath the trenches of the International Dental Association’s Manual for Prosthodontists of the World, rests the following statement...

"Even if the procedure is as painful as an immense kick in the nuts, always tell the patient that it would hurt no more than an ant bite."

Which leads to the question, unless you’re an anteater, when was the last time you had a living ant in your mouth? Let alone one that’s munching away your gums.

My own childhood encounters with dentists had thought me a valuable lesson; they are only second to politicians when it comes to mastering the art of lying. They furnish you with pleasant, reassuring stories or more accurately, fairytales as you’re adjusted on the reclining chair (Satan’s Lay-Z-Boy to you and me). To divert your anxious mind, they ask questions about things that remotely have anything to do with your teeth such as school, work, the weather and of course, the size of your cavity.

Perhaps for no other reason than just to rub it in, these questions are asked while your mouth is opened, thus allowing minimal articulation on your part. As demonstrated by the following example of a dentist-patient conversation:

"So, how’s work? Still busy like the last time around?"

"Riuey, fopeuir jreu irfrrrt reosk fkoe treou feas pofe juteor fek sokefs fe fi fo fum..."

(Translated: Just kill me already.)

Miles from the treatment room, sounds of the different dental tools can be heard. The cacophony of it all -- to illustrate its magnitude -- would make William Hung sound like Josh Groban. The dentist’s irrelevant questions fade away as the sound of the tool shrieks its way into your eardrums, stabbing it mercilessly. You sweat as your heart beats faster by the second with your hands grasping everything within reach. In dreadful anticipation, you squirm for a good 10 – 15 minutes of the procedure, which seemed more like 10 – 15 aeons.

Times have changed, thankfully. Dental treatments are much less scarier nowadays. Specialists across the country are boasting and offering non-painful methods at their center. Walk into any clinic and you’ll see huge posters of new, modern technology of dental treatments. None of which, ever managed to spark even an iota of confidence in me. I was disheartened, to say the least, when my 10 year old sister came home from the dentist with a huge glee on her face, unscathed; only a few days after a part of me died during a visit to the same dentist.

Misleading one to believe that the agony of dental treatment is at par with an insect bite is just outright blasphemous. Then again, I should’ve known better.

I wonder if they say the same thing in the International Circumcision Association’s Manual for Circumcision Practitioners of the World.

Sawadee Pi Mai Ka 2009!

2009-01-05T22:55:00.005+08:00

"So would it be funny if I mark 'Male' in the Arrival Card and 'Female' in the Departure Card?"

"Uh, oh... yeah man, sure..." was my delayed reply to Ali's usual sharing of thought on a joke.

On the plane, my mind was somewhere else. While Ali was still laughing at his own gag, Ikram busy chatting with Tina Turner -- I mean -- our stewardess, and Pipi trying to catch up with some beautiful sleep, I was rather preoccupied. A bit anxious, maybe, of how the trip would roll out.

It was only less than a month ago, about a day after we'd purchased the tickets to Bangkok, that I was left dumbfounded in front of the TV as I witnessed the images of Suvarnabhumi Airport turning into a sea of yellow men and women, after being flooded by anti-government protesters. The Land of a Thousand Smiles, it seemed, was about to turn into The Land of a Thousand Riles.

We were positive nevertheless. In other words, we were quite certain that the problem would be fixed as it was hurting the economy and tourism industry badly. Walking through the arrival gate of the airport, at least my own optimism was duly justified. Only a few steps into the country, I was immediately astounded by the stunning smile of a local girl; to which I returned, naturally... before I realized that I'd just smiled back, to a life-sized Amazing Thailand cutout ad. Surely, I wasn't the first one to do so.

Right after checking-in at the Ramada, we took the BTS SkyTrain straight to the famous Chatuchak weekend market. Known as the largest market in the world, covering 35 acres, 'JJ' (Jatujak) as it is also known contains around 15,000 stalls and attracts up to 300,000 visitors each day; which could be inaccurate as far as statistics go. Judging by the amount of room that I had to breathe, I could roughly estimate that the size of the crowd was close the population of a sizeable country, such as China.

Alas, as the old saying goes, build a river full of Piranhas around a shopping mall, and women will still swim across it. Encountering the amount of items up on sale, most of them for quite a bargain, I looked up to the blue sky, and thanked God for landing me at the market with three guys instead of a girl. For I couldn't even begin to imagine the horror of stopping by a stall to look at items as important as scented candles for a good hour before deciding to not buy it because "they wouldn't match the curtain" only go to back to the stall a few miles later after purchasing a very crucial curtain that would "most definitely match the candles."

I was introduced to another landmark of the metropolitan on the way back because overlooking the train, was their infamous traffic jam. All these while, I've been led to believe that my hometown of Subang Jaya was the traffic jam capital of the world. Seeing the roads of Bangkok resembling the parking lot of a car dealer, proved otherwise. Amazingly enough, traffic congestion doesn't really infuse anger in the people. Car honks were rarely blared while the faces in the vehicles seemed calm enough. Worlds apart, if you will, from the howling of curses and flipping of fingers that are apparent in our lovable city of Kuala Lumpur.

No trip to Bangkok is complete without a visit to the iconic Grand Palace and nearby Wat Phra Kaew (Temple of the Emerald Buddha) and Wat Pho, home of the world's largest reclining Buddha. I have to be honest though. Not being a big fan of monuments and historical sites, I wasn't all that excited on the way there. At least barely half as I was on the way to Disney World a few years back; when I had to resort to Ritalin. Nevertheless, a few minutes into the area, the place lives up to its stature. Intricately designed structures made of marbles and the likes flourish the area with figures in various colors and shapes, stretching a few dozen football fields. This is the point where I end this paragraph, realizing that I'll never make it in the brochure-writing industry.

Our short stint at the Grand Palace area will certainly be a memorable one nonetheless. As it was there that we made friends with Jessie and Puny, perhaps the sweetest souls to ever come out of the country, as we would later learn. Ikram thought it was his dimple while Ali his biceps and Pipi his sexy fedora... that opened up their hearts to become friends with us; something that very, very rarely happens at home. Collectively though, we all do have to agree that it was my sense of humor that warmed up to them; though I couldn't really tell if they got most of my jokes. Well, at least they were kind enough to laugh at them.

Most possibly, the combined grumbling of our stomachs was audible enough to attain sympathy from the girls to join us for dinner. I could still recall the nod of approval on our faces, not without confidence, as the waiter pointed to the three chillies on the menu, signalling 'very hot' -- which we would later understand, during the meal, actually means -- 'suicide'. Even so, hats off to the chef for preparing a generous meal, blending in the freshest ingredients from his kitchen; allowing us to enjoy them in the company of our newly made Thai friends over good laughs thanks to Pipi's jokes, as everyone started to grow tired of mine.

Noticing that there's no chance in hell that their new Malaysian friends will ever survive nightlife in Bangkok, the girls took us to Royal City Avenue (RCA) where arguably, the hippest clubs in town are located. A district comparable to the Jalan P. Ramlee or Bangsar vicinity, somewhat. It was a rather peculiar scene though, seeing ourselves walking along the row of luxury cars parked at the valet area; acting unfazed by the sudden introduction to the loud booming music as trendy, fashionable men walk pass by, mostly escorted by their scantily clad partners. I, for one, felt out of place. How could I not? Having spent no more than an hour max probably at a nightclub in my entire life, I felt as weird as a Teletubby at a Death Metal concert.

Plus, the way I dressed wasn't tasteful enough to enter any of the clubs; to the amusement of the girls, who then brought us to the Gateway to Southeast Asia, Khao San Road. Within seconds, I fell in love; possibly no less than the love between the sexpats and bargirls seen walking happily in 'financial symbiosis' (as Wikitravel calls it) along the corridors. It's hard to spot a thing to not like about the place. A glance from above and you'll see a huge Benetton ad as people from around the globe are seen having a good time at the eateries and pubs. Zoom in closer and prepare yourself to be dazzled by the sights and sounds that could possibly define Bangkok. The street food, the various faces (and genders), the great music, the neverending rows of stalls selling t-shirts in any design imaginable... words couldn't do justice. You'll love the place.

After a rather long night at the brilliant Susie Pub, where our network of friends extended from Thai, to Sri Lankan, Swedish, Japanese, Italian and many more, we decided to take a breather the next day and made our way to King's Tailor, not too far from the hotel. A lot have been said about the tailors in Bangkok. Friends from the office have been telling us how much cheaper and better it is to get your suits and office attires tailored there. After a decent amount of scouting, I thought we made a rather good deal with the guys at King's and got ourselves some nice suits and such. At any rate, I won't have to borrow my friends' suits for future functions any more. To think that I wore a Salvation Army suit during my graduation.

As the sun sets for the penultimate time in the year, we made our way to Lumpinee Stadium to catch the long-awaited, live Muay Thai. It's one of those things where you don't really pay attention much when it's on TV but go all crazy about it when it's live. The authority's regulation in not allowing foreigners to be seated with the chaotic betting stands (where we initially wanted so badly to be a part of) resulted in us getting ringside seat for the events; where things were a bit sober. Not too long into the second bout however, I was a bit concerned after noticing that most of the boxers are probably 15 years of age, on average. A part of me was on the lookout for UNICEF officers. After crossing paths with one of them on the way to the loo nearby the dressing room however, I could ironically breathe a sigh of relief. While they look smaller in the ring, any one of the 'kids' could easily send me to the ICU with a quick jab.

Just to illustrate the magnitude of Muay Thai's influence on us, it is suffice to say that instead of walking, the bulk of us danced the pre-fighting dance into the entrance, lift, and room of our hotel. I'm pretty sure Ali still does it in the shower these days.

The New Year awaits as Bangkok welcomes the dusk of December 31st. After a few good laps in the pool and some time in the sauna, we got ourselves ready for the final night of the year. Which felt pretty odd given that this time around last year, and the previous years, I was either lazing around the house doing nothing or out for a drink with my friends before hitting the sack way before midnight.

Then again, "Why not?" was the question playing in our minds. We're in Bangkok, it's the New Year, and we'll be spending it with our Thai friends. Puny and Jessie brought us to a restaurant on the banks of the Chao Phraya River. With the Tom Yum still boiling in the pot, we exchanged stories about the year and listened to more of Ikram's jokes as everyone started to grow tired of Pipi's, after mine. The live band was gracious enough to have us joining them on stage, where Ali and I had the honor of serenading Wonderful Tonight to our wonderful hosts. Luckily, Ali was the one holding the microphone as otherwise, I could've easily put the restaurant's business in jeopardy.

After a crash course in counting in Thai, we managed to do the countdown in the language, albeit almost certainly having the numbers jumbled up. Fireworks filled the skies above the King Rama VIIII Bridge crossing the river. It couldn't have been any better. Away from the chaotic party over at Central, the serenity of the river was all to mesmerizing, and contagious in a way given the moment of silent that we had, allowing only the blasting of the fireworks and horns from the pub next door to fill the air.

Well, who were we kidding anyway? We went straight to Susie for a second visit soon thereafter to join in the fun.

Singling out one highlight for the trip would be a daunting task. Frank the cabby's lewd jokes, the bugs we ate off the street hawker, the guy who spoke Kelantanese at the t-shirt stall, Puny and Jessie's camaraderie, Ikram's atrocious dance moves, the unisex restroom, blistering hot ladies whose actual gender left us in a bewildered heap, cramping six passengers in a tuk tuk before racing on the empty streets until the break of dawn... I'm spoiled for choice.

Thanks Bangkok. 2009 here we come baby! Here's Pipi smiling his way into the new year already...

More pictures here.

HeArt Attack

2008-12-21T00:41:00.006+08:00

When I was in college, apart from being an incompetent NyQuil binged bum who spends his days aimlessly dragging himself around campus only to leave halfway through classes and his nights enjoying the dreadful humor of Late Night with Conan O’Brien while stuffing his face with endless bags of Cheetos, I was an engineering student.

A struggling one that is.

But everytime my effort in completing a homework is being put to a halt, before I proceed with the human-xeroxing of my friend’s paper, I constantly remind myself,

“Don’t worry. It’s not your fault that you couldn’t figure out the central algebra extension of a circle’s diffeomorphisms which iterates how f(x) will eventually reach 1 for any initial value of x. You weren’t born to do any of these stuff... you were born for the arts! You’re an artist!”

And I've held a strong grasp onto that belief. It played a key role in motivating me to face the challenges throughout my four years in college. Until I finally manage to graduate.

Last week though, marks the end of my devoted confidence in it. A bond of trust that has been fostered for years was shattered through the flip of a few pages. For I’ve found, hidden deep beneath the trenches of the sea of socks in my drawer, my secondary school art folio.

And if images are anything to go by, the following pictures are worth a few thousand words... most of them profanities.

I’ll start with the mildly eye-soring ones first. We’ll build up from here.

Warning: Some images are of graphic or objectionable content. And I’m talking Drew Carey in the shower objectionable.

Our first class project was the folio, for us to keep our upcoming projects; for easy reference maybe. And aptly enough, this intricately designed tie-dye cloth on paper file tragedy became the home to many more disastrous artworks for years to come. Yes, I took the papers out of my dad's work file and used it for this precious archive instead. (14/20)

No, those are not spiderwebs in the middle of the card. I thought the typography on this one wasn’t too bad. Sadly though, the placement of the words was a bit off. A glance at it and the card reads "Selamat Maaf Hari Zahir Raya Dan Batin". There goes the possibilities of me ever working for Hallmark. (18/30)

The teacher was a bit too harsh on me on this one. The poster seems to deliver its message very well despite lacking in visual aesthetics. You can see the nonchalance of the briber, whistling away as he hands the ‘blank checks’ to the guy with the imaginary devil horns. You simply can't be more subtly descriptive than that. (37%? You gotta be kiddin’ me Pn. Jamilah?!)

Now I’m not a man of unnecessary arguments but I couldn’t figure out any part of this masterpiece that is not adhering to the instruction (Draw a kite). Not only that, I should’ve been given some extra credit for having a gleefully smiling -- hang on -- corn somewhere in there. Isn’t randomness a part of art? Does it really matter that everything is white in color? It wasn’t my fault that I accidentally splurged my pocket money on a Tamiya engine instead of the water color set. (27/50)

Well apparently, I wasn’t the only ‘retArt’ back in school. Trapped in between the pile of junk was this gem; an epic embodiment of a beach scenery through the eyes of my good friend, Saad. I have a good feeling that he wasn’t around when our teacher returned this assignment so she handed it to me. My gut feeling is telling me that I somehow kept this particular piece to remind myself sometime in the future that, I wasn’t alone. (23/50)

You could tell from the colors used to bring life to the sun, that the objective of this assignment was to cause cataract damage to anyone who views it. I’m kidding of course. Its goal was to encourage us students to appreciate the value of different color tonalities in the formation of an art piece, in the pursuit of highlighting the different moods of the subjects in it, to entice feedback from the observer; which is in this case, a raging urge to burn the painting immediately. (17/30)

Animals seemed to be a popular subject that time around. By the virtue of tracing as my forte, I’ll have to shamelessly admit that none of the animals in this piece was the result of my own creativity. Every one of them was traced meticulously from different Ujang comic strips. Hence the impressive figures in them. Nevertheless, I still couldn’t tell what type of mutated marsupial that creature in blue is. (27/30 -- thanks Aie!)

So what if my artworks are cancerous when it comes to paintings. I thought I wasn’t that bad with pencils (as mentioned earlier, on my tracing). And this drawing of a tree could well be a strong evident of just that. If it weren’t for the annoying kid swinging on the branch, I would’ve easily gotten a full mark on this baby right here. No apologies for the sweating sun though. (23/30)

Again, what do teachers have against all-white drawings anyway. You don’t deduct 10 points just like that only because the student ‘chose’ to express his art without the usage of colors. Do I really need to stress that apart from Tamiya engines, X-Men action figures take precedence over the water color set in a 13 year old’s priority list. (20/30)

If you do get to this point, you know you could damn well brag about your optical strength to your friends now. But I’ll spare the agony of suffering any more tormenting works of from the Asrif Yusoff Gallery of School Artwork Disasters and leave you with this generously handcrafted colored paper weaving on sugar paper, from hell. (17/30)

Sudin II

2008-12-12T00:27:00.005+08:00

Sudin I can be read here.

"It’s right in front of the bank. The Steak Shack! How many times do I have to tell you?! What planet are you from?! Zantar?!"

My voice could be heard from across the mall. Tears of sweat fall down my temple as I walk around rather anxiously, frowning in anger with my phone in one hand and my waist on the other.

Friends. If you think you’ve seen the worst of them, you haven’t seen mine. Time, date, location, reservation... they want it all ready with minimal to zero effort. And me, I just can’t stand witnessing plans falling apart right in front of my eyes. I don’t want to be like them; refusing to make decisions only in fear of being blamed for any screw ups. I want to make things happen.

Well I lied there.

More often than not, I’m with them when it comes to planning for events. The sheer joy of being a backbencher who adds no value to the fruition of the event yet savor the same amount of enjoyment, while holding the liberty to blame the organizer should things don’t go as planned, is something no amount of money could ever buy.

But not this time...

For it is, Lisa’s birthday. The girl who had me cutting my own finger when she entered the room in the middle of Art class. I wasn’t even in the slightest of pains though blood started dripping off my fingers as she introduced herself to the class. Little that I know, it was the beginning of an infatuation like no other.

We grew up together, Lisa and me. Though, I can’t recall the distance between us ever being any less than a few yards. She was never out of my sight, nevertheless. I could be in the middle of the court playing soda can football with my friends during recess and I would still literally freeze upon seeing her emergence from the canteen. Until gravity gets the best of me shortly after the soda can shoots right into my crotch, putting my manhood in jeopardy.

Lisa was the ‘it’ girl at school. The teachers liked her for her good grades and politeness. The girls fancied her as she was the nice, smart, friendly, outgoing girl who’s always active with the clubs. The guys, just as myself, adored her for the sweet smile that has always complimented the bewildering mystery of her oh so beautiful eyes. Though she wore pinafore for most of the week, I enjoyed seeing her (from afar) the most on Fridays, as she’ll be in her baju kurung. And words couldn’t do justice in describing her mesmerizing, wavy ponytail.

Who was I, though, to even dream of ever going out with her? As I could only look from the end of the corridors, seniors flocking around her, doing all they could to impress the school’s heartthrob. The jocks of the Malaysian schools are no different from the ones anywhere else around the world. Teachers love them, they hold positions in the clubs, they represent the school in sports. I was basically nowhere near these guys.

I ended up spending the next few years writhing in agony everytime I see Lisa walking alongside different guys. Be it the school compound, the lake, the mall... I saw her walking with guys all the time; at times, hand in hand. And every occurrence hurts me down to the veins. Suffice to say, if it wasn’t for my good friend Ajis, I could’ve been the first student to ever die from shoving a handful of litmus paper down his own throat.

The times, they are a-changing. Those were the days. We’re in our first year of college now and I was lucky enough to be accepted to the same college as Lisa; doing the same course. I’ve somehow warmed myself up to her, if you will. For we are now good, if not the closest of friends.

Today is the acid test for me. It’s make or break now. I’ve been planning for this day for the past two months now. Calling restaurants, e-mailing people, making reservations, checking menus, confirming attendances, preparing maps, distributing directions, answering calls, taking RSVPs, cancelling RSVPs, checking the weather... all in the spirit of making it the best birthday bash ever for Lisa, the love of my life. Perhaps all that I’ve done to make it ‘the’ party for her would soon pay off.

Hurrying back into the restaurant, sliding my phone into my jeans, I tried to catch some breath and mended my hair; gotta look sleek for Lisa tonight. I could see glimpses of the attendees arriving from the mirror. The ladies hugging each other, exchanging kisses on the cheek as their boyfriends calmingly stood there snickering away. Could I care less about them? Doubtlessly.

I scanned through the crowd. Familiar faces, new faces... none of them even close to Lisa’s, the one that could bloom a hill full of Marigolds just like a Sunday morning sun. My head was everywhere as I shook hands with everyone, not getting any of their names right. One curious glance after another, time stood still all of a sudden.

There she was, I could already see from a distance (as I always did back in school). Clad in her favorite white blouse paired with her stylish denim pants; my eyes could never quit indulging into Lisa’s elegance while maintaining her simplicity. Parts of her hair was covering her forehead. Will there ever be a day for me to slide my hands in between your gorgeous hair, love?

I made my way straight to her direction. Who better to welcome her into this celebration of her life’s anniversary than the man who had worked so hard to make everything happen. And I barged through the bodies blocking my way, drawing the biggest smile on my face. Anxiety was in the driver’s seat, my heart was beating faster by the second, accelerating my way towards her with one hand in my pocket and the other on my forehead, trying look cool despite my fingers blocking my view.

Before I moved my hands entirely for everything to become visible and witnessed a sight that could forever banish the enormous hope that I’ve built all these while. Strong in the grasp of Lisa’s hand... was the hand, of a man. The horrid memories of my schooling days started to haunt me right away. Yet again, I froze.

"Hey Kudin, you’re here too! Sorry I’m a bit late. Traffic was really terrib..HEYYY GIRLS! Come baby I want you to meet the girls. Okay Kudin, catcha later!"

I could hear them cheerfully greeting each other from an audible distance. Sounds of "Oh, I’ve heard a lot about you!" and "So you’re the ‘hunk’ Lisa’s been talking about eh?" made their way into my ears. Even the poke of a flaming skewer would’ve been less painful. I did not dare look back.

"Excuse me sir, Mister... Sudin, right? Can I have you sign the bill here for some deposit before we start off with the event?" said a waiter as he stood beside me with a huge smile; my own smile, faded away seconds ago.

My hand was shaking as I signed the bill and passed it back to him.

"Alrightythen Mister Kudin! We shall proceed with Ms. Lisa’s Birthday Bash now! All excited about your girlfriend’s birthday party now sir?! Surely you’ve done quite a lot here?!"

"My... name... is... SudiiiIIIINNNNN HIYAAAARRKKKHHHHH!!!!!!"

****************************************

"Hang on now... let me get this straight. You organized this birthday party for this girl you’ve been crazy for ages. Did the planning for two months. Got it all sorted. She came with some guy, got your name wrong. Before you assaulted a Steak Shack employee for getting your name wrong as well... and got yourself arrested, ending up here in the lock-up with us?"

"Yeah, that’s pretty much it."

"Well, buddy, I gotta say... that’s some pretty messed up shit right there."

"You think so? Wait ‘til her next birthday."

I Used to Believe

2008-12-01T18:24:00.006+08:00

This one looks fun. I found it via NYTimes.com's Laugh Lines, which is also your best source of talk show monologues, by the way.

IUsedToBelieve.com is a website for people to share their childhood beliefs. Tom, for example, once believed that, and I quote, "All babies came out as girls and later on in life some of those girls turned into boys."

I just had to read on further, until I was intrigued to write down my own list... as follows.

Belief 1: I used to believe that professional wrestling is real.

Of course I'm totally kidding here. Of course professional wrestling is anything but fabricated. Of course Kane is The Undertaker's younger brother who got scarred for life after their countryside house burned down back when they were kids and he got left behind to suffer a torturous life of humiliation and anguish in living behind a mask before coming back to take revenge on his brother at -- of all places -- WWE's Badd Blood: Hell in a Cell, live from Madison Square Garden, available on Spike TV's pay-per-view just for $9.99, check local listing.

Couldn't make that one up. Moving on...

Belief 2: This one is rather obtuse, to say the least. I used to get real confused by the word condominium, and its abbreviation. Apparently, I didn't know that while 'condo' is the right short form for 'condominium' (a type of high-rise property building), 'condom' may not necessarily have much to do with high-rise properties; possible, but not always. Good old pea-brained me thought that they both mean the same. Explains the look on my friend's face when I asked him, "So your family lives in that condom nearby the lake, eh?"

Belief 3: Black and white films. We've all been fooled by them. As a kid spending countless hours going through his grandpa's P. Ramlee videotape collection, I used to believe that, as in the movies, the real world was all black and white before the 1970s. So if you're a male parrot and you look at yourself in the mirror at 11:59pm, 31/12/69, you'll be freaking your ass out a minute later as you see yourself turning into this tangy colored bird all of a sudden. Consequently, you'll stay in for a few days in fear of being called a homosexual by the other parrots (who incidentally flew nowhere as well).

Belief 4: To save me from the horror of circumcision at an older age, my dad had me circumcised at the tender, very tender age of 3 days old (I know, hello ladies...). Perhaps this was the reason behind my rather straightforward approach towards the girls I liked as a kid; as explained in the previous post.

While I grew up constantly feeling a wee bit manlier than my peers, I was made the subject of derision by my uncles and cousins whom, without the backing of any scientific research whatsoever, continuously scared the shit out of me by telling me that I have to be circumcised again, simply because the one I had back then "didn't count".

While time doesn't seem to slow them down, at 25, and with a better sense of logic and common sense, I manage to handle the pressure they enjoy putting over me. And I know you guys are going to back me up on this one, right? It doesn't matter at what age you got it sliced, right? You only have to do it once, right? RIGHT?!

I guess that's as many as I could recall. Post yours!

Lofe

2008-11-26T19:24:00.004+08:00

I used to think that life would get easier as I grow older. I'll be able to get a steady income and buy stuff, drive a car and go places... basically do the things that I'd always wanted to as a kid. More importantly, I wouldn't have to go to school and freeze myself at the first bell after recess anymore. Ever.

The journey into adulthood has always been like a passage to liberty for me. It paves the way for me to enter this new world, warranting me the right to not be envious of adults any longer. Simply because I'd become one of them. It's a fact to be appreciated everytime I ponder upon the limitations that I had to deal with earlier in life.

One thing though, seems to be a million times simpler back then. And I reckon I speak for a number of guys out there on this one. For the subject in reference happens to be, for the lack of a better term, my relationship with peers of the opposite gender.

Prior to entering primary school, I had a rather primitive way of expressing my fondness of girls. It wasn't prehistoric per se, where I would knock them out and drag them back into my cave. Not quite... close enough though.

I was the maniac kid who liked to chase girls around at the playground. I would go to the park sometime earlier in the afternoon to play catch and collect tadpoles with my friends before the sun sets down a bit and the girls arrive. But I was fair, in a way. As I don't really bug them until they're done playing whatever it was that they were playing (God knows).

Until dawn breaks and they head home, running for their lives, away from the frenzied kid from hell that was yours truly. Well, the lot of them didn't really have to run away as I was actually running after this one girl only. Living just a few doors away, she was maybe four years older and I was good friends with her brother. Apart from being cute, I thought it would be a swell idea to get married to her as I would be able to catch tadpoles with her brother until we get old.

Things pretty much went downhill when I started school; not to say that any of the earlier anecdotes was laudable either. I became a bit too occupied with other things that I became -- and I stress my straightness in writing this -- somewhat disinterested in girls. I was overwhelmed, so to speak, with the ideas that I was getting from my friends at school. We played rounders instead of just simple catch and from tadpoles, we graduated to collecting frogs and performing surgeries on them. Girls were nowhere within our sights. Suffice to say, the Ninja Turtles took precedence in my priority list. They still do.

I'm partly kidding.

A part of me did realize the lacking amount of communication I had with the girls at school. It was a time when a number of my own friends were starting to get involved and have a taste of their own puppy love -- *washes hands* -- experience. Another part of me (the bigger one I'd presume) was rather complacent; telling myself that youth fades away before you know it and if I don't dissect frogs and other members of the Animal Kingdom now, I never will.

So there I was, spending my 11 years of primary and secondary schooling years engaging in activities mainly relating to either football, music, video games and worst of all, professional wrestling; requiring minute involvement of anyone from the opposite gender. Little that I know, however, such a behavior led to the development of a mild indifference. Consequently, while I could roar when I'm at a table with my guy friends, put a girl there and I'll purr away.

Now where has that little devil gone? That child who was so confident that he could find a life partner just by chasing girls around, literally. More than a decade of seclusion from socializing outside of his comfort zone did more than just tame him down. If only he's bold enough to just go out there and say it out loud,

"Hey, I think I like you and I'd love to know you better. Then again, I won't force you into anything if you don't feel like it. I'm sure the right one is out there for the both of us. Cheers!"

Life would be a tad too easy perhaps if things are as simple as that.

You're 5, you go to the playground, you see a cute girl, you like her, you chase her around, she runs away from you and you quit running when you get tired, you go home and play Sonic the Hedgehog, you come back to the playground tomorrow and you chase some other girl you like.

You're 25 and you're having a drink with your friends at a café nearby your office, you see an attractive lady sitting not too far from your table, you whisper to your friend her latitude and longitude, questions starts meandering around your head, would you ever see her again, do you just inflate your balls and go talk to her, but what if she's waiting for her boyfriend/husband, will be getting a good ass-whooping from the guy, even if you manage to talk to her, what if she works nearby as well, that would mean that you'll be seeing more of her after this and if you do get rejected there and then, will she be telling her friends of you, will you be able to withstand the pain and agony of such humiliation, would it mean that you'll have to work elsewhere and never be able to set sight on the café, ever again, would you?

I would... if I could.

Balinized

2008-11-15T03:36:00.007+08:00

Presumably, it's always the same scene at the Bali flight boarding gate anywhere around the world. Couples young and old clutching hands as they rest their heads on each other's shoulders. The glimmer of hope in their eyes shines brightly upon embarking into a journey to paradise; an island where lovebirds from across the globe flock to cherish their newfound romance or rekindle the nostalgia of a long lost affection.

Incidentally, I smiled as I threw momentary glances at them; fascinated by their delight in traveling with their other halves, promising a passage they'll never forget. Until I swerved to my right and set upon a sight that made me want to forget about my own trip to Bali already. For there stood my 'travelmates', Mazree, Zack and Badol.

To no one's surprise, our expedition began with Zack making a roundtrip to the airport and back home after leaving his passport behind. Questions lingered through our minds while we eagerly waited for his arrival and queued for boarding. How's it going to be if Zack couldn't make it? Should we forget about Bali altogether? Would it be just the three of us then? Could he take the next flight out? Will that fine, fine stewardess right there be on our flight later?

A few irrelevant questions later and out comes Zack from the security checkpoint. Upon which Badol sighed the biggest sigh of relief -- for his aim to feast his eyes on some 'susu jemur' is still within sight. Bali here we come.

The accommodating scent of the ocean with the calming sea breeze welcomed us as we set afoot Ngurah Rai International Airport in Denpasar. Our arrival was greeted by a group of vibrant tourist guides holding up signs and hollering out names as we eyeball around in search of our own names. A few feet away from the crowd was our guide, standing rather indifferently holding up his sign. Lazy-eyed and laidback, Ahmad introduced himself coyly as he brought us to a Suzuki APV at the parking lot to meet up with the driver, Komang, seemingly more livelier at the time.

On the way to the hotel however, Ahmad started to show his true colors. Just as any guys of the similar group age, we traded jokes (mostly from the toilet humor school of thought -- which rarely fails, by the way). Gradually, and I say this in the most non-homosexual manner possible, we managed to win each other's hearts simply through the warmth of our comedy. Indonesian humor, it seemed, differs little from the one back home.

Or so we thought until the following conversation left him in a bewildered heap,

"Dipanggil 'sepak bola' ya sini Ahmad? Di Malaysia, 'bola sepak'... sering saya main dahulu tapi sekarang sudah main bola lain pula."

"Ha ha, gitu ya... bola apa itu?"

"Bola kocek."

A lot still to be learned from our neighboring countries.

We stayed at the Matahari Bungalow on Legian St. near Kuta. A decent place to stay if you're spending just the evenings there, the hotel was just a stone's throw away from the Bali Bombing Memorial. Sandwiching the one way traffic were rows of hotels, restaurants, pubs, surf shops, tattoo parlors and suckling pig joints leading to nightclubs filled with both locals and Australians howling everything from "G'day mate!" (pre-alcohol) to "Shite mate!" (post-alcohol). All of that, only meters away from Ground Zero… signaling the resurgence of Bali.

The timing for the trip was a bit off, unfortunately. Our first night in Bali was also the eve of the Bali Bombers' execution, sparking threats of backlash. Out of security concerns, we had to stay in on the first few nights until things had calmed down a bit before making our way to the Hard Rock Cafe on Kuta Beach... only to witness Mazree and Badol's dreadful moves to the music played. In all honesty, it made me rather be at the hotel and watch Abdel & Temon on TV instead.

Through Ahmad's enunciation, we figured out the nomenclature for our names in Indonesian. Asrif is Asrep (to which I'm quite used to actually), Mazree is Majeree, Zack is Zak @ Zaki @ Jak @ Jaki and Badol, oddly enough, goes by his real name, Badrul. Naturally, we played along with the idea of everyone in Bali knowing Mazree whenever they call him 'mas' (Indonesian for mister) as we call him a similar sounding 'Maz' as well; not discounting the possibility of him talking to himself,

"Mas, ini enggak bisa kurang lagi ya..? Oh enggak bisa ya tu Maz... harga pas. Ah, gitu ya mas? Iya Maz..! Nggak apa-apain ya mas. Bisa Maz..."

Ahmad at least, was amused.

Going to the temples is a must whenever you're in Bali. With 93% of its population adhering to Balinese Hinduism, the influence was all too apparent. Ahmad brought us to the prominent ones but the more unique ones, Tanah Lot (temple in the middle of the sea) and Uluwatu (temple on the cliff) easily stood out. We missed the sunset at Tanah Lot due to the clouds but it was good buildup to the one in Uluwatu the next day. Sunset at Uluwatu, overlooking the Indian Ocean, brings you one of those mesmerizing views capable of making you want to just sit there, do nothing and let the good thoughts flow through your mind. Sadly Badol had to stay away from the temples as it was 'that time of the month' for him.

Of course I'm kidding.

The temples aside, we made stops at the volcanic Mount Batur in Kintamani, Mount Agung, Tegalalang rice terraces, Garuda Wisnu Kencana, Tampak Siring holy spring, Ubud and many other spots which names I fail to recall. The mountainous areas were as any that you'd seen while the rice terraces were a joy to witness. But being the art aficionado that I was (at least by Mazree's low standards), I was especially intrigued by the concept of Ubud as an 'art village' and thoroughly enjoyed walking along the galleries, confusing myself as I tried to depict the abstract paintings.

Just as any starving travelers would, we ventured our way in and out of the food joints in Bali. With Ahmad's assistance, we feasted upon the island's best Sumatran Nasi Padang, Javanese Wong Solo roasted chicken and Jimbaran seafood. Every dish tells a story, with the amazing blend of tantalizing tastes; especially the smoked seafood at Jimbaran. Furthermore, dueling Ahmad on messed up jokes in between puffs after the meals was a joy. Nothing like the local fairs with the locals, as we quenched our arid throats with Es Jeruk, Teh Botol and the likes. Not to mention Badol's deeply inquisitive yet entertaining questions (e.g. Where is Nasi Padang from?).

We felt rather unperturbed, somehow, by the activities leading to our last days in Bali. Something seemed to be missing. There was this urge for adrenaline rush as the sound of the ocean paved its way into our ears. The sight of the waves seemed like a calling; an invitation to get a taste of what they've got to offer. A taunt, if you will, for us to prove ourselves worthy of the gonads bestowed upon us. Aptly enough, we signed up for surfing.

And surfed we did... at the nearby Internet Cafe. So much for a taste of the local overused dry pun.

Our craving for some ocean action brought us to the Oakley sponsored Odysseys Surf School. All set in our rash shirts and board shorts, we tiptoed our way through the blistering hot sand holding on to our boards, into the sea. Su, our instructor was perhaps used to dealing with beginners -- something he didn't have to utilize much upon dealing with us (bar Mazree); good on the lad.

At the end of the day, it was a treasured experience for us all. Riding the wave, weaving our own lifelong dream of surfing through the sea breeze; I couldn't stop smiling even after suffering cuts and bruises and swallowing perhaps a few dozen gallons of salt water. More importantly though, we all had the Facebook-worthy shots we wanted.

It was only a few days back that I wanted to forget about the trip even before taking off. All in the apathy of going there with three guys. One surf session, 2 mountains, 4 beaches, 36 temples and 384,573,028 bottles of iced tea later, we woke up to our last day in Bali; in solemnity, as expected. Making it a trip we'd least want to forget. Truth is, I wouldn't have enjoyed it as much if it weren't for these guys.

Getting back into the office will be a daunting task. Why wouldn't it be? Hours of non-stop laughter to the worst jokes known to man on the island that is Bali is not an easy zone to get out from. Ahmad and Komang's camaraderie made us more than mere customers; it made us friends.

Coming home, we're all sunburned, our legs soar, muscles aching with gashes everywhere. I can still feel the wave slamming the surfboard right on my face again and again. Suffice to say though, I loved every bit of it. Doubtlessly, Bali has yet to see the last of us.

Oh why the hell not...

Mockumenting Youth

2008-11-01T11:43:00.004+08:00

In his book 'Everything and a Kite', comedian Ray Romano explored the subject of mockery in children, an issue rarely researched by child psychologists the world throughout; let alone comedians. The complexity of the matter has been deterring researchers from delving deeper to unearth the mysteries behind it, consequently leaving intrigued individuals like Mr. Romano and myself to do the job. More likely though, they just couldn't give a rat's ass.

In 'Kite, Romano focused on children's inclination to rhyme names (e.g. "Slimy Jimmy wets his nappy!") in their effort to make fun of their peers. Nevertheless, this observation may be more apparent in children of the West. And if your childhood wasn't spent anywhere near that part of the world, like myself, the severity of the name-rhyme approach may be questionable.

It's a whole different ball game over here, halfway across the globe. Growing up, the artistry and creativity revolving around the act of ridiculing our friends played a huge role in our lives. And I can safely say that it was only a mere second to our academic achievements, during our formative years; as far as we (excluding our parents, evidently) were concerned.

"What's this C doing on your report card?"

"This kid at school had a pink lunch box... I asked if it came with a matching pantyhose."

"That's my boy. Where do I sign now son?" I would always imagined my dad saying.

The cruelty often prevails when physical appearance was the topic of interest.

It was the early days of satellite TV. And who do you ring up whenever you get bad reception at home? None other, than the kid with the rather, flappy ears.

"Dude are you on the trampoline or something? Quit it man... stay still... I'm trying to watch some wrestling here!"

There was also then, by the wonders of his abdominal area's premature expansion, the potbellied kid. Some highlighted his resemblance to our childhood hero, Doraemon; occasionally sliding into his pockets with the hope of getting an invisible robe or something of that nature. Some, bolder ones, would toy with the concept of male pregnancy and place their hands on his prized belly...

"Aw, there it is kicking again..." they would say, before getting kicked themselves.

What goes around though, as they say, comes around. I had my (not too) fair share of derision.

The kids in the neighborhood who'd seen my siblings would usually notice how I was a few tones darker than they were. Inevitably, it took them no longer than a heartbeat to write a letter to the National Registration Department to revise my nationality and propose the revelation of yours truly, as an adopted child.

More than fifteen years had gone by since those days, and I can conveniently say that, little has changed. Old habits die hard and I still jeer as much as I am jeered. From the transformation of the gap between my front teeth into a road tunnel, to the atrocity of my hair, I've heard them all.

The universal, recurring theme agreed by guys worldwide however, has always been the size of their, for lack of better words, reproductive organs.

"Mine has got its own zip code!"

"You don't need that much rubber do ya?"

"Sigh, I have to buy two seats everytime I fly."

"What do you mean I'm only 5-4? I'm 5-11... wanna see the other 7?" and so forth.

This guy, however, shifts the paradigm like no other. 'Fess up Ticub!

It's alive!

2008-10-06T22:24:00.002+08:00

Just as any other 25 year old guy with siblings half his age, visits to the local Toys Я Us outlet isn’t all that foreign to me.

Thanks to the festive season though, it’s been a good week now since I last walked under Geoffrey the Giraffe’s crotch into the store. An achievement attained not without convincing my sisters that Toys Я Us is now owned by a Middle Eastern consortium; hence the store’s week-long closure in respect of Eid.

"Yeah yeah of course, and you know what... they’re gonna switch Geoffrey with Rasheed, a camel."

It wasn’t always too bad going there. In fact, I enjoy walking along the aisles of action figures and die cast toy cars. It brings me back to the time when I wished I had a steady job that would provide the money to buy these dream toys of mine. Unfortunately, I still don’t.

During my last visit there however, I was struck by a rather appalling realization. One of which that may well spark doubt over the strict regulations against substance abuse that, I believe, are customarily adopted by toy companies everywhere.

For I came across, while engaging in a crucial discussion with my sister (on why her pocket money are better off spent on donuts to be shared with her siblings, rather than those tiny plastic Bratz shoes), the following...

I know, shocking isn’t it? Finally a toy with batteries included!

Going at just RM 299.99 a pop, Baby Alive Learns to Potty brings a whole new meaning to the word revolutionary, simultaneously drawing a different perspective to the already astounding process of fecal excretion.

I was made to understand that by my sister that Baby Alive is a phenomenon among her friends at school. As evidently proven moments later, a few other girls were seen frantically stomping and screaming at their parents upon their refusal to add/purchase another member to their family; one that would need cleansing attention of the rear area, nevertheless.

"Phew..." I sighed in relief, feeling fortunate as I had the most rational explanation in buying my sister out of wanting a Baby Alive Learns to Potty.

"You’re lucky you know. Pft, heck you don’t even need a Baby Alive... you have me! See I basically do everything that these Baby Alive dolls do. And you don’t even have to change me!"

Perhaps in awe of the irrefutable logic behind her brother’s exceptional reasoning and persuasion skill, she stared at me for a few seconds before slowly moving away to the Bratz section.

"Ha ha! Got that spot on didn’t I? Where are you going now... come on, I even talk like these dolls. Baby want donuts... baby say better buy donuts than stupid Bratz shoes..."

Fair enough, we did end up at the cashier with me forking out RM 14 to top up her pocket money collection of RM 2.60 (in coins) for those darn plastic shoes. But that’s RM 285.99 saved, baby!

Because I...

2008-09-29T21:09:00.006+08:00

...have no better picture than this one. Have a good one folks.

Chicken wings. Those are chicken wings. And how about them Lennon shades, eh?

Not So Fast

2008-09-11T21:22:00.008+08:00

I was at Jack’s with the guys (as always) for iftar¹ the other day. And after devouring on their renowned Fiery T-Bone Steak and Grilled Lamb Chop, resembling savage beasts of the African wildlife, it occurred to me that apart from its known values, fasting is about dueling your own body.

Of course at that point, it was rather surprising that one of our brains was functioning; at least to come up with such a revolutionary thought. Given the condition that we were in, leaning on our backs to support our digestive system which had suffered minor ruptures from our gorging of the food earlier, performing even the most rudimentary of human acts (e.g. breathing -- which did require us to unbutton our pants) would be an incredible feat.

Coming back to our point of discussion, your body begins to make a mockery of your life as early as 5am.

"Honey wake up..." hollers your wife every few seconds from the kitchen as she prepares sahur².

Your ears on the other hand, trying to be funny, would process the call differently and send a rather distorted signal to your brain; in the form of a sound wave matching that of a Tickle Me Elmo’s.

"Elmo sleepy, rock-a-bye baby... Elmo sleepy, rock-a-bye baby... Elmo sleepy, rock-a-bye baby..." you would hear instead, as you doze off.

You do finally wake up, nevertheless, at your wife’s whip of the pillow, at 545am, leaving you only 5 minutes to eat, before you grab a bottle with your eyes closed and guzzle a few gallons of liquid into your throat, which you would shortly realize was actually Clorox Bleach.

Noon comes with the sun shining brightly up in the sky right through the office window hitting the monitor glaring into your eyes waking you up from a midday slumber at work.

You open your eyes and your e-mail client displays,

To: Jamil Sulong (GM/CBU)
CC: Hussen Mansur³ (SM/CBU)
Subject: RE: Project Neutron

Dear Sir,

In response to your query earlier, do allow me to reiterate that the increase in demand and economic growth within the SEA region had led tooOOoo3rj r933j s9jk---
S –d 32 otofln8g8g9fhj9
SDFsf98 03 r53k 1 pak 0,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

"Ha ha... I can’t send this out. Ha ha... lucky me. Phew, close callzzZZZZzzzz..." you say to yourself in such relief before you (as illustrated by the ‘zzZZZZzzzz’) instantly snooze back into deep slumber while your head falls right onto the ‘Enter’ key.

And out goes the underprovided e-mail to its involuntary recipients.

It’s not ALL that bad, surely. Most companies are generous enough to allow their employees to go home a bit earlier during the fasting month; certainly nothing better than heading off from work at 4pm and reaching home at 7pm.

Along the frenzied traffic, in spirit of the fasting month, you do try to refrain your mouth from spewing out curses at the other road users. A few smart aleck acquaintances of mine however, had formulated a way to express their feelings with the same anger intensity, without actually cursing per se.

"Use the lights you unintelligent offspring of a female canine!" said a human thesaurus in the Civic.

"Oh yeah, yuck fou too!" replied the rhyming genius in the Camry.

At dusk, the beauty of the fasting month emerges. You get to enjoy a fully deserved meal with your family or housemates after a whole day of patience and perseverance. The faces of your loved ones glow as sadklasdk 0aso[ we .. . ./
. . / . ..
Sd

Qwe]]]]]]louygklp]h]u

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¹ iftar: The break of fast
² sahur: The meal before fasting
³ Hussen Mansur: A very weird friend of mine

Sheikh A Tail Feather

2008-09-03T14:03:00.003+08:00

As posted on East of COMS.

This piece is a bit overdue. The urge to write it was at its peak some two days back but with the state of shock that I was (and still am) in, I could barely type a word.

It was like waking up in the morning and realizing that Megan Fox is sleeping soundly beside you with the serenity of her angelic face hiding behind the pillow; not to mention the minimal amount of clothing covering her.

That, was about how I felt as a Manchester City supporter on Tuesday morning. It was only less than 24 hours before that the club was taken over by the Abu Dhabi United Group whom immediately made bids for Dimitar Berbatov, Robinho, David Villa, Mario Gomez and Donald Trump.

Though 'only' the Robinho bid bore fruit (despite Chelsea's cheekiness in putting replica shirts with his name for sale on their official website), breaking the British transfer record in the process, City's attempt at swiping Berbatov under Sir Alex Ferguson's red nose had unintentionally (of course) caused the Glazers to fork out an extra £7m for the Bulgarian's service.

Suffice to say, instead of waking up beside Megan Fox, they woke up beside me.

It was only less than a month ago that City was portrayed by the ever truthful media as being on the brink of doom. Dr. Thaksin Shinawatra's frozen assets, Mark Hughes' departure and long time club excess baggage Danny Mills' new contract; to name a few.

Hope though, goes hand in hand with being a City fan. It's been 70 years the club made history by being the only reigning league champions to be relegated. 70 years and, as the old saying from Maine Road goes, we're still here.

Suspicion started to creep into me in the first few weeks of the season. Despite all of the negative allegations clouding the club, namely Shinawatra's £2m loan from ex-chairman John Wardle and a £30m loan against the TV money, City signed Vincent Kompany; coined by some as one of the finest defensive midfielders in Europe. The notion, only further amplified with him winning the Barclay's Man of the Match in his debut, the day after he signed; allowing him to only learn the names of the other players from their jerseys during the game.

The week after saw the return of the club's prodigal son, Shaun Wright-Phillips who came to City when he was 15 because Nottingham Forest thought he was too small. Winning the club's Young Player of the Year award four times earned him an 'SWP – Legend' banner courtesy of the fans. In tears (from a stomach bug apparently) after his last game for City, Shaun left for Chelsea for £21m. After only 43 appearances at Chelsea, Shaun came back and immediately scored two goals during his emotional return at the Stadium of Light to secure a 3 – 0 win over Sunderland.

Excluding the £12m made from the purchasing of SWP (which was amazing business doubtlessly), the wealth of City's new owners is estimated to be, in the words of analysts scrutinizing the deal, a lot.

The takeover couldn't be timelier. It's a gift that the fans have earned after all these years. And it's only evident that they've gone through enough and there's simply no room for glory hunters, whom had all gone to the other Manchester club anyway, from whom we won six easy points from the Manchester Derby games last season, ironically.

But let's not get too carried away.

While it's true that City will be fronted by the golden Brazilliant! triangle of Elano-Jo-Robinho with Martin Petrov and Shaun Wright-Phillips bombing down the flanks in between the rotational intelligence of Michael Johnson, Stephen Ireland Vincent Kompany and 55-year old Dietmar Hamann, causing chaos and massacre to the opposition's defenders while City's own defensive line, remaining calm with full composure, features the veteran Richard Dunne as the captain alongside England's most prized defender Micah Richard together with Olympic gold medal winner Paulo Zabaleta and future England number one Joe Hart in goal cumulatively promising football beyond orgasmic...

...let's not get too carried away. This is City we're talking about here.

Oh, what the hell. Get in!

BBC interviews Noel Gallagher on the 'staggering' takeover, why not:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/front_page/7595458.stm

"It'll be nice to know that every gallon of petrol a Manchester United fan buys is going into our kitty."

Crouching Tiger Lady

2008-08-21T17:35:00.002+08:00

Last month, I wrote a letter to Marks & Spencer regarding a customer of theirs who had perceivably gone through emotional distress, from guilt after mistaking me for an employee of the store. It seemed like the thing to do; judging from the look of shock and regret the minute I told her that I didn’t work there.

While I’m as used to being mistaken for a store employee as to say, Dennis Rodman for a Christmas tree, the worst that I got from the incident was just my friends (who weren’t there when it happened) asking me about employee discounts; thanks to Reza’s big mouth (who were there, both him and the mouth). In his defense though, I am guilty for telling everyone about his GOLD COLORED TIE and BLUE SNEAKERS, not to mention the fact that he DOESN’T HAVE A NECK and used to wear shorts that make him look like A MEMBER OF THE VILLAGE PEOPLE.

Anyway, I was at good old M&S again the other day; looking for a pair of khaki pants due to the unavailability of my one and only jeans to serve its master this weekend. One touch on that piece of denim and prepare to have rashes itchy enough, only Wolverine could scratch it off. All in a day’s work for a garment which had last encountered any form of detergent only a few millenniums back. Furthermore, the demanding nature of my schedule would only allow me to do laundry a fortnight from now. Setting up my Yahoo! Fantasy Football team for the week takes precedence, naturally.

So I was flipping through the trousers rack before one of the M&S lady employees, all clad in black was seen crouching and sneaking from underneath a nearby rack. Not far from her was another lady, also in all black (which tells me that she may work there as well), going through some items on the baby clothing rack.

"Ah..." I said to myself.

"So our Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon lady right here is trying to scare the hell out of her co-worker friend it seems. Ha ha... should be pretty funny." I said to a baby in a stroller close by, who responded with a saliva bubble.

And I stood there, as attentive as a National Geographic camera; awaiting a moment that would produce comedy with humor of epic proportions.

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" screamed the Crouching Tiger Lady as she makes the scariest face possible while grasping on the other lady’s arms.

"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!" shrieked the other lady as she throws away all of that were in her possession.

I held my head down, squinting my eyes and biting my knuckle in the effort to suppress myself from bursting into laughter that could possibly impair the hearing of that baby with the spit bubble. After skipping a few heartbeats and finally managing to breathe, I threw another glance at the ladies; only to realize that they were both at a standstill.

From an audible distance, the following conversation took place.

"Er... er... I’m s..s...sorry... I g...got the wrong person. I thought you were my friend over there, who works here." said Crouching Tiger lady who had evidently turned into Slouching Kitty lady.

"................................." said the other lady whose pulse seemed to be non-existent after what just happened.

And I stood there in awe, of a blunder that could’ve just burned my funny fuse. It’s been a good 47 hours now since I last found anything funny. This is only the second time that this has happened.

The first time was when I watched Borat.

Sudin

2008-08-10T23:12:00.002+08:00

"That's it!" shouted Sudin at the top of his lungs, as the skin of his fingers slowly peels off while being smoldered by teh tarik, still at its boiling temperature.

Only seconds earlier, his sudden outburst of anger led him to thumping the glass onto the table; to the stall owner's dismay.

"Dey, mau marah kalu sana gusti punya tempat pigi la... apa pasal sini juga lu mau bikin kacau. Tarak sekolah punya orang..."

Realizing that he was already standing on his chair with every bit of attention from the other customers directed at him, Sudin slowly got down and wiped off the teh tarik (and bits of skin) from his hand.

"Ane, sorry ha... saya punya kawan ini hari, hati dalam ada sikit susah. Ini gelas nanti saya ganti sama you. Sudin my friend, care to tell me what the hell is going on..?"

"Lina."

"Oh boy, here we go again..."

"No matter what I do, no matter where I go, she's all I could think of man. Day and night, dusk 'til dawn. I see her everywhere. Even in this teh tarik."

"Calm down buddy, you're in a pretty bad shape already; a textbook case of infatuation. Happens to the best of us man."

"And the worst part is that, for all you know, I'm just a no one in her life dude. I'm just another bugger at the office. Just another bugger, at the office."

"Well, the only solution is for you to go out there, and get it all straightened out with her. And just accept whatever outcome. If it's a yes, then it's all good. If it's a no, move on. She's not the only girl out there. You can smash all the glasses in this stall and it would still do nothing if you don't go talk to her."

"Dey, jangan ajar sama dia kasi hancur sama saya punya gelas la..."

"Sial dia ni pasang telinga. Saya cakap saja la Ane..."

"Easier said than done man. I saw her from a few miles away the other day and even that gave me shivers. It was brilliant though. I could've just won a Nobel earlier that day and seeing her from that far would still be the highlight of my day man. It would. Ah, she's just perfect dude, and I know that I can give her all that she needs."

"You ain't helping yourself man. Grow some balls, go out there and just ask her out or something. What's the worst that could happen? She says no? It's 2008, so what if a girl says no?"

"I don't know dude. You know how we tend to put the girls we like way, way up there... and put ourselves way, way down here. Look at her, she's this smart and attractive girl and me, I'm just, well, a very average guy. I can't help it man. I know I'll stutter when I'm in front of her. I know I'll turn into this awfully boring guy; unlike when I'm with our girl friends. You know..."

"I do, believe me I do. But it's now or never Sudin. You sure you'll find another girl as great as, if not better than her in the future? We aren't in high school no more. If you're too slow, BAM! some other guy will snap her up. You can't be too fast as well though; don't wanna freak her out. Bah, you'll just have to play your cards right. I'm clueless as well, it's a grey area."

"I suppose, and you know whaaaaaHOLY SMOKE, there she is. The love of my life."

"What the f... oh... shoot, she's alone man. Sudin dude, I'm telling you man... this is it; make or break. Just keep your cool, go there, say hi, and buy her a drink or something."

"Right, right... alright, here goes nothing, wish me luck man..."

"May the force be with you son."

Sudin stood up, squinting his eyes as the sun shines as bright as his hope, in finally finding true love. Anticipating a tough moment, tears of sweat falls down his temple right onto the ground, silhouetted by his shadow; slowly growing as he approaches closer to Lina's table.

"Err... excuse me... no I mean, hello there..."

"Oh ye, teh o ais limau satu ye dik..."

"Eh, no I don't work here. I'm Sudin... from work, remember? Lina right?"

"Ha... oh, urm... aha... Sudin! From Finance right?"

"No, not really... I'm from Planning. We take the same lift sometimes, thought I'd say hi..."

"Yeah right, right... I remember. How are you Kudin? Who are you with"

"It's Sudin. I'm alright... just chilling after work with my buddy Ajis, right there. How about yourself? Doing alright? Alone I see?"

"Not quite."

"Ah, Jay... found your parking spot hun? By the way, meet Budin, a friend of mine, from work. Budin, meet Jay."

"Oh... hey there, I'm Jay."

"Sudin."

"Quite a grip there eh, buddy."

"Heh..."

"I think you can let go now."

And he loosened his grip. Slowly, Sudin walked back towards his table. His shadow vanished; every bit of it surged right into his body filling the emptiness of his soul with nothing more than gloom and darkness.

Within sight, his good friend and long time right hand man Ajis is seen tapping his fingers on the table while resting his head on the other hand; probably figuring out ways to alleviate the pain his friend is going through. Ajis rubbed his eyes for a few seconds before the crashing sound of breaking glass and loud commotion brought him back.

"Ayoyo dey macha! Macha! Sini mari! You punya kawan kasi pecah sama saya gelas belakang dapur sana!"

"Ah sudah Sudin..."

Tool of the Year

2008-08-05T19:41:00.003+08:00

TV characters... we're all influenced by them.

Thanks to the eloquence of Hannah Montana, my sisters are now using, on average, three 'likes' per sentence. Thus a regular conversation among their friends would go,

"I was like, at the mall the other day and there was like, this like, bag right, and it was like, totally hot you go gUrLz..! ^_~"

There's also my good friend Zul, who had considered the gym his second home after witnessing the number of buildings that The Hulk was capable of tearing down just by sneezing. You're getting there bro.

And then there's Judd. Aspired by the massive acreage of hair on David Hasselhoff's chest in Baywatch, he's been under the strict rules of an intensive 30-day 'body hair rejuvenation' program; which involves sunbathing, to the horror of his neighbors.

As for myself, I've never really been heavily influenced by any particular TV character. While I tend to believe that the fashion of my wit is in the mold of Dr. Gregory House, my intelligence has never been likened to anyone beyond Peter Griffin.

Yes, the same Peter Griffin who wrote the following letter,

"Dear MacGyver, Enclosed is a rubber band, a paper clip, and a drinking straw. Please save my dog."

If given the choice though, I've always wanted to be like Tim Allen in Home Improvement. That's right, Tim Taylor, the ultimate Mr. Fix-it and long time host of Tool Time. I want to be able to fix things.

(And of course, have my own TV show with initially, Lisa (Pamela Anderson) and later on, Heidi (Debbe Dunning) as the assistant. Guys my age we owe a lot to Lisa and Heidi as the show was at their peak in the mid-90s; an era during which most of us hit puberty. Sigh...)

As I was saying, I've always wanted to be good at fixing things. I suppose it's only natural for guys to be a bit restless whenever they see a leaking pipe or a loose door knob or punctured tires or Zuleyka Rivera Miss Universe 2006; you know. We would usually experience this sudden urge to screw and tighten some bolts and nuts; especially when it comes to Zuleyka Rivera Miss Universe 2006.

Sorry.

Men were born with the dire need to fix things that are broken, and break things that aren't broken. Sadly, I was blessed with more of the latter than the former. Twenty five years of living and I could safely say that the success rate of my fixing attempts is only comparable to the success rate of Ashlee Simpson's singing attempts.

Nevertheless, I do put some effort into developing my stuff-fixing ability. Every now and then I would look around the house for things to be fixed; in my carpenter pants and equipped with the best tools and gadgets in town. Stanley screwdrivers, Swiss Army knives and Bosch drills all packed in my Black and Decker Power Tools toolbox and ready to rock and roll.

Before I give a call to Tanggarajan, the family Mr. Fix-it to come over and 'assist' me, in 'operating' the toolbox.

At least I tried.

Bee Mine

2008-07-21T10:36:00.004+08:00

I had the privilege of giving a few words at my friends, Fadhli and Farah's wedding last weekend. Unbeknownst (that's Belarusian for 'unknown') to them, my public speaking ability is only comparable to that of a door stopper's.

But I was honored indeed and took some time (27 minutes) to write the following text; before realizing that reading it out would only garner as much attention as actually putting a door stopper on stage. So I had it folded to drench in my pocket as I went up and delivered my words, loosely based on it.

Mr. B, Farah, hope I did alright and thanks again, it was an honor. You guys looked beautiful that night. You too Badol.

Assalamu'alaikum w.b.t. and a very good evening,

Ladies and gentlemen, we're all gathered here on this beautiful day to celebrate the blissful marriage of my good friends, Fadhli and Farah.

My buddies at the table near that corner over there, on the other hand, are here to get to know girls.

You wish, my friends.

It wouldn't be too much to say that I grew up together with the couple. I've known them for a good ten years now. We went to high school together.

Fadhli was this kid from Bangi whom I believe hated me as much as the other students during the first few weeks as I could never stop talking about wrestling. In my defense, at the tender age of 16, it wasn't easy for me to resist from wanting to be The Rock. After a few games of basketball and outings to Kota Bharu however, we became good friends and left our differences behind; despite the fact that I still couldn't stop talking about wrestling.

Farah was one of the Damansara girls at our school. Unlike the stereotypical 'city girl' who would usually look at me and my friends as dirty, smelly boys, Farah was never short of a smile. She was always ever so friendly with us guys. And I suppose it was her warmth that fascinated Fadhli, before they started a relationship towards the end of our senior year.

We went to the States to further our studies in 2002 and I didn't get to see the couple much; maybe once a year at the Malaysian Games. Now the cool thing about these two people is the way they allow each other to spend time with their own friends.

So during these Malaysian Games thing, Fadhli gets to hang out with his guy friends and laugh at horrible, horrible jokes (none of which ever came from me) while Farah gets to enjoy the company of her girl friends and talk about, I don't know, potpourris.

But at the football matches, Farah is always there to cheer for Fadhli as he paves the field with grace. A heartwarming scene indeed as I too got my fair share of cheers, from fans of the opposite team.

And therein lies the beauty of this relationship between these two wonderful people. Their chemistry as well as the understanding that they have to each other fuels the happiness, for them to share together.

Fadhli, Farah, my prayers for many more blessed years to you guys. Amin.

Thank you. Wassalam.

Give it up for Mr. B!

An Open Letter

2008-07-09T12:10:00.009+08:00

Dear Marks & Spencer,

There's a scene from the movie 'Dan in Real Life' in which Dan (Steve Carell, of 'The 40 Year Old Virgin' fame), was browsing in a bookshop before Marie (Juliette Binoche, of 'Chocolat' fame) walked in.

Seeing that the shopkeeper was on the phone, she approached Dan, mistaking him for a shop employee. Mesmerized by her beauty, Dan played along and assisted her in selecting books; grabbing 'Everyone Poops' as she cited Hemingway, Tolstoy and Austen.

Despite learning that Dan lied about working there, Marie was moved by his warmth. And she opted to accept his offer for coffee; a sitting which later bloomed into a tale like no other.

Though the serendipity of it all seems too good to be true, to say I would mind something similar would be a total lie. Dan had provided guys the world throughout, the perfect approach should an attractive woman mistakes them for a store employee. Something with a 384,394,172:1 chance of actually happening in real life.

Last week, I (myself, of no fame) was at your KLCC outlet. In my effort to find some office attires, subsequently shutting those who'd likened my pants to that of M.C. Hammer's, I browsed through your clothing racks.

As I raked away more pants that would only further encourage my friends to wail 'Hammertime!' everytime they see me, a voice headed my way,

"Excuse me, do you have this in other sizes?"

Heads down, I held my eyes shut as I asked myself,

"Is this it? Is this it? Am I Dan, in real life? Here here my damsel in distress, I shall get you the size that you want; even if it means prowling the store room at the back. Don't worry, I won't get caught. You already are, living proof that I look like a guy who works here, somehow."

Before I turned my head and realized that, it was a rather unhappy looking lady with hangers in her hands; one attached to the dress and the other, whipping at the two kids running around her legs.

Jaws down, and in fear of enduring the wrath of her mighty hangers myself, all I could mutter was,

"Sorry ma'am, I don't work here."

To which she apologized, naturally... as she lashed another hanger-whip at her kid, naturally.

At this point, you may be asking yourself,

"Where is this guy going with this?"

A question which I can't even answer myself.

I wanted to write about how I longed to be Dan in the bookstore scene. But I ran out of formats so I guess doing it as an open letter to you guys would be alright.

Nevertheless, I felt sorry for the lady. She must've felt bad thinking that she had ruined my day; which wasn't case. It was simply not the first time I was mistaken for a shop employee. You name it... from Secret Recipe, to Victoria's Secret; I'd worked for them all.

The difference was all too obvious anyway that day, as displayed by the following artist impression (who ran out of ink so we had to use advanced CGI to render a human-like image of me):

She might've forgotten to put on her lenses, who knows.

Sincerely,
Asrif Yusoff
Treasurer, Malaysian Chapter
The Association of Denzel Washington as Frank Lucas in American Gangster Lookalikes (TADWFLAGL)

The Last (and Final) Impression

2008-07-01T19:00:00.003+08:00

It doesn't matter that the cumulative cost of fuel and two tolls to your place accounts for 43.2% of my monthly savings. It doesn't matter that I actually live in the 'food capital' of the country, where the number of McDonald's per acreage land is more than the number of sheep in New Zealand. And it certainly doesn't matter that the fried rice at your place tastes like sand paper, marinated in trisodium phosphate.

For every bite of it tastes like little drops from heaven when it's you who's serving. While most would deem anything made by your chef as the ultimate culinary disaster, when it's you who's sliding the plate onto the table, I see an exquisite delicacy from the palace's kitchen, prepared with utmost intricacy. You could be serving a bowl of chicken feet broth and it would still look like coq au vin, whatever that means in French.

We used to drive around your area with our heads jotting out of the car window, me and my friends, to see if you're at work. No amount of permanent scars on our faces, thanks to the branches of that tree in front of your place, could ever deter us from taking a peek. For all you know, it could make a good, laughable story as we share a drink under that tree one day.

('We' as in me and you of course... not me and my friends. Not that I'm discounting the fact that I have a higher probability of sharing a drink under that tree with them instead.)

In the effort to become future 'thinkers' of the modern world, I'd engaged in numerous discussions with my friends; most of which would usually lead to heated arguments. Our debates cover a host of topics, from the impact of the subprime mortgage crisis on the Asian economy, to the impact of placing a compressed soda cans in between the tires of a mountain bike (which are: 1) the generation of a really neat 'motor-sound' to simulate the experience of riding a motorcycle and 2) very angry neighbors).

But nothing -- and I mean not even a disagreement on whether did Tara Reid or did Tara Reid not perform augmentation on her body -- could even come close to the squabble that we get ourselves into upon answering the question 'who you were looking at when you walked pass our table earlier'. A question that could only be settled upon a round of Pro Evolution Soccer on the PlayStation, to avoid bloodbath.

So it was only natural for me to grab the bill before the other losers could even touch it when we were at your place the other day.

I rose as I held the bill up, and heralded to my friends,

"Citizens of this table, you're about to bear witness, the beginning of a love fairytale like no other... with the completion of my payment for our dinner tonight. As I embark upon this journey, may you losers continue to only be able to pleasure yourself with women ending in .AVI and .JPG for the rest of your lives. Behold..."

And I walked straight to the counter where you seemed to be quite busy with the cash register; remotely disturbed by the number of guys throwing glances at you while they pretend to listen to their wives and girlfriends.

"I'd like to pay." I said to you.

"How do you sleep at night, leaving us all sleepless with your smile?" I said to myself.

"And that would be RM 28.00"

"Here you go... lotsa customers this time around eh?"

"Yeah, most of them have been here since a few hours ago."

"I could spend a lifetime here with you around..."

"What's that?"

"Oh nothing, I said I used to work near this town."

"Really, where do you work now?"

"Ah, I work for an oil company now."

"Alright and here's your change... oil company eh? Which pump station?"

"..."

To say your last question squashed my heart into tiny blobs of frozen blood would be an understatement. And I left the counter grasping the change, leaving no space for its molecules to move. I can hear the sound of the guys in the restaurant holding their laughter in; some of them spilling water out of their noses in the process.

From a distance, I can see my friends slowly standing up from their chairs and waving their hands my way putting the biggest of smiles on their faces. And I walked, the walk of shame, leaving you wondering... which, pump, station.

Inspired by: Paul Simms' Four Short Crushes

My other Simms essays: 1) Basic Instinct III 2) Splash Splash

Save The Gerbils

2008-06-19T18:03:00.007+08:00

I've been writing quite a bit now, covering a host of topics from the economic recession in Eastern Europe during the Great Depression, to my similarity to Pinocchio in terms of body part elongation.

After roughly skimming through my past posts however, I realized that they all have two things in common:

They pose thought-provoking questions that often times challenge the conventional way of analyzing behaviors in society.
None of the "thought-provoking questions that often times challenge the conventional way of analyzing behaviors in society" contribute, in any measurable amount no matter how small, to the betterment of mankind.

In other words, this website has been nothing more than a waste of web space, should it be relatively compared to the unquestionable importance of websites such as ImageChan or Fail Blog, to humanity.

Thus today, in conjunction with Paula Abdul's birthday, I believe there is no other time more apt for me to make a change in the things I write and eventually, God willing, the world we live in. I'm going to start writing on things that would benefit us in many ways and add value to our lives, while giving back to society. I'm going to write about something useful.

About something useful.

Moving on, just like any other servants of the corporate world, I spend the bulk of my time at the office. And day in day out, I've been irked by the amount of papers being wasted at work. It's a pet peeve that I never knew I had, in a way.

Firstly, do allow me to clarify here that when I say ‘paper wasting', I am in no way at all referring to ‘office sports' such as paper airplane or the basketball variation, dustbinball. For these activities respectively promote aviation development and teamwork as well as athleticism within the staff members. Furthermore, white collar athletes across the globe are becoming greener by switching dustbins for recycle bins.

Paper wasting in this context refers to the act of printing unnecessarily; often demonstrated through the printing of documents with miniscule need of being in hard copy format. Worse off, some of these documents are being printed single-sided.

How does one deem a document ‘unnecessary to be printed', you may ask. Why did the chicken cross the road, you may also ask.

While I'm more intrigued to answer the second question (which would be this), let's not deviate from our topic here. To me, a document becomes ‘unfit to print' when having a soft copy of it wouldn't mean the end of the world; or the banning of Dunkin' Donuts in my world.

It happens all the time. I've seen people printing out the most needless of things. In ascending order of irrelevance, from a piece of paper that tells the current time and date to a whole chapter from The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.

What we need to realize is that the less we print, the healthier we become. I won't even dwell into the environmentally friendly or energy saving aspect it; doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that. Printing less simply improves our well-being.

Stay with me on this one.

So unless you're that kid from The Sixth Sense, you were born with five senses: sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch. Now, I'm going to elaborate how printing brings displeasure to every one of these senses.

Sight

Take a look at your office printer. Look deeper... stare at it. Now try imagining that your office printer is Zuleyka Rivera, Miss Universe 2006. Got it? No?

Of course you can't. Not because you don't know how Zuleyka Rivera, Miss Universe 2006 looks like, it's because the printer remotely resembles her.

Now try imagining that your office printer is Dennis Rodman.

Didn't even have to tell you to try did I?

The thing with printers is that they weren't designed for you to take them everywhere, unlike your cell phone or iPod. Hence the way they look doesn't matter; just like what women would usually say about men... who are rich.

You could put a group of Furbies in the design department of a printer company and they would still produce a decent looking printer.

As a matter of fact, I doubt any of the other things at the office would want to date it.

"Yo Phone... seen that new desk lamp over at Finance? She puts the DANG in DANGDUT bro..."

"Tell me about it Stapler. We need more of these desk lamps around here to neutralize Printer's eyesore effect man."

"You don't even have eyes but I'm totally with you there man."

Hearing

I did a simple experiment the other day with the following hypothesis:

"Sound waves produced by office printers have the same adverse effect on gerbils as music produced by Fall Out Boy."

Two gerbils were placed in two separate rooms, Room 1 filled with music by the Fall Out Boy and Room 2 with a printer, continuously printing a PDF copy of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.

After two hours, the gerbil in Room 1 was found dead after eating its own hand while the gerbil in Room 2 was found dead in his sleep after reading the first few pages of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.

There.

Smell

Well, when was the last time you heard anyone using printer ink as perfume?

Taste

I would be really surprised if you do this but try licking on a warm, freshly printed piece of paper. Hardly tastes like filet mignon, I'd presume?

Touch

See any of the above. Or come up with your own point; couldn't be any worse than the ones I'd written.

Though you may realize that I ran out of ideas by the time I got to that Fall Out Boy experiment (which is non-fictional), I do hope that I managed to deliver my point. And as intended, contribute to the betterment of mankind.

So, unless you're printing out this article to be shared with, while educating and enlightening that very attractive colleague of yours, please do think twice before printing at the office.

Save the gerbils.

EDIT June 22, 2008: Good night, George Carlin.

Life

2008-06-12T16:16:00.001+08:00

I was in the car with my cousin the other day and during a stop at the red light, we had the following conversation, loosely translated,

"Man... it's always like this."

"Elaborate..."

"I drive a total of two hours back and forth daily from my apartment to the office and half of that time are spent at traffic lights and traffic jams. But never... never once had I ever stopped beside a car with a hot chick in it? Just look around... "

"I don't think chickens are allowed to drive."

"You stupid shit... but that's always the case you see. It's either (1) it's a car full of guys or (2) there is a hot girl in there... but on the driver's seat is a guy who knows that I'm looking at the girl. So he'll throw this face at me, you know -- Yeah yeah, who da man? Dream on sucker... dream on! Booyah!"

"What's new then?"

"I guess."

We both grew up in pretty much the same environment, me and my cousin. Since small, we were trained by the elders in the family to see the world in a wide spectrum, but accept it in a narrow one.

In watching football, for example, we were thought to see the players as people who must get things right (in other words do every single thing we say in front of the TV), 100% of the time. Because they were born to do so. Otherwise, they are the scum of the Earth.

"Okay Dollah move up Dollah move up, to the middle! Ask for the ball! Now Zainal cross the ball he's there waving at you can't you see?! Send it in! send it IN OH MY GOD YOU CALL THAT A CROSS?! YOU'RE SUPPOSED PUT IT INTO THE GOAL ON THIS FIELD!! NOT THE ONE IN MARS!! WHY YOU SON OF A hey... it went in... alright... way to go Nal... always knew it was going to go in... right... nice..."

Nevertheless, in actuality, the bulk of our discussions revolve around our misadventures with members of the opposite gender.

But our misadventures are nothing like the usual drama-filled cases; full of deceit, emotion, deception, and Decepticon. More often than not, the misadventure happens even before the adventure begins.

Another excerpt from a recent conversation, over the phone...

"So what is it now?"

"Yeah so I was at this meeting earlier today right. Then this super hot girl walks into the room and I went BADAZING! You know how often I have meetings with this kind of women right? Only slightly less than the number of time Malaysia won the World Cup."

"Right right..."

"And there was this empty seat beside me; the only empty one in the room and I was going 'please sit here and be single, please sit here and be single, please sit here and be single, please sit here and be single' AND before I could continue, this other lady beside me went..."

"Bah... lemme guess. When's the big day? How's the husband/kids/baby? Saw your boyfriend the other day? How about we just come up with some random question about you not being single at all so that we could shoot down this dweeb beside me?"

"The baby question."

"Ah..."

"Yeah."

"Wanna go have sushi?"

"Yeah sure, why not."

Ain't Nobody's Business (Trip), If I Do

2008-05-29T18:38:00.003+08:00

I did a bit of business traveling recently and through it all, learned a thing or two about entertaining myself during these kinds of trips. Maybe I could share some with you.

The tedious thing about business traveling, especially when it involves flights, is that you're bound to be alone for a long period of time. If you're a mere mortal just like myself (i.e. you're not Chuck Norris), you can't afford doing nothing during this moment in time. Humans were designed to not be able to withstand boredom any longer than half a minute.

Even if you're driving, the long journey would leave you in this space where the only mode of entertainment available is the car stereo. And the games on your cell phone maybe, if you were born with the gift of multitasking.

I usually equip myself with a host of things prior to a trip. The classic ones being books, magazines, MP3 player and sketching pads, or doodle pads as I like to call them whenever asked by a stewardess -- to sound cute.

Okay, I made that up... they couldn't care less. Similarly to Pinocchio, a certain part of my body elongates everytime I lie; to my delightful amusement.

The idea is to have as many 'mediums' possible to keep me preoccupied, subsequently ignoring the reduction in the speed at which Earth revolves. Legend has it that time moves no faster than the growth rate of Danny DeVito when you're on board a plane. You could've just read, with success, a copy of The Merriam-Webster Dictionary from back to front and realize that you're still eons away from reaching your destination.

Reading seems to be a feasible choice. For most, it leads to being engrossed by the wonders of words; a fascination that I never ceased to understand particularly when the letters are as big as dusts. That's not the case for me however. I suffer from a medical condition termed by experts as Getdizzywhenreadingitis, causing severe headaches whenever I read on a plane. The severity often amplified should the font size of the reading material be any less than the size of my thumb. There goes my book flushed down the lavatory aft.

Peter Griffin, wise man, once said,

"I wish I could have my own theme music, which plays everywhere I go and whatever I do."

Which is exactly how I feel about MP3 players -- they provide a soundtrack to my life. Listening to portable music transports me to into this other realm where my coolness level escalates to that of James Dean's. Think John Travolta's 'Stayin' Alive' scene in Saturday Night Fever.

But no height of awesomeness comes without a price. I have a problem with the wires on MP3 players. They're everywhere! No matter how careful I'd be with them, making sure none of them goes through my earlobes or belt holes, I'd still end up strangled. It gets worse whenever I put the player in my bag. 94.3% of the time, the wires get intertwined (whatever that means) with other wires; charger wire, USB cable wire, patch wire, barb wire*.

Sketching/doodle pads are pretty self-explanatory actually. My drawings are bad enough even when I'm stationary (Richter scale reading: 0.12). So you could imagine how pointless it could be trying to draw on a plane. Below is the snake that I tried to sketch while on a flight recently.

As you can see, the snake gets mutated mid-way due to a minor turbulence.

In conclusion, I have absolutely no useful tips on business travel entertainment; as opposed to what I'd written earlier. Well, there are always sleeping pills if Rob Schneider is in all of the in-flight movies.

*I wouldn't, of course, complain as much should 'barb wire' in this context refers to Pamela Anderson's leading role in the 1996 movie of the same name. Who wouldn't want wires all over her anyway? More than ever if you're like myself or Pinocchio, and you lie a lot.

Engaged

2008-05-16T19:33:00.006+08:00

I believe I owe it to myself to let the truth be known to the world. I've been keeping it low for far too long now and I don't see a need to keep it a secret anymore. Friends, sorry for not letting you know earlier. You have always been there for me through thick and thin hence it's you, more than anyone else in the world, who deserves to know every bit of its details. It's going to be a challenge doing this in writing but here goes.

I answer phone calls differently.

No, not saying "Differently!" instead of "Hello!". I answer phone calls from different people, in a different manner. Which most of us do as well, I suppose; consequently making it not that much of a secret really. Heck, who answers all of his/her calls the same way anyway? Ignore the first paragraph. It's not like I'd secretly gotten engaged to someone or anything.

Moving on... thought I'd share the (my, rather) many ways of answering calls from different people. Starting off, with the closest to my heart.

The Family

It's pretty straightforward when it comes to the family... a simple "Yeah" or "Ha" usually does it. Which is how I'd be talking throughout the conversation anyway...

"Yeah... ha... ahaa... yeah yeah... okay..."

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't fancy talking to them or anything. The ‘yeahs' are basically my adherence of all that are requested of me. I always give my all when it comes to the family. Ladies, take note. Gentlemen, tell your younger sisters.

The Guy Friends

As they populate 97% of the incoming call list on my phone, I'd grown to adopt various ways of answering their calls, ranging from the classic,

"What's happening assface?"**

to the rather commercialized,

"Waaaaaazaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaappp..?!"

to the sound of a donkey,

"Hee haw hee haw hee haw hee haw..."

to name a few.

Girl Friends

Once every few fortnights (can't really sugarcoat the actual duration any better to be honest), I do get a phone call from one of my few girl friends. And whenever the call is coming from them, it's a whole new game. Things could get very tricky and I need to be very delicate in my approach. There's no differentiation by genre anymore; every person needs to be greeted differently.

A. The Close Ones

You know who you are. They're the ones who know me pretty well, thus providing me the avenue to mess around or try to be funny a bit.

Maybe let them say hello first then answer,

"You had me at hello."

or, whenever I'm at the liberty of time,

"Men of Steel Male Escorts, how may I help you?".

Girls, as Stevie Wonder would say... you are, the sunshine of my life.

B. The Moderately-Close Ones

This is when I have to play it safe, real safe. I tend to keep it short and sweet when it comes to them. I don't know why.

"Hello, yeah hi Timah, what's up? Woops... I'm driving here. Call you later yea..."

C. The Not-so-close Ones

See above.

The Office

Ingenious is the only way I'd describe this one. Nevertheless, I may be playing with fire here.

Anyway, you in the office attire, yeah you reading this instead of doing work. When you get a call at the office, do you answer it right away? If so, boy you need continue reading. Otherwise, yeah continue reading.

What scares me the most whenever my office phone rings is the implication of answering it. More often than not, it means more work. But being the committed employee that I am, I never let it ring unanswered. Not since I learned how to ‘cushion' the implication.

The beautiful thing about the office phone system is the customary "Are you busy?" inquiry before any request of favor. Leveraging on that, I normally answer the phone only after the fourth ring. And upon answering, I throw in a few puffs and pants into it...

"Puff puff pant pant... hello... puff puff pant pant..."

"Hey Asrif, you busy? Need some help. You catching breath?"

"Yeah, running everywhere here... puff puff pant pant..."

Well, while I may still have to attend to whatever that is asked of me, at least I've illustrated a nice little picture of the catastrophe I'm in with my current workload. So any delay in delivering my task would be understood. Before I put down the phone and continue laughing at the stuff up on Reddit and ImageChan of course.

Note: Fellow, lovable colleagues, none of the above apply to any of you. You guys know me too well anyway.

The Unknown Number

Right, the mother of all uncertainties. The mini, real-life Deal Or No Deal. It rings relentlessly, giving you no luxury of time and demanding a split-second decision.

Yes, a simple hello would be your safest bet. Nevertheless, there are a trillion tones you could say it with. You don't want to sound too serious when it's Maya Karin who accidentally dialed your number. At the same juncture, you don't want to sound like Krusty the Clown when it happens to be your father in-law's new number.

Nothing hurts more though, than the agony of answering in your sexiest manner, and realizing that it's your very annoying guy friend.

"Helllllllooooowww~~..."

"Hey man, guess who's in town? It's me... Dick!"

Indeed you are.

** My dear cousins, I know you kids have been reading for quite a while now. God knows how you found this site but you did. And I only have so much control over what people read over the Internet. You guys have been the sole reason I've been avoiding profanities (bet you don't even know what that means eh). Anyway, don't let me catch you using bad words in front of me. If you ever do so, mention my name and I'm never letting any of you touch my guitars, ever again. You still need to walk on my back though. Meh, what's the point... this font size is too small for you to read anyway.

Funny Bones

2008-05-11T21:04:00.004+08:00

It's as obvious as Fred Savage's mole in Goldmember.

My sense of humor is in no way superior to that of the other guy's. I'm with Thomas Jefferson when it comes to people's hilarity; for all men, are created equal. That being said, I'm in no position of demeaning, if you will, the sense of humor of others.

Nevertheless, I'm a junior at work. And that entails being exposed to jokes from the various generations that the people at work belong to; namely Baby Boomers, Generation Jones, Generation X and perhaps Generation Y, to which I belong... I guess.

So in order for me to survive in this melting pot of comical intelligence, there is a certain level of humor acceptance that I need to be tolerable to. It's a jungle out there. One minute you're in a meeting where this guy talks about how a graph resembles his post-marriage weight and the next, you're at lunch with a friend who thinks it's funny to say the girls on his floor are hot... because the air conditioner is broken.

While you do have the liberty to tell your friend to kill himself for cracking such a horrible joke, your hands are tied when it comes to that guy at the meeting. Perhaps the most you could do is just scream silently at him,

"Even if your last breath depends on it... please avoid stand-up comedy, or any other form of it, at all cost."

Other than that, the only thing you could do physically is in essence, draw a friendly snicker on your face and maybe nod a bit. My second most favorite actor of all time Denzel Washington (only next to Al Pacino) does it all the time in his movies, when he's pissed off. He carves a huge smile with his mouth closed but you know, you just know that he doesn't mean even an iota of it.

It's been a good year plus for me in the corporate world though. I'd somehow grasped the tricks behind maneuvering around the different nature of comedy different groups of people demand.

When a 52 year old office colleague asks me if I'm single or married, do I answer ‘single but I used to play doubles badminton back in school'? Or whenever I'm out chilling with my friends, do I reiterate, with intent, a joke I overheard from a much senior colleague? About how Malaysians crossed the rocket in their ballots in the recent general elections... because we've been obsessed with rockets since we sent a man into space.

Answering these types of questions, which used to mystify me into deep thoughts, is now at the tips of my fingers. I've held a grasp, if not a strong one, on the concept of tailoring your gag to your audience's need.

Or so I thought until this sketch I did last week. Ajep, nice working with you on this one.

Sorry.

Mallrats

2008-05-06T21:44:00.006+08:00

Gone were the days where I would find going to the mall an enjoyable outing.

My days as a teenager were filled with trips to the malls around PJ and Subang with my friends; in and out of comic shops, video arcades and bowling alleys.

Reaching there was never easy and there were basically three options: walking, cycling or taking the bus/train. But since we were as broke as Oliver Twist, minimizing the transportation cost was always our main concern; hence opting to walk or cycle. We needed to optimize the amount spent from our measly funds so that the bulk of it goes to the fun stuff (namely comics and video games et al, as mentioned earlier).

Walking for miles under the blazing hot sun was never pleasant even for the bravest of hearts. Yet the journeys were never short of laughter branching from our piss-taking on each other. The jangle of coins dangling from the pockets of our three quarter pants was the soundtrack of our expeditions. All amidst the puffing and panting for air. Thus most of the time, we'd be drenched in sweat by the time we reach the mall.

Nevertheless, the second we take the final chug off a shared bottle of soda, quenching every bit of our thirsty throats, we transform into rejuvenated souls as we saunter into the entrance. More often than not, half a minute under the cool breeze of the automated door and we'll be as good as new.

The most beautiful thing about going to the mall back then was that we cared very little about things beyond our domain of interests. It was always straight to The Mind Shop for the rarest comics and trading cards or WYWY for the hottest game titles in town. Everything else was only as important as getting our names jotted down by the school prefect.

It didn't matter that 90% of the time we won't end up buying any of the things that we drool over. The thrill of reaching the mall and walking hastily towards our favorite shops to see the things that we crave for neatly displayed behind glass showcases, in itself, gave a different kind of satisfaction. And especially with action figures, if we ever make a purchase, every piece of item from the experience becomes a memento; everything including the receipt, packaging and plastic bag.

And who could ever defy the effects of hormonal development in their prepubescent years. Going to the mall allowed us to feast our eyes on the beautiful young ladies of urban Klang Valley; none of them our age, which makes it a million times more exciting, really. It was the mid-90s so one could only imagine the number of women sporting those Rachel/Monica bangs; gorgeous young things they were.

Credits to them as well for assisting us in learning the new way of reading time.

"Two o’clock, two o’clock... not yours, mine! Alright, slow down... slow down... ha’alright... smooookkkkkinnnn'..."

Well, The Mask was pretty big back then.

I guess our fascination with women twice our age was simply the result of us being hated by most (okay, all) of the girls in school. Which still bewilders me actually... we never really did go any further than drawing pictures of Ken spreading his seed of love on their Barbie posters. Why all the hate when there’s so much to love anyway?

Nowadays, there’s simply nothing to look forward to upon going to the mall. Traffic jams, tight parking space, expensive parking, too many people, buildings so big you can never find your way out; the reasons are too aplenty to list down. Plus, women with huge sunglasses and hair full of volume whom we used to salivate over are no more twice our age. For they are now, our age... and rarely walks without a guy with popped up collars and spiky hair by their side.

Malaysia needs better online shopping facilities.

Shanghai'd

2008-04-20T08:38:00.005+08:00

It was a short notice trip. Given the workload that I had to get out of the way, I was left with merely 6 3/4 business hours to prepare. A time too short even for me to buy one of those Surviving Shanghai pocket books. You know, the one with tips on getting around the city, with a little glossary of simple Chinese phrases at the back. I failed to equip myself with the least a lone traveler could have on a trip to an entirely foreign country. So I flew to Shanghai, knowing only five words of Chinese; 'me love you long time’.

My arrival at Pudong International Airport was welcomed by the warm smiles of the flight crews, as well as the airport staff members. It was a chain of smiles accompanying me as I stood on the travellator to the immigration counter, where it ended. My luck with immigration officers has never been better than my luck with women. No matter where I go, they never seem to return my friendly greetings and gestures. And at Pudong, they took it one step further.

Shake that thang now! Oriental momma!

Upon inspecting my passport, the officer’s facial expression turned from indifferent to curious. Never a good sign when others are spending no more than a minute at their counters. Apparently, Mr. Immigration Guy thought that the passport didn’t belong to me. My initial notion was that the guys at the embassy had taken the piss on me by pasting a picture of Snoop Dogg on top of mine. Au contraire, as the officer flipped the passport my way, pointed on my picture and shook his head. That’s me alright; from back in 2005, before I lost a bit of weight.

Another officer came up to my rescue and after comparing my driving license, MyKad, student card and Red Box Karaoke membership card with my passport, they finally let me go. Shanghai, here I come.

Find the hidden massage parlors.

I checked into The Hilton Shanghai at around 4pm and the view I got wasn’t bad at all. The room overlooked Hua Shan Road, a path leading to the many buildings protruding out of the terrains of China’s busy commercial district. Down the streets were businessmen and women in suits, teenagers on bikes, old men walking with their sticks and children in the air jumping in joy, in front of what seems to be a very suspicious massage parlor.

After gazing at the ceiling for a good hour, I took a five minutes walk to City Plaza, a nearby mall. Still nervous from not knowing a word of Chinese, I ran a few simulations in my head as I walked; figuring out the things that I’d have to act out should words don’t help. My imagination ran from making a chugging sound for "train station” to drawing a picture of a Chihuahua for "the Hilton” (read: Paris). When I got to doing the chicken dance to say "you’re quite the chick” though, I got a bit tired of thinking; grabbed myself a loaf of bread, went back to the hotel and dozed off for a good 10 hours. I’m never good at acting anyway.

Seconds before being shoved away by the bakery lady.

The conference that started the next day was alright. Business as usual.

We took the Metro from Jing’an Temple to Nanjing Road East after Day 1 of the conference. Nanjing Road was supposedly Shanghai’s main shopping attraction. Evidently, at my first sight of the area, I could see why. The bright lights from the restaurants and shops shined even through the dark alleys adjacent to the road. Filling the air were the incongruous mix of noises from the electronic trishaws and trams squeezing through the barrage of people ranging from petite teenage girls in skimpy clothing, to wise guy street traders in berets; displaying the latest from the fake watch market.

The fake goods industry in Shanghai is as far as it gets, I believe. If Petaling Street boasts its near-precise copies of Ralph Lauren polos and Coach handbags, Nanjing Road is lined by actual retail shops, of 'slightly modified’ brands of the West. The Adidas logo was made a little less proportioned with the words Wandanu below it. With its alligator given a brighter smile, probably laughing at the brand’s actual owners in Paris, Noumandieyu is Nanjing’s Lacoste. It won’t be long before the world famous Hooters restaurant gets its own taste of Nanjing’s re-branding makeover; turning into Hoojers or Hoolers or something, you know. Something along that line.

Ned Flanders would've loved this one, fandiddlytastic!

A few blocks east was The Bund, 'Asia’s former golden mile of finance and commerce; quintessential Shanghai; experienced best at night,’ as the city map calls it. Initially feeling good that I was there in the evening, I felt a bit 'disoriented’ as I spent more time there. The air was a bit smoggy; mainly due to the heavy traffic. At the very least, only air filled with music by Fall Out Boy could be worse. I thought the view was nice though. Across the Huangpu River were the many office buildings surrounding the Pudong area, including the Jin Mao tower, the fourth tallest building in the world. Further north were these endless stacks of electronic billboards of international brands; a symbol of Shanghai as the convergence node of western and eastern corporations.

All the walking left me a bit knackered and by the end of the day, all that was left from the energy recouped from my 10-hour sleep was used for eating.

A mall name like no other. Eat this Sunway Pyramid!

The conference ended at noon on my third day in Shanghai. The sun was shining brightly amidst the cold wind of spring; all too perfect a setting for a stroll around the streets. And a 10 minute ride on the Metro took me to the place where Shanghaians chill on a sunny day like this, the aptly named People’s Square. Encircled by endless rows of street hawkers and neighboring the Grand Theatre as well as the Shanghai Museum, People’s Square somehow resembles New York’s Central Park; which was nice. Always nice to have some serenity in the middle of the commotions surrounding an urban area.

Five bucks say he's waiting for Mulan's reflection.

Well the idea was to do some walking around the Square and drop by the souvenir shops nearby to get some things for the folks back at home. Judd’s cheongsam, Ikram’s 'Shanghai Sensation’ boxer shorts and Ticub’s tiger testicle soup. All of which I managed to get except for Ticub’s soup (no more than 100ml of liquid on board, bro -- hope the gambir is still in stock).

As expected, shopping in Shanghai was very tricky. There was of course the language barrier. And then, there’s the superiorly mad bargaining skill that you need to possess in order to get things at the right price. Though I’m not much of a bargaining wizard myself, upon some observations, I realized that the sellers tend to mark up the prices to around 150 – 200% in their initial offer. Thus, starting with 25 – 50% off the offered price would be a good place to start. Knowing the average market price of the things you want would be really helpful nonetheless. Alas, I didn’t do that much shopping myself. Shanghai isn’t quite the place to shop really; be it proper/branded or 'juvenile’ goods as they term it. Items are a bit on the higher side though the choices are pretty much similar to the ones in Malaysia.

Keepin' the city safe.

I spent my last night in Shanghai at a Jazz joint not far from the hotel featuring a quartet of three Latin Americans and a Chinese guy on alto sax. While feasting on the band’s excellent renditions of Billie Holiday and Frank Sinatra numbers, within sight were foreigners getting acquainted, slightly too acquainted, with the local ladies. Speaking of whom, were very nice actually. Never short of a sweet smile and warmth, welcoming every bit of my foreign self to their oriental land. Then again, I suppose they had to, as the only ones I met were the hotel receptionists.

And I left Shanghai feeling 'wealthier’ in knowledge as I’d now gotten a taste of China, the world’s most populated country. On the surface, the Huangpu River separates Shanghai into two; the people oriented Puxi and business driven Pudong. While the natures of these two areas are different, the constantly congested Nanpu Bridge and Yan’an Road Tunnel connecting them embody the balance of culture and progress in Shanghai. While I don’t quite fancy (and understand) the people of Shanghai’s need to be rushing all the time, I suppose it’s all just a matter of me coming from a different background. What seem to be too vibrant to me may be just right to them.

Sadly though, I didn’t really assimilate that much. Even after four days in China, I only learned three new Chinese words; "Want good massaij?".

If I Was Born 25 Years Earlier

2008-04-11T13:37:00.000+08:00

I would've been born in 1958.

I would've lived in a time when my favorite actors were in their prime; Al Pacino in Dog Day Afternoon, Robert De Niro in Raging Bull and Dustin Hoffman in Kramer vs. Kramer. Great, proper acts they were, and still are.

Simple, cut to the chase, straightforward movies which leave people still talking about them 30 years down the road. Insightful stories with great writing and directing that take the audience deep into the essence of every scene.

Far beyond the grand epic trilogy romantic comedy full-blast action movie blockbuster nonsense that are coming out of Hollywood nowadays.

At one end are three LOTR movies, with a total running time of 2 1/3 days, featuring hobbits from middle-earth trying to fight their way through massive wars involving larger than life ogres. All for a ring that would end up on Jack Black's own little hobbit.

At the other end is a film with Dane Cook playing the main role, trying very hard to be funny while Jessica Simpson plays his opposite, as a cashier at an imaginary Wal-Mart. Jessica Simpson, as a Wal-Mart cashier. Might as well put the words ‘Tom Cruise' and ‘straight' in the same sentence.

And at another end is a real-life, out of this world, state of the art, CGI 3-D R2-D2 remake of the old Saturday morning favorite, Transformers. While most regard it as the biggest movie of the 21st and 20th century combined, Transformers the Movie is no further than the ultimate torturing tool in my book. A glimpse of it and any baby seal would die of severe seizure.

But no, I wasn't born in 1958. I was born 25 years ago, today, in 1983. And while I didn't live in the period when my favorite movies were made, I suppose I've lived a good quarter of a century worthy of a decent film.

Then again I suppose it'll fair no better that Catwoman movie in the cinemas. Nevertheless, thank you very much to all who've made it a great ride.

Splash Splash

2008-03-30T02:13:00.009+08:00

Look at all these people. Their firm handshakes and huge smiles barely depict reality. They paint the picture of a world so perfect, it looks like John Lennon’s dream. The pessimist in me can only scream, in silence, the sinister thoughts behind every one of those handshakes.

It’s the same sight everytime I go to a conference. Strangers clad in the sleekest suits from the best tailors in Milan, only to be differentiated by the company names on their name tags; acting like they’ve known each other for years. All in the unity of adding more twists and turns to the already perverse corporate world.

Here I am sitting among these ‘recently acquainted strangers’ in this conference hall, trying to make sense of the slides being presented; every one of them resembling the pages of the dictionary. Instantly, my eyes roll away from watching the paint dry, I mean, reading the slides... gazing at the other areas of the room, nothing inspiring.

Until a creak of the door brought my attention to you. Miles across the hall, trying to squeeze yourself between the sea of corporate slaves for a vacant spot; while I grasp my angst in my fist looking at these wealth-infested loons doing nothing to help out a lady get a seat. But as you get yourself sorted, the event turns into an Invisible Men Convention. I can suddenly see through these guys and have my sight set on you.

My heart pounds to the beat of the clock ticking atop the wall. Coffee break is just a few minutes away we both know... okay, I know that it’s a make or break effort for me to make a move.

But what on earth am I going to say? I lost my phone number can I have yours? I'm no Fred Flintstone, but I can make your Bedrock? Baby, you're so sweet, you put Hershey's outta business? Did it hurt, when you fell into my dreams last night? Is it hot in here or... you get my drift.

I have a plethora of these state of the art pickup lines but what’s the point? For all you know, you’ve heard them all. Even if you haven’t, I know that the minute I stand in front of you I’ll stutter like Scatman John with gallons of sweat drenching my hands.

“Ladies and gentleman, you may proceed to the Coffee Kiosk for some refreshments.”

Time flies eh? So what now, what’s the deal here? It did cross my mind that if you’re busy talking to people during the break, then I won’t feel too guilty for not talking to you. But you’re not. It’s been a good two minutes since you started stirring at your cuppa, alone in that corner. I even feel obliged now to head your way and talk to you.

Well well, that wasn’t too bad now was it? You welcomed my hello with a very bright smile. Not too mysterious like the ones on those Norah Jones records. Not too invigorating like the ones on the Colgate billboards either. Just nice, enough to make my week to say the least.

So you’re from that company? I don’t know diddly-squat about your business but it’s all good. I’m not bad at pretending to know about things. Oh and you live around the Segambut area I see. Bad move on my side there, shouldn’t have asked about your daily four hour commute to your office in KL from Segamat, Johor. Again, it’s all good. I liked the way you giggled at my ignorance.

Do you really have to do that? Raising your eyebrow and snickering while slowly stirring that cup of coffee. I’m trying really hard to defy the law of gravity and not let my jaw drop here. And FYI, backcombing the wavy hair of yours every half a minute isn’t helping either. Sorry for making you ask every question twice though, I’m just a bit... mesmerized by your beauty.

Well won’t you just look at that. The rest of the conference are back in the hall. Guess we should be heading the same way as well. Wha... what’s that? The hotel pool? Around 6pm? Ahah... wanna finish that Danielle Steel book you were talking about eh? Leaves me about an hour after the conference for me to google up everything I could about her. The only Steel I know is Superman – Man of Steel anyway.

This should be alright. A light blue polo paired with black shorts and very laidback pair of Teva sandals. Good blending of urban and casual if you ask me. Okay, it’s a bit A&F-ish but at least I’m not popping up my collars. A quick smear from the perfume samples in the complimentary magazine and I’m off. All set for a chat with the fine lady by the rooftop pool. A quick afternoon chat leading to dinner later in the evening perhaps?

Ah there you are, deeply indulged by the drama and mystery of Mrs. Steel’s writings; laying on a very cozy beach chair it seems. Now you just don’t quit teasing, do you? Is biting those strands of hair really necessary? And you don’t have to stroke your legs every two seconds you know.

My hearing sense quadruples as I walked closer to you. I can hear my heart beating faster by the second. Oh wow it’s that smile again... and you’re coupling it with a jovial wave now. Pretty happy to see me, babe? I bet you were.

As I was about to sit down on the chair beside you, hoping to enjoy the sunset together, I froze. The splashing sound out of the pool made me turn my head and wahey lookey here, it's a cute little boy and he's smiling broadly at you while splashing around. Even kids love you eh?

“Mommy mommy look at me I’m a dolphin..! Splash splash..!”

“Yes you are darling..! Daddy’s on his way... save your water tricks for him okay?”

And time stood still, with everything else on God's green Earth. Never in a million years, would I ever thought that such a beautiful scene could wreck my heart into a million bits and pieces of sorrow crashing down to the ground, inflicting pain and agony to every inch of my soul.

Every one of my hopes and dreams, splashed away in the blink of an eye.

Inspired by Paul Simms' Four Short Crushes. My other Simms essay: Basic Instinct III.

Thank You

2008-03-14T08:36:00.006+08:00

We would like to thank everyone who came to the gig last night. Going to a gig on the eve of a working day is definitely a daunting task.

That said, we could only wish that words can express our gratitude for your phenomenal support. Apparently, they can't.

Love,
The Big Pink

PS - Girl in white top and black skirt, front right table (your right) -- you looked gorgeous. Oh yeah, you too kind gentleman in the unbuttoned pink and white striped shirt bearing your hairy chest.

Setlist: Red House, Cocaine, Tore Down, Stormy Monday, Hunger, Badge, Little Wing

Photos: Ena's, Hanim's, Juaini's

Videos: Little Wing (outro)