Kopi O Satu

The Preamble

2011-05-24T16:14:00.001+08:00

I would rather disembowel myself with crusty rusty Kemahiran Hidup chisels than be caught saying this – Exercise is fun. Like actually.

How times have changed. I used to wear my gloat-ful glutton tag with glee, taking pride in every yummilicious mouthful of sin. Who cares if your waist expands? Life’s short! Carpe diem! Grow your girth and prosper! Gradually, I added kilograms to my frame and inches to my waist. Over a span of 5 years, my weight tracked bullishly while the stock markets tanked. At my peak, I just only tipped the scales at 100 kilos.

*Victory flabby belly dance*

Until I went for a compulsory health check for a new job. I entered the clinic right-as-rain, and I came out a hypertensive patient. I was only 31! And I had an artery-bursting blood pressure of 150/110! The doctor said that I must be put on medication immediately. Wha-?! Surely diet and exercise would help? Nope. Surely it’s rather mild? Nope. Surely it’s ok? Nope.

*Bloop*

That was the sound of the news sinking in. I was the quintessential remote control man. I led a life that was 10 times less active than sedentary. I sweated 4 buckets full when I walked up half a flight of stairs. My only exercise - walking to the fridge from the TV. And back.

The thought of ‘exercise’ scared me to bits. Sweaty smelly bodies with fungus friendly socks. Yuck. Only vainpots and unfairly endowed Adonis-es exercise. Definitely not me.

Or so I thought.

Stage Review: Showstoppers - Music from Broadway

2010-03-15T12:57:00.003+08:00

An ah pek admission here – despite my obvious love for the stage, I have never ever been to the Dewan Filharmonik Petronas. Oh gawd! The travesty! You say. I agree totally.

So I’ve been bugging KG to ajak me for an MPO performance – anything at all, provided it doesn’t require me to mortgage my house. Well well well – the most opportune show appeared, and that was how I found myself, deliriously percolating, in DFP yesterday to catch Hang Tuah in person.

The hall is impressively intimate, with the obvious focal point being the orchestra. KG waxed lyrical about how canggih the acoustics is – from the wooden panels to the moveable roof. And his favourite statement du jour – Even if that fella 3 rows away punya stomach starts to growl – you can hear it! But really, the sound is amazing – trumping Istana Budaya.

The final show of the 3-performance run scored a full house.

As John Georgiadis, the affable conductor, gently led the orchestra into the first piece – Selections from My Fair Lady – I could hardly believe my ears. The piece was perfect; I could enjoy the music for what it was. In comparison, if you were to attend any other Malaysian production, the experience would be marred by technical problems or mediocre, if any, attention to detail. Here, the lush orchestra moved up and down the sound intensity scale without sounding muffled or jarring. The polite beats of the percussion, as well as the gentle notes from the harp, were as clear as day. *Wow* Is this really Malaysia?

Stephen Rahman Hughes (SRH) appeared on stage right for his first song – I Dreamed A Dream from Les Miserables. Looking debonair in a black suit and purple sequined shoes (!!), SRH belted out his version of the tune made popular again recently by Susan Boyle. He belted… and botched it. The song, in context, is an emotionally-charged number, while SRH treated it like a contemporary piece sans the feelings. Sorry, Suzie wins this hands down.

SRH then delivered a delightful rendition of Journey Home from AR Rahman’s Bombay Dreams, including the Indian vocalizations. His voice soared. He must have made a most outstanding Akaash. I enjoyed SRH’s Maria from West Side Story as well, and boy can he reach the upper registers. Luck Be A Lady from Guys and Dolls was fun – though SRH could’ve shown a bit more of his moves – he’s a trained dancer no?

POTO’s The Music of the Night was alright. Had to remind myself that SRH is no Michael Crawford or Ramin Karimloo – so begone unrealistic expectations! Over The Rainbow from Wizard of Oz was obviously a jazzed-up version. Definitely overdone for purists like me, but hey – you need some variety I guess. And this was the reason for the sequined shoes, which he emphatically stated was not his.

Then, my least favourite song for the show – The Impossible Dream from The Man of La Mancha. The arrangement was atrocious. Why didn’t they leave it as it beautifully was? Obviously, one cannot put on ‘showstoppers’ without another Andrew Lloyd Webber tune – and he chose Don’t Cry For Me Argentina from Evita. SRH performed 2 encore numbers – Can You Feel The Love Tonight? from The Lion King – a gorgeous piece. I felt that this song worked very well with his voice. And he did Luck Be A Lady again.

The MPO well deserved the rapturous applause they got. My musically-rudimentary ears could not find a fault. At all. This, is what it means to enjoy the performance for the content. Man, I’m proud of this orchestra.

The show also took on an informal ambience, with SRH sharing a witty banter with John. SRH can sing. SRH can dance. SRH can crack jokes too! These intimate revues, I thought, are non-existent in Malaysia. Well, not any more. An excellent way to spend my afternoon – and at a most reasonable price, RM 40! Despite my petty complaints on the smaller subjective matters, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

My only wish for future shows is to have newer hits on the list. Why only pander to the aunties and uncles? Showcase the diverse musicality of the stage – from Rent and Spring Awakening to Wicked and The Color Purple to Avenue Q and Monty Python’s Spamalot. Yeah, now you would have to throw in the compulsory Love Never Dies as well. Sigh. Andrew, Andrew, Andrew, will we never be free of you?

Love Never Dies

2010-03-11T10:02:00.002+08:00

Love Never Dies is the sequel to the musical megahit The Phantom of the Opera (POTO). The great Andrew Lloyd Webber must have realized that all his musicals post-POTO collectively had a grand sum of 9 rabid fans (one if them is me, of course), save the awesome Sunset Boulevard. Can you even recall the in-between musicals? *Enthusiastically raises hand into the air* I can! I can! I can! When you have the hectic social calendar of a leprous skunk like I have, you would end up listening to Andy’s forgotten and forgettable melodies from Aspects of Love, Whistle Down the Wind, The Beautiful Game, By Jeeves and Woman in White. So this guy obviously has some entitlement issues. Surely, after his ATM-machine productions of POTO and Cats, his omnipotence should not be questioned?!?

Of course, we have heard of his POTO 2 ambition during his birthday bash (cum money-generating concert; moolah gushing in from CDs, DVDs, the works… no Andy action figure?): Dame Kiri Te Kanawa sang The Heart Is Slow To Learn; you couldn’t really make out the words as the world-renowned soprano sang pretty much only the vowels and left out the consonants. This tune ended up in Andy’s bottom drawer, only to be given new life as Our Kind of Love in The Beautiful Game. Well, if you’re a big fan of the tune (if you listen to it often enough, it will grow on you… in a parasite taking root kind of way), you shall hear it once more as the newly titled Love Never Dies. Andy clearly needs this song to be put in its right place – hence where better than the sequel?

Never mind that we thought Christine Daae ends up happily married to the dashing, albeit boring as a kitchen sink, Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. She’d probably be sipping tea, lifting her pinky, while practicing her French, which she so clearly needs to know, since she’s in France. Duh! Maybe Raoul would find more profitable pastimes than merely being the patron of haunted opera houses? We’d think about the Phantom. Ah, poor chap that. We would leave it at that. He was a freak gone wild, and too bad he died. Ho hum.

I got my closure then. Now Andy wants me to revisit the ménage-a-trois once more?

To be fair, any excuse to listen to Andy’s music is good enough for me. Will his new tune soar like his original melodies in POTO? Will they be writhing with passionate emotions like those in Evita? Will they be as opulently memorable as those in Sunset Boulevard? Despite his many many misses, I can’t help but hope that Andy will get a hit again.

There was a scathing online commentary which cruelly re-christened POTO 2 as ‘Paint Never Dries’. I say, give Andy a chance. If we do not impose our own expectations and leave our decades-long attachment with POTO, we may actually find ourselves on a magical journey instead. Perhaps one that gives us the same exhilaration as another production did many years ago, one that began with an auction. Lot 666…

The Sorry Predictability of Life

2010-03-07T19:30:00.003+08:00

Below is an email I sent to my friends in October 2005. Never realized I reached Maslow's pinnacle of self-actualization at such a tender age. Muahaha. In retrospect, I'm a bit fearful at how prescient I sounded.

"Due to the dearth of musicals in KL lately (other than that oh-so-lame production of Oliver!), I obviously cannot continue my highly acclaimed reviews.

BUT - my friends have started to think that I have been busy with work, or (gasp!) even worse - matured! Who - me? I swore to claw my way out of the musty pit of normalcy - where gazillions of idealistic youth have slid into - degenerating into just another -yawn!- face in the 25million-strong Malaysia. Ho well, life will come and go, and so with the society-imposed bell of you-must-have-it-NOW ringing at cued intervals, we will get a car, then a house, then get married, then have children, then watch them grow up, then grow old, then regret, then wither away and die.

Ho hum. That's life, I guess. What happened to the impulsive yearning to get shipped away to Botswana on a mission trip, where basic amenities such as water is lacking? Didn't we once want to change the world, and sculpt it to a semblance of humanity as we see it?

What about the impossible dream of revamping the arts scene of Malaysia? Rightfully or wrongfully, we thought we could make the public appreciate subtler nuances in dialogue, or more novel forms of lighting. Songs that were sung from the heart; not from the mind or from some senseless desire to create a megahit?

We too talked of doing work that actually means something. Not clocking in every friggin' morning, only to face the day - one not so different from the day before, or the day before that.... heck, or even the day one year ago! We are getting our hands dirty trying to follow policies we do not understand, practices we do not agree with, ethics we know no one else practices. For what? A whiff of the cash that comes in at the end of the month? Yup - only to be drained off systematically into our insurance, our car, our house, our parents, our credit card bills, our yadda yadda yadda.

Days melt into weeks that melt into months and before we know it, we'll be at the stage where the cue card goes - 'Time to wither and die'. Ouch.

I tell myself that life must hold more meaning than this. Time to read - philosophy, world history, art, literature! Time to learn - photography, music, dancing, painting! Time to travel - Redang, Vietnam, Egypt, Morocco! I guess as I type down this reminder that life is indeed something to savour, not merely to survive, I think that more importantly, I am
reminding myself.

Remind me, once in a while, and hey - when we're 60, we will look back and say -Now, that was a life well-lived!

P/S This email actually began as a review of Star Wars... But hey, dunno what came over me.... ;P So maybe Star Wars next time eh?"

One Year Later

2009-08-08T17:16:00.002+08:00

It has been one year. Wow. And what an eventful year it has been.

1. The world is still reeling from the effects of the worst global recession in recent memory.

2. Obama is the first American President who is, well, different.

3. Malaysia's political landscape has changed. The opposition grew to strength, and is now standing precariously at the precipice; either to fall into yet another pit of stupidity, or one of great actions that will go down in history as the turning point of Malaysian democracy.

4. I'm still working at the same company. That is a record of sorts - considering how my butt itches every 18 months or so...

5. I now wear a ring on my fourth finger.

With this oh-so-brief re-intro, I'll slip right into my chatterboxical slippers soon to launch this blog to 'greater heights' - the place every Malaysian leader refers to at least 5 times in any speech.

Opinion: The Toilet Downstairs

2008-08-03T17:24:00.004+08:00

Gy and I are currently renovating our house. It's an ancient 30-year old double-storey house, complete with damp patches on the wall, and dubious wiring that crisscrosses the ceiling.

So after much discussion, we decided ˆnotˆ to have a washroom downstairs.

That decision unexpectedly opened up a whole can of worms. Friends have gasped, relatives have tut-tutted, parents have painted a million possible outcomes - all deliriously dire. While opinions are free, these people have not had the decency to check with us why we chose not to have the jamban in the first place. Immediate responses have been the what-were-you-thinking? looks mostly. Even my mom predicted that I would regret this decision forever and ever.

God, it's only a stinking toilet. I know that it may not be convenient for people who come to visit, but I totally do not see the rationale in carving out a 3' by 3' space for the convenience of people who step into my house probably less than 5% of the hours in a year. It makes no sense. And just because everyone has a bathroom downstairs does not make it the best option in the world. That is sucky reasoning, if you ask me.

That is pretty much the state of mind most of us are in. Just because it is, therefore it is good. Poppycock.

Take for example the institutions and rites society has imposed upon us. A wedding should entail a diamond ring, a pre-wedding photo shoot, a lavish dinner, a do-everything-and-anything-to-please-our-parents-and-relatives attitude and kazaam! - it's nearly perfect. How about the very basic thought that a marriage joins 2 persons who are madly in love into one. Who gives a fink about how this union should be celebrated? Would I care if picking up my bride in an Iswara will start the in-laws tongues a-wagging? I don't. Would I care if the wedding date is not predestined by the celestial charts? I don't. Would I care if all my relatives are not invited for my wedding? Screw it. I don't. I only care about 'US'.

I used to think that weddings are a big show-off parade for the Chinese. A Malay friend recently mentioned how much is spent on building the grandest pelamin ever, as that would be the yardstick of wealth. What a sour taste in the mouth that leaves. A wedding celebrates the love of the newlyweds, and here you have parents wanting to outdo one another for apparently ill-advised reasons in the first place.

Why place such a premium on what people think? The more we try to meet society's demands, the more disappointed we will be with ourselves. Life is short. Set your own goals, set your own dreams and achieve them.

What am I gonna do about my toilet? If my friends come a-visiting and they cannot find the will to walk 12 steps to the toilet upstairs, they are welcome to pee at the backyard. And they will probably never be invited back.

Stupid societies breed stupid people. I'd rather be the odd one out, thankyouverymuch.

Reviews... 'cos I'm back!

2008-07-16T17:35:00.011+08:00

'To my people in the dark... Still out there in the dark...'

So sings Norma Desmond, the demented creature in Sunset Boulevard, stubbornly clinging on to her zaman kegemilangan yang lampau. Likewise I obstinately latch upon my (nonexistent) glory days of blogging... when my audience numbered in the ones!

Alrighty. Business first- I watched P. Ramlee - the Musical (PRTM) twice!

My initial misgivings: i) I adored Sean Ghazi as the smooth crooner in the first season, and I simply couldn't imagine another wannabe, ii) will I doze off again in the first Act this time?, iii) God, please tell me they removed the horrendous paparazzi!

Well I should have just discarded my doubts at the front door of IB as the second season of PRTM was a much better production. My misgivings all came to naught... except the irritating paparazzi. The contemporary take on musical direction breathed life into the music, making it somehow lighter and fluffier. From the get go, the Penang song itself became such a joy to watch, and to listen to.

The rhythm was set... and scene after scene whizzed by. Before I knew it, it was the end! Now this is a good musical! Making 3 hours feel like 1! The tighter plot worked miracles for the story (I have no idea what changes were made, but it sure felt 'right' this time round).

Musly rose to the occasion as P. Ramlee... though I still think Sean Ghazi had more of a stage presence. Speaking to people to whom P. Ramlee was a staple idol since young, Musly was more 'P. Ramlee' than Sean. His quirky mannerisms were very well depicted. Whatever it is, I did not not enjoy Musly's performance. Azizah was a let-down though. She could hardly carry the beautiful duet with Musly. Pity. Melissa Saila - devilishly delicious yet again! Of course the Saloma-P. Ramlee scenes remained my favourite, as the heart is really felt there. Somehow.

Another obvious improvements were the lighting (finally, some thought went into it). The one-dimensional triumvirate of Shaw, Shaw and Rajhans were less annoying this time around.

On the whole, it was the new treatment of the music and the tightening of the story that made a world of difference. It's a sincere form of enjoyment, not stuck with the qualifier '... for a Malaysian production'.

The second time round, I had the privilege of sitting next to the orchestra pit. It was a beautiful experience, seeing the musicians having so much fun, and the interaction going on among them. It makes one long for such productions to be the norm, where the people actually are passionate about the material they are working on. Simply beautiful.
Then Lady Luck smiled upon me once more, and I had complimentary tickets to Dansing Thru Broadway.

The flimsy premise was just an excuse to showcase numerous stage hits of the past. A kid (manly and testosterone-laden) wanted to get a job at the theatre, and he was taken on a whirlwind introduction to some of the most popular Broadway tunes of our time (after which the kid seemed pretty low on testosterone, but brimming with oestrogen).

First thing is the noble thought behind this production - introducing the world of musical theatre to the audience. Though the execution... er, the execution... well, it is a noble thought for a noble cause.

Main problem - why the minus one tracks? The recorded instrumental thingy doesn't give a fink of emotion to the tunes... This is especially true for stirring melodies; like The Last Night Of The World and All I Ask Of You. Tender tunes are rendered flat and lifeless. Even a live piano accompaniment would have created a more expressive complement to the singing. Terrible terrible pity.

Second problem - the technical crew seriously needs to undergo a rehabilitative course. The wanton mike-on-mike-off moments do a great injustice to the performers, and the performance. The sound system left too much to be desired. I won't even get started on the limp lighting treatment. I won't.

The performance for the night has to go to The Strongest Suit - incorporating the best elements of the musical. For most of the other songs, they were hit-and-miss. More misses than hits, unfortunately.

Thank goodness for the secret weapon - children. No matter how bad the production, dress little kids up in butter-yellow sunflowers, or suit them up in cutesy Victorian garb, the audience would give a guaranteed 'aw...'. I'm guilty too. Good on you, kids!

My personal gripe is the selection of tunes. How can a tribute to Broadway be bereft of Stephen Sondheim? Not only that, the inclusion of Carryin' The Banner (Newsies) was a blatant oversight, as it was never a stage production, only a Disney musical. I loved that song, originally as it captured a very Brooklyn-New York working class feel at the turn of the century, ingeniously choreographed. But on this stage, the magic of the original was clearly missing. But that's my personal opinion. *Sigh* Everyone has an opinion...

While I'm still swimming neck-deep in crappy work, I'm glad to be able to catch a couple of musicals. Apparently there will be more musicals on the way. That, is good news indeed!

Stage Review: Uncut Untitled Paper House

2008-03-17T13:03:00.004+08:00

There is always a danger in placing your handiwork next to someone else's. When I was Scouting, I once tested my fingers' dexterity to the limit, folding grasshoppers from the slender leaves of the coconut tree. All for the sake of some Ahli Kraftangan badge, or some Apa Nama Pun Tak Penting badge.

I rewarded myself with a congratulatory pat on my back (yes, even back then, I was a pretty sad person) three hours later, my fingers criss-crossed with angry blade cuts no thanks to my stubby fingers and total creative dense-ness. My emerald green grasshopper looked almost ready to take flight at the snap of my bleeding fingers. Oh yes, I'm da man.

When I passed it up to the equally dense-looking examiner, whose kraftangan skills probably extended to spud-stamping in primary school, I saw a whole range of grasshoppers on his desk: bi-coloured, triple-folded, props included, detachable wings etc. Gosh. A second look at my grasshopper - a plain crumpled mess of mutilated leaves. That's perspective for you, boy.

The triple bill Uncut Untitled Paper House invites comparisons, fairly or not, warranted or otherwise. Which, to me, is a pity - as each playwright has his own pros and cons. When placed one next to another, I couldn't help but pick favourites.

Untitled heralds Johann Lim's debut as both a playwright and director. He delves into a common Asian theme. Bottom three lines: Breakdancing son wants to do something out of the norm. Traditional mother balks. And balks. So there you have it, the huge cultural chasm separating parents and their offspring sparking off conflicts of Loch Ness-ian proportions.

Yet to me, it felt tired. Alfred Loh plays the Son, and a very whiny Son at that. Fang Chyi (whoa - a total un-Fang Fang!) as the Mother fares much better, simply because she reminds me of the so many aunties I've met before. The lines, however, are a wee bit cliche. Mother has the same objections in a million previous plays, and the Son has the same million retorts too. The Sister (Amelia Chen) feels obligatorily added for comic relief (New Age-ism is passe too) - softening the verbal blows between the Mother and the Son - without taking the story further.

Truth to be told, with or without the Sister the story would not have changed much. The annoying thing about this play is the endless fixation with imaginary actions [holding glass, eating sandwich, wiping tabletop (again and again! How big is that tabletop again?)]. Unnecessary distractions. Johann is one of the most verbally-gifted guys I know. But - reprised, recycled and rehashed is my honest take on his maiden effort.

I was quite apprehensive about watching Ky-Gan's Uncut. How was I to pretend liking it? I thought. Ky-Gan has always leaned towards melodrama, long recitations and over-explanations, devices I hardly support. Fish plays Encik Zakaria, the head honcho of the Malaysian Censorship Board. He started off shaky, but as his monologue gathered steam, Fish comes across very believable - and that in spite of the avalanche of words gushing out. Encik Zakaria is, I believe, fashioned after good villains or wicked heroes (paradoxical characters Ky-Gan favours), and this time - Judge Claude Frollo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. A moral cop who believes in his own 'right' principles, no matter how inherently 'wrong' they are to the others, falling from grace aided by Aishah Sinclair (and who can resist that?).

The actors have done a good job, but Fish would earn extra brownie points for effectively playing the more difficult character. The star of the show, though, would have to be the words. The very verbose script is delectably delicious. I thoroughly enjoyed Ky-Gan's work. Despite the obvious eventuality, the smart banter of the two actors is entertaining. His pet style, if you can call it that, of consciously adopting inconspicuous items into the story, such as Aishah's Scrunchy(-ie?), is deviously used to great effect here. One observation though - alliteration should never take precedence over speakability, methinks.

Ky-Gan's word-heavy approach is something fresh (for me, at least), and I genuinely look forward to his next music-less undertaking.

Paper House is Mark Beau de Silva. Watching it is like meeting an old friend, initial awkwardness melts away to familiar comfort and warmth. 10 minutes too long, the story details two sisters', Maybel Chan and Bella Rahim, emotional journey over the course of a night. Mark infuses his play with rich cultural embellishments; delightful even for this Cina pek.

But as with old friends, there is a tendency to be cheong hei. And that was how I felt. Other than the juicy cultural morsels dished out, the sisters overstayed their welcome. Bella Rahim shines when she is in 'the zone' (that place actors go to when they completely assume the character). Yet oftentimes, her effort to remember the next line, the next emotion, the next intonation dampens her performance. Likewise, Maybel Chan felt 'kooky' - well-rehearsed, but losing her sense of character one time too many, and not really fitting in snugly.

While his stories are always entertaining, Mark runs the risk of sounding like a broken record. Still, why fix something that is not broken?

Technical
Lighting was splendid, in my opinion. Varying moods to fit the different plays. I like!
Costumes were spot-on; every size seems to fit to a t! Costume designer, give yourself a round of applause! And nothing looks like it came straight off the racks of Kamdar too!
The stupid Lego blocks are that - stupid. Cumbersome, unwieldy, unnecessary. Seeing the actors moving the blocks is distracting. Why? Why the blocks? What additional angle do these blocks symbolically shed on the stories?

Back to my origami grasshopper. While my grasshopper was outranked, outclassed and out-dazzled by the other more deft fingers, I still got my Badge. And hey, at least I have the balls to try it on my own (yes, there are other Scouts who got their patrol-mates to do it for them). And while it might not have gleamed to high heavens, at least it was my own work, and I was proud of it.

So there. Congratulations all.

Opinion: General Elections 2008

2008-02-18T13:25:00.003+08:00

I, a Malaysian citizen, will exercise my constitutional rights this coming general elections to vote in a government that shows the following qualities:

1. Accountability
It is high time the Datuks and Datuk-wannabes in our local councils, in our government, in our Parliament, all realize that they are 'elected'. It is a privilege to be elected, not a right. You serve us, the electorate, the people. You hold the keys to our hard-earned taxes, again not by right. So please think twice before you fling the ringgits to the wind on hare-brained roundabout beautification projects or superpricey screwdrivers.
Show some sincerity. Show us that you want to be elected because you truly want to serve the community. Support your tin kosong press conferences with hard data: accounts and statistics. I want to know how my money is actually used, and how much goes into your pocket. I want to know how efficiency is measured in your department, and whether all the counters will be open when I'm there rather than the solitary Kak next to the row of empty chairs beside her. I want to know if complaints are properly recorded and acted upon.
All these issues are pretty commonplace in any decent corporation. Yet why do our elected officials still get away with everything (some say even murder)?
I want accountability. Black and white.

2. Respect
Malaysia, whether you like it or not, will always have different races. We will not end up as one blob of similar-coloured flesh and pray in the same way as the homogeneous Japanese are. We are diverse.
I want leaders who lead Malaysians, regardless of race, religion or title. When the leader speaks, it is for all; not to kiss the asses of ringgit-heavy towkays or to stoke the carnal bloodlust of racist communities. Unite, not divide.
I will no longer stand for any one-community champion. If you want to represent one race and one religion at the expense of the others, Malaysia has no place for you. Get out.
I'm not a majority race, and I'm not a majority religion. But I'm Malaysian. Please respect me as one.

3. Intelligence
Talk is cheap. Hence we have asinine ministers making asinine comments. What do you take us for? Idiots who only read sanctioned KBSR and KBSM textbooks? You humiliate us in the global arena by demonstrating how shamefully shallow your knowledge is. But in Malaysia, you can still pretend that you're smart. And sadly, we still gobble your dumbass remarks whole.
Not only that, we have unnecessary sexist remarks making the rounds in the Parliament. No, the comments are not funny. They are not smart either. They are plain stupid. I didn't put you in the Parliament to make general comments about skirts, and toilets and broken dams. You are in Parliament to debate! Intelligently! Why don't we hear statements that are supported by hard facts and research? Why do we have to cringe everytime an MP speaks, because they'd rather engage in childish banter and name-calling?
We look to the Parliament to engage in high-level discussions, not for embarrassing Punch and Judy rip-offs. So yes, intelligence is definitely a must-have. Buy a brain, if need be.

4. Separation of powers
Montesquieu defined this doctrine in the 17th century. Yet here we are, in the 21st century, still grappling with the basic concepts of a democracy. Is it really that difficult to comprehend?
Restore our judicial, revive our legislative, restrict our executive.

5. Vision
Enough of corridors flanking all corners of our country. Tell me, in simple terms, where are we heading to?
Are we focusing on agriculture again? If so, how much are we investing in this and how much do we stand to gain in the near and farther future? Will this be a sustainable economy for us in the long run? How are our various agriculture-based institutions being involved? Are we growing for our own consumption or for the world? If for the world, are we even sure they want what we're growing?
These different corridors - how do they contribute? Are we looking at biotechnology as the next frontier, or rocket science? What about software development? Are we also considering Malaysia as the outsourcing centre of choice?
Too many vague terms, too little details. It leaves a feeling of dread, actually. If our highest echelons of power do not know where to navigate us to, we may end up hitting an iceberg or Titanic proportions. We need a Vision. Now, we're just plain lost.

Reading thus far, you may think I'll be voting for the Opposition. That's not a foregone conclusion.
With that many Blue Clowns making decisions for the country, I'm not sure that Red Clowns would do any better.
In the end, I guess the vote has to go to the best of the worst. That makes me sad for my country.

Opinion: The Introduction of M

2008-02-12T09:07:00.000+08:00

ACS Ipoh was a place of sunshine, rainbows and candy sticks way back in 199x. Er - interminably long bunga manggar + kompang processions, stink-o-lethal toilets and broken furniture were more like it. The simple fact is, life was simple then; the canteen wasn't caged up a la Alcatraz, the Librarian room was an excellent hideout for self-appointed take-fives (now, don't tell Mrs. K that!) and the scariest student-eater by default was En. R, the afternoon session cane-wielder. En. MI the morning session Discipline teacher, aka teapot as he perpetually had an arm resting on his hips (the handle) and the other arm in an upraised-S, like the Snake kung-fu style, or to be frank - the camp camp flippy hand (the spout), only struck fear in oh, er, ants, I suppose.

Then by the-ancient-spirits-of-evil, M appeared. And her gargantuan hands literally held every single student's balls in her iron hands. *Gulp* Kecut telur semua. We were at the cusp of examhood, with PMR just around the corner. This would be the final year, we know, that the class would stay together, as after that, people would go off to MARA, or take different streams. Life would go on, but you'd only go through Form 3 once.

Now Main Convent, the fount of gorgeous gaggles of gals and the local Milan runway of sorts, had a few Third Form classes making their own class magazines. And we were struck by the idea - why not make our own class magazine? We had Michelangelos, Hemmingways and Dickens by the bucket. Pergilicious, our Form teacher, was nonchalant about the whole initiative. As usual, nothing mattered except her dentist husband and her infallible children.

Su, Yus and I (the ahem, ahem, editors) then approached Miss Cheong (a temp teacher, but the Dead Poets Society sort, well kinda) to be our adviser. Unbeknown to us, Pergilicious was seething mad that she, the wife of a dentist *gasp*, and the mother of 2 Einsteins-in-the-making *gasp, gasp*, was dropped for a young upstart. Ah, the frail egos of English teachers.

So happily, we got everyone to pitch in, and we even managed to get it with printed covers (all for less than RM 5 per book). I was definitely proud of our achievement. I guess we all were. We did not suspect anything malicious lurking in the background. After all, most of us just reached puberty - sucking up to teachers certainly ain't one of our maturity milestones. Pergilicious was biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike. *Doo doo doo*

Opinion: Memories of Days Long Ago

2008-02-11T11:41:00.000+08:00

Trawling through google images, I realized that my beloved school (more than 110 years old, ahem ahem!) does not have any blardy nice pictures! Note to self: Take some pics the next time home.

Ah, Chinese New Year - somehow or other 'reunions' are more acquainted with this occasion than any others. Maybe because I'm Chinese. Ah. *Smacks forehead* Other than catching up with relatives, both eccentric and eclectic (stories for another time, I promise), Chinese New Year is a time when old friends call each other up and arrange for our own get-togethers.

This year, the ever-reliable event coordinator and alumni CNN, Cze, has zipped off to the UK, leaving the rest of us high and dry. As we've always said year in year out, without Cze around, we will never be able to meet up. True enough this year, other than a few half-hearted SMS-es, we didn't meet up.

Over time, our gatherings have dwindled in numbers. From our fresh-out-of-SPM chow-downs that needed at least 2 large tables, to a cosy corner for five last year. Even the ubiquitous 'yee sang' has not been tossed for more than 3 years. *Sigh*

These friends I grew up with, people who saw me at my most ridiculous (when I long-jumped and tore my pants), at my most vulnerable (when the Lucifer-spawn Puan M threatened to throw me out of school over a class magazine), at my happiest (when I staged ACS's first all-student musical with their support), and at my best (when I still wore 28" pants). Ha.

Now, Chak is in kiasu-nation, Khai is in no life-nation, Mel is in Bushland, Xiao Cao is in ulu-land, and all of a sudden, no one seems to be here anymore.

Here's to great memories, and may there be more to come! Gong Xi Fa Cai!

Musicals 101.2

2008-01-31T09:47:00.000+08:00

So you'd like to give musicals a try. Where do you start? Well, as Julie Andrews sang: Let's start at the very beginning - a very good place to start. Dumb lyrics? I know. It was those oh-what-a-beautiful-morning days, when toot sweets were readily available and all and sundry whistled a happy tune. Sorry, in-joke. Ha ha.

A safe introduction comes in the form of Disney's animated cartoons. Nope, don't go through your elder sister's stash of classics Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella just yet; the tunes'd send you screaming for sanity. And forget about your younger sister's The Emperor's New Groove or Brother Bear.

The best collection, or the most appealing one at least, starts from The Little Mermaid and ends with Hercules. I would say The Hunchback of Notre Dame too, but we would leave that Handel-like piece for a later stage.

The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin and Hercules were composed by Alan Menken (standing ovation please). His music is very accessible - and more importantly he puts in contemporary ballads. So at least you would already be familiar with A Whole New World, Beauty and the Beast and Go The Distance.

The Lion King - an amazing Elton John masterpiece is actually the biggest animated hit for Disney. From the opening strains of The Circle of Life, you should be hooked by the catchy tunes and lyrics (Hakuna matata!) till the end. In fact The Lion King is also the most celebrated stage adaptation of a Disney cartoon, winning numerous Tony's - largely due to Julie Taymor's animal-like choreography, savanna-inspired sets and ingenious costumes.

Give these cartoons a chance. Don't worry too much about when the character bursts into song. Rather, feel how music enhances the mood of the story.

What if I hate ballads?, you may ask. Not to worry - for the non-mainstream music lovers, there are other options available. No worries.

Movie Review: Sweeney Todd

2008-01-30T11:06:00.001+08:00

Verdict: The best movie adaptation of a stage musical in recent years.

My Meandering Monologue:
Stephen Sondheim is easily the spark plug that reignited Broadway to its former glory. His musicals, even so, are not as massively popular as the British imports (mainly by Cameron Mackintosh and Lloyd Webber, who flushed the stages of New York, Los Angeles and Chicago with megamusicals that went on forever).

He is the rare composer/lyricist, with both talents feeding off each other. That is why Sondheim's music is always organic - twisting and turning and teasing along familiar thematic grooves, accommodating his sardonic and cynical lyrics. Sit through a Sondheim musical and you will be hard-pressed to recall a tune. That's because he eschews musical structures, and each line is always delightfully different yet reminiscently similar. Stephen Schwartz and Maury Yeston too try to wear both hats, but their heads are rather small for two. Only Sondheim, in my opinion, is able to do it with such ingenuity.

That being said, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street has always been my favourite Sondheim musical. Into The Woods is a close second. But A Little Night Music, Company and Assassins are quite a chore to listen to.

As far as big screen adaptations go, The Phantom of the Opera left a bitter taste in my mouth, kinda like after watching chubby porn: it's interesting, but it ain't gonna get the audience going. Hairspray was fun. Rent was a shadow of its stage self. But Sweeney Todd seems to have exploited the movie medium to its fullest potential.

Tim Burton's perpetually bleak and grey Victorian England sits in very well with our two stars, Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovett (a reunion of The Corpse Bride's protagonists), with their double-black eye bags and dour clothes. Tim Burton clipped some songs and scenes, but in the process managed to enhance the storyline. The major casualties of the cuts: Anthony and Johanna lost a few melodic numbers, and Judge Turpin his 'Mea Culpa' lust-filled prayer. Yet I did not miss them in this version.

Johnny Depp is an excellent actor. His characterizition, right down to his idiosyncratic movements, is well-studied and more importantly very believeable. To be able to win our sympathy endears Sweeney Todd to us. We feel him.

Helena Bonham Carter, while much younger than the original Angela Lansbury, and shapelier, as Mrs. Lovett lends her character a breathy raspy voice - that would not have worked on stage - that is so deliciously rendered onto the silver screen.

The two young lovers, Johanna and Anthony, were obviously not chosen for their beauty, or their voices. Just like Tim Burton to pick Victorian-looking waifs (the kind that stare out of old black-and-white photographs and send a shiver down your spine), androgynous, malnutritioned and pale.

The Beadle is superbly cast - oil, schmuck and all. Judge Turpin (if it weren't for Annie pointing out that he's Snape, I would have not known) is a terror to behold - voice, look and poise. Brr... Senor Pirelli is a hoot (Borat, anyone?), but the lad Toby looks a bit too camera-conscious for my liking.

Tim Burton harnessed the proximity of the camera to the characters to very good use. The intimacy affords us low whispers, and muted expressions that would have been all but impossible on stage. Effectively utilized, the movie brought the characters closer to us. His treatment of the off-song 'By The Sea' is hilarious - a respite from the bloodbath that awaits us all.

In the end, Sondheim is triumphant. His lyrics ('pumping pussies into pies', 'politicians are so oily, you'd need a doily' and 'ladies seem to like it - flies do too!') and music seamlessly blend into a heady intoxicating ride. And the score now stands Sondheim 1 - Lloyd Webber 0. Sorry, Andrew.

Musicals 101.1

2008-01-03T12:50:00.000+08:00

Instead of being a perpetual cynic and/or critic, I think it's high time I share something informative. Something I'm passionate about. Musicals.

There are some myths about musicals that we must first dispel:

Myth: All men in musicals are gay.
Fact: Most men in musicals are gay, not all.

Myth: Songs in musicals sound like opera.
Fact: Some musicals, written as quasi-operas (The Phantom of The Opera or Nine come to mind) may have operatic numbers. But there are endless types of musicals which incorporate different musical styles and rhythms.

Myth: The actors in a musical sing non-stop.
Fact: Many musicals are not sung-through (ie they contain dialogue). Sung-through musicals are an elaborate behemoth, that has seen a steady decline in popularity.

Myth: Musicals are boring.
Fact: Musicals are infused with comedy and drama. Many modern musicals, such as or Avenue Q or Spelling Bee, are in fact comedy shows in song.

Myth: Only artsy people will appreciate musicals.
Fact: Rubbish. Musicals are mass-appeal entertainment fare. Even some TV shows (Scrubs, Xena-The Warrior Princess, and Buffy-The Vampire Slayer) have had a musical episode. Musicals are lightweight - and need no in-depth analyses to fathom the story.

So what should one start to listen to? Ha, that is the question.

Opinion: facebook

2008-01-03T12:41:00.000+08:00

facebook has whittled my productivity to -43.7%. facebook is bad. facebook is very bad.

Ho well. So is blogger. Whatudoo?

Opinion: The Gullibility Of All And Sundry

2007-12-29T14:24:00.000+08:00

"My God! Coke is soooo erosive, it can, like, corrode half the toilet seat away!"

"And it's true! If you stuff roasted almonds into the mouth of a suffocating person, then you force his forehead to touch his knees three times, while someone simultaneously slaps his face with a slipper (clogs are optional), he will be miraculously healed!"

"I daresay! Put Kampung Koh chilli sauce mixed with Kikkoman soy sauce into your engine, your car will go an additional gazillion miles per gallon!"

Funny, isn't it? Half-truths and non-truths making their rounds on the e-mail circuit are immediately accepted as honest-to-God facts. Told to finish our course of antibiotics (in order to prevent bacterial resistance), we would pooh-pooh after the second day. Or we'd stuff roasted almonds into our mouths. Yet we'd stay away from 'heaty' foods such as seafood, red meat, and everything tasty so that our bodies could heal, despite the non-existent logic in that. Yes, sickly foods are for sick people - all things bland, colourless and mucky. Porridge, bread and toilet-paper soup.

I wonder what pre-conditioning process we were put through to blindly accept nonsensical fallacies masquerading as irrefutable commandments, and yet disbelieve all things factual? Is it because, at some basic primeval level, we seek such consolatory vagaries? Some blind need to 'think we know better'... simply because the e-mail says so? Why trust a forwarded e-mail, when we distrust the professional in front of us?

I can only attribute that to having an 'itchy backside'. Not that professionals are all fine upstanding people anyway. Most of them have vested interests in ventures, relationships and affiliations that compromise the objectivity of their opinions. But that's a story for another time. This time round - I groan at how these e-mails affect our lives.

Initially I took the trouble to correct, backed by professional qualifications, a couple of health- or drug-related lies. After some time, I just shrugged it off. Why bother? This nonsense makes for an entertaining read. Why stir up shit? No one cares what the 'professional' opinion is. They like novel exciting facts popping up in their mailboxes every other hour.

Besides, if anything bad happens - they only need eat roast almonds.

And have a slipper ready.

All You Need Is Love?

2007-12-29T14:19:00.000+08:00

What a friggin' blatant lie.

Review (Sort Of): Enchanted Across The Universe

2007-12-18T12:34:00.000+08:00

Lately, Gy and I seem to have been bitten by the TGV bug. Now that the hieroglyph-encrusted flyover to Sunway Pyramid parking is officially open (thereby bypassing the eon-long wait at the LDP/Sunway U-turn), we once again reenter the modern world of shopping.

While I still have 2 free passes to Mr Margorium's Magical Emporium (starring the very cleavacious Natalie Portman), I simple couldn't resist musicals. *Sigh* Clockwork. That's me.

Enchanted and Across The Universe are total opposites of a musical movie.

Enchanted excels in self-jibes and over-the-top acting (which is called for). Very predictable story - with a lot of fun. Belief is to be suspended (what, a deranged witch transforms to a megalomonster in front of hundreds of people and no one talks about it later?? And a cartoon character can stay happily ever after in NYC - no immigration problems??). Glorious songs by Alan Menken (welcome back!). Fun-filled fantasy meant for a fun-filled time. I liked it.

Across The Universe has love at its core too, but told in a much darker vein. Very raw and realistic. At times, Julie Taymor (in all her genius) draws us into a swirl of colours and motifs and cartoon-ification, which heightens the story a tad more. It's like an amalgam of MTVs, as we walk the rocky path of conformity, racism, Vietnam war and individuality. Its message hits home. And I'm definitely getting myself a Beatles' CD after this. Amazing stuff.

Musicals. Wouldn't the world be a touch sadder without them?

Question: If you were to die in 1 month's time, what would you do differently?

2007-11-23T21:22:00.000+08:00

I was once told, the correct answer would be "Nothing". Correct in the sense that it would indicate that 'nothing' is wrong with your current life, and that you are already living your life each day as if it's your last.

Stage Review: P. Ramlee The Musical

2007-11-05T09:26:00.000+08:00

The day the sale of P. Ramlee - The musical (PRTM) tickets started, I very quickly bought 2 prime-view seats for RM 120 each. With the return of the amazing PGLM production team and the addition of mega-big theatre names, PRTM was a show I simply couldn't miss. But miss it I did, when my meeting was extended, and I couldn't come back in time to catch it. Gy went with Keong instead (as part of his peng-kultur-an process). Ha.

But Gy, bless her funny bunny, managed to get me a 180-ringgit ticket for the last-minute additional show - the matinee on 3rd November! Yata!!!

I was at Istana Budaya (IB) with 20 minutes to spare. I rushed to the box-office, being the fifth in line. There were three IB staff manning the counter, but only one was issuing tickets. The pakcik on the left had a concerned look, as he toyed with his mouse. The budak on the left couldn't seem to sit still, as he moved from his seat to the printer, to the pakcik, back to his chair. Only the anneh in the middle printed tickets. Yet it took 4 minutes, on average, to serve each person. 4 blardy minutes! In this time of technology and teh tarik in space!

The lady behind me grumbled audibly, "Takkan nak cetak tiket ambil begitu lama? Biasa-lah, ini Malaysia kan?!" What was frustrating was that those IB idiots behind the counter didn't even attempt to look as if they were in a hurry. The lackadaisical, almost retarded, pace resumed. Then one IB lady popped up from behind the counter - with a brainwave! "Semua yang sudah bayar datang sini!" she gestured to the left end of the counter. A split second later, all ranks broke (Malaysians wat, what do you expect?) and the crowd pushed towards the counter. 5 minutes to 3.00 pm, mind you. The IB genius walked out to the box-office foyer and shouted again "Sudah bayar datang sini!". Ok, was it sini counter, or sini foyer? Confused looks all around. I couldn't care less, pushed my way to the front, and firmly said,"I've paid for my ticket, and I have seat number. Can I go up now?" Immediately I got some attention; another IB lady signed my print-out and told me I was good to go. I worked my way out of the (by then) bloodthirsty crowd, and proceeded into the theatre. IB, IB... tsk tsk: Inikah Budaya?

PRTM began.

An amazing show, by any standards. Focusing on the loves of P. Ramlee, Azizah, Junaidah, Norizan and Saloma, is a pretty interesting angle. It sure makes for a good musical premise. The musical traces the great star's 'humble' beginnings in Penang, his meteoric rise to fame in Singapore, his many wives, to his final days.

The music by Dick Lee this time does not really stand out. He seems to be recycling formulaic chord progressions and movements. This usually works, provided the melody line is memorable... For me, Mulanya Cinta shows him at his best - predictable yet original (does this make sense?). As for the rest, the arrow appears to have missed the bulls-eye, by quite a distance.

The lyrics suffer from a are-they-good?-I-don't-really-
know-because-I-cannot-hear-what-everyone's-singing malady.
Could be. But I cannot tell... Sorry, Adlin Aman Ramlie.

Which brings me to another point, diction and enunciation were rather poor - considering that the songs are mostly in BM, which should have been much clearer. The chorus tended to miss their first-syllable entry and mess up the clarity by not enunciating. They should have roped in Mervyn Peters to work his (sorely needed) magic here!

To see Sean Ghazi perform is really fun. Energetic and confident with two happy feet, it's a joy to see a well-rounded performer on stage. He has studied P. Ramlee well, doing justice to his numbers.

Melissa Saila as Norizan earns kudos from me simply because of her magnetic stage presence (though not her singing). She plays the arrogant, spoilt blue-blooded wife to a hilt.

Liza Hanim is perfectly cast as Saloma - gorgeous voice and such great chemistry with Sean Ghazi. To me, the play really started on a roll once Liza Hanim appeared. If I were not so kedekut, I'd have thrown her roses in addition to my standing ovation.

Chedd Yusof clearly relished his role as Sukardi.

Joseph Gonzales as BS Rajhans did not caricaturize his character enough, methinks. He was only slightly Indian, and this made many jokes flat. If BS Rajhans is meant to be the comic relief, he can afford to be a bit over in his Indian portrayal. As Shaw, Douglas Lim is Douglas Lim is Douglas Lim. As the other Shaw, Colin Kirton dropped his Cina accent for a brief moment, but only very brief. The song A Dollar For A Dollar does not do justice to both their voices, unfortunately.

Raja Malik - breathtaking sets. He is way too good for a local production! The train (as everyone had talked about) was a stroke of genius! But for improvements, perhaps he should look into sets that could be changed faster between scenes, as sometimes the set changes were a bit cumbersome. But that's just a very very minor complaint - bravo!

Infinatez as the paparazzi. Unnecessary.

While Mac Chan ran five steps ahead with his ingenious lighting for PGLM, Teo Kuang Han backtracked seven steps in PRTM. Flat, dull, unimaginative - Teo clearly let the production down with his banal lighting design. Pity.

Costumes were delightful, as befits a lavish production as this.

Choreography was not as lively or engaging as expected. Pat Ibrahim shone in PGLM, but here he's merely ok. But that's already a very good ok, considering the standards this musical is setting.

Directors Adlin Aman Ramlie and Zahim Albakri, congratulations on yet another astounding musical. For a 3-hour sitting, I humbly feel that a snip or two of the scissors may help a bit in tightening the flow. There were moments where one's concentration could easily stray.

On the whole, it was a darn good production. Not better than PGLM, but definitely one that pushes the boundaries of local theatre a lot further. The Tony has to go to Tiara Jacquelina for her (almost) golden touch, creating wonder after wonder on the Malaysian stage. A female Cameron Mackintosh - who has an innate ability to draw the creme de la creme together (except the ill-advised lighting designer). Congratulations, all.

Opinion: Stereotypes Stay Their Type

2007-11-02T14:48:00.000+08:00

I reached l'aeroport Charles de Gaulle 3 hours early. The MH line was already very long when I joined the queue. 20 minutes later, the line must be about 50 metres long, snaking its way behind me. But still a single line, mostly Caucasians.

After I got my boarding pass, saying 'Merci beaucoup' for the last time - I dashed to the gate, ready to burn my plastic buying junk snacks francaise. Whoa - another long queue was at the immigration. I patiently took my place at the back, next to a Polish-American nun. As we got closer to the gate (and looking back, the line must be at least 200 meters long!), all of a sudden the single line suddenly became two, then three. The reason: a troop of Chinese peeps just cut the line way in front! Led by their nauseatingly Chinese tour leader, happily waving his serrated triangular flag! I was furious! A million and one swear words in various dialects came to mind... but being Malaysian, all I did was huff and puff in silence.

But the white man behind me, being a white man, starting shouting:"No way! This is unfair! Hey you! Get back in line!" The sniggering Peking buffoon nonchalantly flagged his group in, without a glance elsewhere. The nun beside me was shaking her head, evidently tempted to hurl an expletive or two. I felt so ashamed to be Asian.

Just as I got to the front of the line, another line was forcibly formed - this time by Japanese aunties. No matter how much I love Hiro Nakamura, I couldn't bear this group of pastel-faced curly gremlins taking my spot. I pretty much yelled "Do you mind! Line up please" The head gremlin, bejeweled fingers clutching her Banzai Nippon passport, motioned to the ladies behind in a high-pitched bark. Clearly they had some kamikaze strategy to cut their way through, indifferent to the rest of the people (some who have been there for the past 45 mins, obediently in line!).

Using my girth as a bullying factor, I stomped my foot into the front, disregarding these wizened white raisins. I was definitely boiling.

There you have it - Caucasians, outspoken but toe the line; Asians, self-centred mindless creatures of Jahiliyah and beyond; Malaysian, sit back, observe, and shrug. Yeah, I'm a friggin' racist. Can you blame me?

MWT: Confiteor Deo, omnipotenti

2007-10-29T00:49:00.000+08:00

As I stepped in the hallowed hall of Notre Dame, centuries of Catholic faith weighed upon my very agnostic shoulders. The beauty of the church that bore testament to the might of the Church throughout the ages was simply overwhelming. I reverently shuffled past the many shrines filling the side alcoves, resisting the urge to make the sign of the cross; which many years ago would have meant something to me, and to Him.

Hundreds of flickering candles cast an almost ethereal glow in the otherwise gloomy bowels; signs that the Catholic faithful still believe in intercessory prayers (a euphemism for praying to everyone else but God). The pillars rose high into quartered domed ceilings - the space created a sense of insignificance within me: in the grand scheme of things, what is the impact of one person? Positively, it could be that one should stand in awe of the everlasting glory of God.

The huge stained-glass windows, when bathed in light, was a miracle to behold. When Esmeralda in Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame sang "I don't know if You can hear me, or if You even care..." in Notre Dame, it was indeed most apt. Somehow, you'd feel that venting your feelings at a silent God in this place would be most effective, that He is closer, somehow.

I touched the cold stone pillars, wondering what stories they knew. I savoured the moment, when a flame rekindled in my heart - that perhaps God is here. Oblivious to the similarly awestruck tourists around me, I nearly felt tears in my eyes as the lovely soprano voices singing hymns in French soared into the heavens of Notre Dame.

I crossed myself on the way out - and I felt, in a strange way, that I was made whole again.

The religious revelation lasted a moment before it painfully shattered to a million pieces as I walked out; a Gypsy woman begged for money. Busloads of tourists (mostly Asian) were posing left, right and centre and snapping their cameras away. Black men paraded their trinkets and wares. The front of Notre Dame was a bustling commercial centre.

Her hallowed influence stopped at her door, and I suspect within it may soon be no more.

The Day The Music Died

2007-10-24T09:40:00.000+08:00

I lost my iPod. My life will never be the same again.

It was the dumbest of things to happen. People who know me would attest to how anal I am, almost obsessive-compulsive when it comes to certain things. For example, I must always have three things physically clung to my body: my car keys, my wallet, my handphone. My car keys go into my right pocket, while my handphone my left. Wallet back. Periodically, I will always feel my pockets to make sure these three items are still there. If you ever spot any tub of lard walking with hand gestures that seem macarena-inspired, or if it portrays a yucky image of a hippo pleasuring himself in public... fret not - it's probably me, checking on my indispensable things.

This paranoia extends to my iPod, simply because it revolutionized my take on life (of course, the fact that it costs a bomb contribute somewhat). Stuck in Sprint? I'll let Tevye and his antics entertain me in The Fiddler on the Roof. Rainy gloomy mornings? Jo March will perk things up in Little Women. Long lonely trips? I'll allow the rich romantic music of Frank Wildhorn (The Civil War, Jekyll & Hyde and The Scarlet Pimpernel) to engulf me. I can even watch the technical run of Tunku, and have a slideshow of Boone.

Alas... my iPod is no more. I made doubly sure that it was where it was, my bag's front pocket - and I only realized at night that it was missing.

Well, whoever stole my iPod from my bag: may your ears disintegrate slowly and painfully leaving you scarred for life - you iPod kidnapper you! Of course I'd wish worse things on you, but they are not fit for public eyes. Be afraid... be very afraid.

Life has grown duller somewhat. Now that everything has lost its MTV luster, it ain't so fun anymore. Oh iPod, iPod, wherefore art thou?

Observations: The Northern Capital

2007-10-22T01:46:00.001+08:00

I was in Wangfujing a few hours ago. After a very exhausting climb up one measly portion of the Great Wall, my wobbly knees yelled "Keep the shopping short!" On the topic of the Great Wall, one cannot help but be impressed by the will of ancient China. I went to the stretch nearest to Beijing. What a sight to behold in the evening! Fit as a fiddle, I pranced up the v-e-r-y s-t-e-e-p steps. Of course the prancing lasted a grand total of 5 steps. Then I realized that my folds of excess fat ain't exactly doing much to help me. Heave ho, heave ho, I plodded upwards. Step up. Breathe breathe. Step up. Breathe breathe. Look left. Aiyo, old bent lady with a walking stick overtook me. Damn. Aiyoyo, older bent-er lady with a child in tow overtook me too. But my determination and drive set me afire. And I hiked up all the way to the first tower. They call it the Tower of Heroes, if I'm not mistaken. I think it's a bagi muka name. As many more in my group reached the fourth, fifth and sixth towers. The actual name is probably the Tower of Weak-Fat-Good-For-Nothing-Chinese-Dungus-Who-Are-An-
Embarrassment-To-Themselves-And-The Imperial-Dynasty. Or something like that.

Weird names indeed these Chinese had. In the Forbidden City, you have the Hall of Earthly Enlightenment and the Pavillion of Heavenly Spirituality. Man, what a mouthful! Yeah, I'm sure it all sounds lovely in Chinese, but the English translation sucks. Maybe I'll call my house the Home of Second-Hand Glory. When you enter my Gates of Stubborn Rustiness, be sure you take a look at my Garden of Weeds Eternal. Ease yourself at my Showers of a Thousand Leaks. Hmm...

Back to Wangfujing, I hurriedly went to select a few choice tea leaves for my parents, trying to sound as local as possible in a language that I hardly use. Rule of thumb, choose any tea that has more than 4 syllables to the name. Since they took all that trouble to come up with a complicated name, that tea must be worth its weight in renminbi.

Without wasting anymore time (as I only had an hour in Wangfujing before tucking in to the world-famous -yea, yea- Beijing Duck), I went down the junction where there was a long row of food stalls. Mind you these stalls are clean, and in a much nicer condition than our pasar malam. The peeps even have their own uniform. According to Sally, along this row I'd be able to sample the various street fare.

Sure enough, there were lotsa foodstuff - starfish, seahorse, worms, crayfish are among the more exotic ones. Iced fruits, tong shui, and other colourful desserts. Carefully making my choices as I did not want to overeat and jeapordize my rendezvous with the Beijing Duck, I bought some kau zhi (meat dumpling), which was 8 for RMB 5 (RM 2.50). Yummy. I ate 3 and threw the rest away. Then I bought some stir-fried meat wrapped in a pita-bread lookalike for RMB 10 (RM 5.00). I finished three quarters and disposed of it in the conveniently placed bins beside the road. Last but not least, I had to try for myself the siu loong pau which came in a mini bamboo dim sum container, with a straw stuck in the pau! Had a few sips of the tasty soup, but I knew I wouldn't finish it.

I walked towards the nearest bin, and across the divider, a scruffy-looking man in clothes that had not been changed in a good two weeks reached into the bin, wildly rummaging through the contents. As I looked, he chanced upon half-finished noodles (probably thrown by unappreciative brats who could afford such acts, like myself), and quickly devoured it there and then.

I passed my almost untouched siu loong pau to him. Not for charity, or to feel better. It's plain common sense: why let it go to waste? He mumbled his thanks - for surely the soup would warm him up immensely this cold autumn night. So little he has.

My table couldn't finish the two Beijing Ducks we ordered, amidst the other dishes that were significantly too much. Conversation around the table was on different destinations of the world, different prices for jewelery, different discounts for branded goods. So much we have.

Reminder. Be thankful.

Opinion: Madam Zorra Wanted!

2007-10-12T13:53:00.000+08:00

Gy has been in a dither these past few weeks. In the wee hours of the morning, a pitch black thundercloud would have already formed above her. Muttering curses that would make Dirty Harry blush, she'd grumpily stomp around the house. If we stayed in the Netherlands, the amount of stomping Gy makes would have sunk our house at least half a foot.

Reason is: I apparently snore like a bulldozer symphony. I can either deny it, as there's no proof, or I can blame it on my modest weight gain. But for peace and harmony to prevail, I accept that I'm at fault (though there's no proof). Hmm... how these two introductory paragraphs lead to the actual contents of my article, I've yet to figure out.

One morning I woke up bleary-eyed, hurling expletives at my beeping handphone. I was in that state of non-sleep non-awake-ness. That limbo between deep slumber and perky alertness. I just remembered that I was actually riding on a camel in Jalan Sultan Ismail (near the Concorde-Hard Rock Area) trying to tell my Mom (who should be at the end of my camel-ride destination) that she forgot something (like the clothes were still outside when it was starting to drizzle - though not along Jalan Sultan Ismail). That felt like a split moment ago. I could still feel the boing boing movement on the camel. Stupid phone. I would have liked to see how this nail-biting adventure ended.

Which brings me to dreams. Some dreams I can recall vividly, some just tend to stay at the corners of my mind - I can remember, but just barely. Some dreams are so fun I'd will myself to dream them once more, usually a futile thing to do. When I was a kid (back when Michael Bay was smoking pot in high school), I had this awesome dream - I was actually Bumblebee (yeah, the Transformers)! The feel of my arms transforming into wheels and speeding off after the Autobots gang is still fresh. But I was more of a 1960's Volkswagon than a cool sportscar. I so badly wanted to dream it again... but that second time never came.

Then there was the time when I dreamt that the floor beneath my bed crumbled away, as my bed fell into the chasm below. Strong currents of water forced my bed ahead in what seemed like an underground river. The speck of light got smaller and smaller, and I screamed my voice hoarse trying to wake my parents up. I knew the river took me someplace magical, but now I cannot recall.

In secondary school, I had to wake up quite early, about 5.30 am, as I needed to catch the bus to Medan Kidd. So I paid for lost sleep dearly whenever I burnt the midnight oil. When my mom woke me up, I'd sometimes dream that I actually woke up, brushed my teeth, bathed and changed. When my mom woke me up for the second time, I'd be like totally surprised that I didn't wake up earlier, as I thought I did! Now this was a recurrent thingy, which pretty much lasted the whole time I was schooling.

My nightmare of nightmares (which still haunt me still) is about STPM in a few weeks' time, and I have not studied a single page. I'd be asking myself, how am I gonna pass Matematik Tulen, or can I even answer questions on Kimia Tak Organik? Even now, I'd sometimes wake up with my hand clutched to my heart. Yeah, that's pathetic...

Or the falling off the building dream, where I'd wake up spread-eagle with heavy breathing and a racing heart.

Man, how did a snoring tale end up with dreaming? See you in Tel'aran'rhiod.

MWT: Lot 10, here I come!

2007-09-24T16:22:00.000+08:00

I belong in the minority; the 15% of bananas that strut around speakin' with ay buh-NARE-na twang. Darn it. I'm the minority fraction of a minority race. Sad or what?

Joceline Tan wrote an article last Sunday which provided an insight into Malaysian Chinese demographics. Never mind the fact that I feel totally misrepresented. I'm just a statistic mah.

Apparently the Cina Cina hold dear their three pillars of society. Unlike my fellow dragon descendants, I subscribe to the Kepercayaan Lima Tiang:

1. Life is all about S-E-X (hey, blame Freud, not me!)

2. Life is all about fast food (masa riang, rasa heba- oops. Heh heh)

3. Life is all about porn (Trekkie Monster taught me this very important aspect)

4. Life is all about being a totally useless incapable twat (so that the remaining 85% of the kiasu chinks will do your work for you)

5. Life is all about the above.

According to the report, being in the 15% makes me a frequent visitor of *gulp* Lot 10! I mean, seriously la: where got people go to Lot 10 nowadays? The hang-out place to be is either Subang Parade or The Summit USJ! That's what I'm tokkin' 'bout bruh-ther! Lot 10, that's so passe.

Looks like race obsession is not only the affliction of a certain *ahem ahem* race, but the Chinese too. That's why la, this country will never be one. 'Cos we like to analyse the divisive elements, rather than the unifying ones. Why not research further? The bananas, are they American pisang, British pisang, or Australian pisang? Or pisang cetak rompak aka pisang nakjadi (wannabe): those that embellish each English word they utter with an inconsistent overseas slang? Then find out if the sekalian pisang like to go Lot 10 or not. Haisayman, then only your research got power wat.

It's just the ruling party's ploy to get the demographics right - so that better voter targetting strategies can be implemented. Pathetic, isn't it? When it all boils down to such an unelegant way of running the country, or representing the race? In the past, a good track record with a sincere heart would have gotten my vote. In the post-Kotler Armstrong age, looks like politics is now run like a business too.

Nah, it's just this pisang, I guess. Idealistic to a fault. Grow up -shed your yellow skin. And someday, when everyone else sheds theirs too, be it green, russet, grey, ochre, peach, olive, mauve, we would see that deep inside we've always been the same. Someday.

MWT: The RM 1 Story

2007-09-19T09:22:00.000+08:00

A wise man once said "Strange indeed the ways of the man, stranger indeed the ways of the woman".

The whole of last week, my mind was tying itself into knots trying to decide between a MacBook or a non-Apple laptop. I needed one, that's for sure. Should I pay an arm for a Dell or an arm + a leg + an eye + a nose + 5 teeth for a MacBook? I told Gy, we just go and see see how a MacBook is like. No obligations wan. See only.

Alex, the Apple fella said:"For MacBook, got three types only. 1. White with no DVD burner. 2. White with a DVD burner and 120GB. 3. Black, same as No (2), but 160 GB."

Half a heartbeat later, "Ok, I'll get the No (2), please" I said, and took out my butcher knife - ready to chop an arm + a leg + an eye + a nose + 5 teeth off. Gy was incredulous. "I thought see see only." Her sarcasm corroded my other arm off. Under her breath she grumbled,"The easiest water fish to sell to. Every salesman's dream customer. Mumble mumble. Mumble mumble."

Furiously bleeding from my numerous wounds, I ignored her. So yes, I skipped all the way home, dripping copious amounts of blood, but with my MacBook by my side, I... feel good *Tah nah nah nah nah* I knew that I would *Tah nah nah nah nah*.

The next day in MidValley, we were going to catch Hairspray, but between us, we only had a measly RM 20! Options: 1. Don't watch. 2. Have lunch. 3. Get some cash. *Sigh* Decisions, decisions!

I was all excited about seeing John Travolta as a revolting woman, so I quickly voted for No (3). Now the cineplex is at the top floor, and we know that there are ATM machines on the Ground Floor, Centre Court, between MPH and Coffee Bean. I hurried Gy along downstairs, nimbly prancing about to weave our way through the human traffic (we all know what MidValley is like on a Sunday!).

Two ATM machines: Maybank and RHB. Gy huffed,"So you got Maybank right?" "Er, yeah... but no money inside la." *Ashamed chuckle* "You got MEPS right?" Gy prodded as a trickle of sweat trailed down her cheek. "We check directory, ok?" I dragged her to a directory to find that there are more ATMs next to Carrefour, just beside Jusco on the Lower Ground Floor. It's basically the other end of the complex.

Another bout of jogging and dodging ensued. Voila! "See, got CIMB! Yay!" I gleefully celebrated. So I got the money, and we worked our way upstairs to the other end of the building back to the cineplex, and I lined up for the tickets.

Gy was simmering,"Yesterday, you brutally chopped off your appendages without a second's thought. Today, we went traipsing all around MidValley because you do not want to spend RM 1 to use the MEPS instead. You are very strange!"

To which I replied,"Strange indeed the ways of the man, stranger indeed the ways of the woman". Before she could say anything:"Shush, the movie starting already la."

Movie Review: Hairspray

2007-09-17T12:19:00.000+08:00

Now I know why the ozone layer is thinning. You see, circa 1960, people in the States (especially Baltimore) used hairspray like nobody's business. Hold a CFC-laden can and spray away, better still if you can jiggy at the same time. Spray it up, spray it down, spray it left, spray it right, but most important of all - keep spraying! That I learnt from the unexpected box-of-fun musical Hairspray.

Hairspray was a musical I was never interested in. I've seen the CD countless times, but the story never quite appealed to me, so I never bought it. I expected it to be very dated '60s. Boy, such folly!

Hell, it must've been one lucky stroke of luck that Gy and I caught the movie. From the opening song "Good Morning Baltimore", Hairspray has got me hooked. Now, this story is about Tracy Turnblad (a plus-sized girl), who loves dancing. She's crazy about this show The Corny Collins Show that features young white kids dancing. But the gods are definitely on her side, as she ends up dancing in that show; much to the chagrin of the typical racist blonde mom-and-daughter bitches: Velma and Amber von Tussle. But Tracy has a lot of spunk - she rises above the traps the two dumb blondes throw her way, at the same time helping the blacks gain a voice leading to integration in TV. There's the lead hunk, Link Larkin, who as we all know in feel good musicals as these, eventually goes ga-ga over the girl. Throw in the best friend, Penny Pingleton, who has a smooch-a-whooey on live TV with a black kid, Seaweed... and yeah, I guess you've pretty much covered the bases. And did I mention Tracy's mom is John Travolta?

Predictable, oh yes. But fun, oh so fun. Of course Nikki Blonsky as Tracy Turnblad deserves a standing ovation! What a delightful portrayal of the idealistically naive Tracy... and such moves! John Travolta as Edna Turnblad is an eyesore, but hilariously so. Michelle Pfeiffer proves she still can croon with her deliciously self-glorifying "Miss Baltimore Crabs". James Marsden - dancing! Half the time I was picturing Cyclops doing the Funky Chicken - but he's good, real good. And the staple for movie musicals, Queen Latifah as the black Motormouth Maybelle doesn't disappoint. Zac Efron, the next big thing, carries his role with much gusto too. But oh, everyone sure can dance!

Glad I caught this show. Now I'll have to look for the CD. Not that the songs are all that great - but they'll sure remind me of Nikki Blonsky flailing her arms and feet with the most natural of moves.

Next up, gonna get me a fine can of hairspray!

Opinion: The Hunt for the Elusive Six-Pack

2007-09-13T10:17:00.000+08:00

Nope - not those! I've given hope on those ages ago... These!

I have a problem with alcohol - I don't drink. Gasp, I hear you say. That's right. I'm an alcohol virgin... or used to be, until very recently.

I think I can trace it back to my childhood. When I was in kindergarten, I wasn't given Jack Daniels for morning break. In primary school, Absolut was pretty much unknown then. In secondary school, the canteen definitely did not have Cabernet Sauvignon on the tray. In varsity, no Srewdriver, no Sex on the Beach. Nope - just sirap limau. Can't blame me then.

Actually, my tastebuds had never taken to alcohol - not even the faggoty Shandy. I still remember in varsity (when God in all his heavenly glory took quite a central spot in my life) I would dismiss all beer-guzzling mates of mine as sinners on the first class coach to Hell. Tsk tsk, my holey-moley self tutted. Well, in the map of my heart, God eventually migrated to the sidelines and ended up next to the Huge Ventricle of Cynicism (HVC), just a whisker away from the sinus perpetua doubta. Still I didn't drink.

In my first job, being the young and impressionable lad, I was fair target for my sales colleagues. They had this hideous concoction Abu Sayaff: a blend of vodka, Red Bull and lime. Totally totally vile. It was so delicious that I couldn't feel the vodka kicking in... until after my fifth glass. Oh, then it really kicked in with a vengeance. I sort of floated all the way back to my room.

The next day, I woke up all puffed up, red as a lobster. Literally blown up, like a balloon. My whole body was red and itchy as hell. My skin was hot and tender - it was bad bad allergy. My sales colleagues saw my Tweedledum face and realized that this santa chico shouldn't drink.

Bit by bit, I started taking beer - usually no more than one can at a go. A social drinker. But personally I still found the taste yucky.

And so much for my 'good Christians don't drink' belief - when I visited Jen and VinPan in Belgium, they told me that they have hundreds of beer, and some beers are brewed by monks in monasteries! I had my taste of Mort Subite, which I liked - well, VinPan told me it is usually taken by ladies for its mild and sweet taste. We went up to a monastery in the hills (the name which escapes me now) where we had the Catholic-brewed beer and Catholic-made cheese. The cheese I loved. The beer was nice, but everything tastes good in a gorgeous Belgian garden next to a centuries-old abbey.

Very recently, I joined a new company where drinking is the norm. And to my surprise, I could take four mugs of Carlsberg without bloating up like a lobster. And you know what, I like the taste.

Everyone knows drinking is one of the many ways of building valuable business relationships. At least now I can enjoy doing it. Of course, being able to charge all those expenses to your company is a huge incentive as well.

Hmm... I definitely won't join Alcoholics Anonymous anytime soon - but drinking? Hey, that sounds fine by me! Can't wait to down Abu Sayaff again - this time I'll be the last man standing... I think.

MWT: What is Merdeka to me?

2007-09-11T17:14:00.000+08:00

Yeah, yeah... so 31st August has come and gone. I love my country, plain and simple; and I do need not wrap myself up with the Jalur Gemilang every other day to prove it. Patriotism emerges from within, and no external parade, no matter how lavish, can represent the pride I have as a Malaysian.

I've always considered myself a strange being: a Malaysian. I do not see myself as a Chinese first. Nor do I count myself a Catholic foremost. I'm fundamentally a Malaysian.

Yet as people say - an idle mind is the devil's workshop. Lately, since I have some spare time to kill, I've been happily browsing through the net. Yes, it began that way. I was happy. 'Cos there's time to kill, that's one. And another is high-speed internet access la. Yippee!

Until I came upon Raja Petra's website, and after that Uncle Lim's. Then I became less happy. In fact I was pretty devastated. Isn't Malaysia the beautiful nation I've grown up in? How could this country end up so vile and twisted? *Right hand raised in dramatic manner with the back of the palm just above the right eyebrow accompanied with a most empathic "Oh!"*

But seriously, the allegations of these non-mainstream (for obvious reasons) sites are damning, to say the least. Usually, I'll strike Uncle Lim off as a gibberish-spouting gibbon, but eh, he can write quite decently la. More than that, I can't help feeling that there's more than an ounce of truth in his words; they are not baseless Opposition party-hackneyed points of view.

This is my country. This is Malaysia. It is not for Malays, nor Indians, nor Chinese. It's for Malaysians. Any leader that thinks otherwise has a lot to answer for.

Darn. I hate politics.

MWT: What's your car?

2007-09-04T12:06:00.000+08:00

It seems to be a worthy buy. The brand new Mitsubishi Lancer 2.0, at a most affordable RM 115K! Even the Mazdas and Hondas don't come close.

I showed the ad to Gy, who rolled her eyes (a most irritating habit she has of late). "Ayo, cannot la, cannot! The Lancer is not your type la. Cannot, man, cannot..."

"What do you mean not my type? Car got type wan meh?"

As if it's the most obvious fact in the universe, Gy replied,"Got. Like you, Toyota Camry la. Toyota Altis is stretching it a bit, but still can. If Lancer, definitely cannot."

"Why Toyota Camry leh?"

"You ah pek, only ah pek cars suit you la." Interesting theory, this. "MPVs also can. Like Honda Stream, or Nissan Murano, or those family family type la."

"Mini or VW leh?"

"Of course cannot la," she dismissed my suggestion with a wave of her hand. Why? "You too fat."

"Ok - so am I a BMW type or a Mercedes type?" Ha - got her this time.

With hardly a blink, she said, "Volvo."

We did test-drive the different cars, even Persona. The Lancer looks really sporty. And despite feeling that it is a bargain, we did not like the revving sound the exhaust makes. After all, I did tell Gy that if I do get a Lancer, I'll have to revamp my whole wardrobe - and maybe highlight my hair in three different hues of gold. That would be a grand sight: Chuang in TopShop garb, bling blings, dyed tresses, and a Jay Chou attitude.

Oh well, an ah pek I'll remain. Should have bought the Toyota Altis (free 40" plasma TV, and RM 5,500 rebate)! Good thing though, now I still have my trusted steed Iswara, and not a single cent spent. That's me - a Chinese ah pek.

Opinion: "One man's meat...

2007-08-31T15:24:00.000+08:00

... is another man's poison" so the old English proverb goes.

As I reread my earlier post, I realized how harsh I was. I forgot to mention one very important thing about theatre, rant and rave as much as a critic can, as long as the audience (as a whole or to varying degrees as individuals) likes the show, it is a good show. In the case of Teater Muzikal Putra, the rapturous applause at the end indicated a most appreciative audience. In fact the number of people giving standing ovation far outnumbers those in a nearby musical with a similar-sounding title. People were moved by the show, people were touched by the show, people actually liked the show.

Even though I loathed it. Which brings me to my ruminations today. Yeah, in a cud-chewing mood now. Sorry, lame joke... if you did get it.

I wrote about entertaining the Malaysian public as a way to make the arts more accessible earlier on. I still stand by what I've written. Except now, I fear that the verb "to entertain" is far more subjective than I previously thought.

What I thought would constitute a top notch musical production, many others would find boring. Whereas others may gladly go for RTM-inspired musicals, I'd rather have my nails forcibly removed.

There's no one size that fits all. My biggest worry? I may be trying to make shoes that fit only my feet, and no one else's.

So much for revolutionizing the arts scene eh?

Stage Review: Teater Muzikal Putra

2007-08-28T16:36:00.000+08:00

The one good thing that came out of Monday night's outing was that KG, JoshJ and I got to eat some mouth-smacking fok kin chow (Hokkien-style noodles) at Tawakkal. GYen mentioned that the new cook is not as super-duper as the former one; but it turned out great for me - much better than the lame offerings of Jalan Ipoh.

But I digress.

After getting such a gawdawesome kick out of watching Muzikal Cheng Lock, I wondered if Teater Muzikal Putra would live up to expectations. Tickets were going at RM 11.50. For an Istana Budaya production that boasted Jalalluddin Hassan and Man Bai as its main cast, that sure felt like a steal.

Stoopid me forgot about the high-er Istana Budaya rules on dressing. So used to the people-friendly venues of The Actors Studio and KLPac. My fault. I totally forgot that appreciation of the arts (in Istana Budaya) is limited to those who can afford collared and tucked-in tops. Forget about making the arts accessible. Let's follow these self-inflicted nonsensical rules anyway. Anyway, the very friendly Front of House kak provided me an Istana Budaya jacket in return for my driving license. G-r-e-a-t.

But I'm rambling.

The story starts from the faultless and fearless Tunku's youth when he read law at Lincoln Inn. The brave prince returns and defies the culturally-insensitive English rule. Of course Tunku is right. He falls in love. He returns in Act 2 in time to take over from Dato' Onn Jaafar (in a watered-down version where everyone makes way and seas part for Tunku). As expected, MCA and MIC appear, and together Independence is won.

A musical should first be judged on its music and lyrics. Music-wise, it was a terrible terrible shame that the music was not live. Couldn't IB, with the vast funds and technical expertise at its disposal, at least attain that very basic standard of a musical? The lyrics? Forget it. Even with recorded singing, the words were unclear; left me totally in the dark. The tunes were, for me, almost entirely forgettable - with the exception of one angry chorus number about rivers flowing with blood, and Malays dying berputih mata. That was that one gem that stood out. But when the rest were not much to shout about, it doesn't take much to stand out, does it?

The off-tangent pieces; some were fun (the humourous Chum and Tam) some were huh? (PKM meeting, Japanese Occupation). The talking parts were practically begging to be edited.

One uncomfortable moment was when they sang 'Umno itu Melayu, Melayu itu Islam, Islam itu Umno' as a reason to resisting Dato' Onn Jaafar's suggestion on accepting non-Malays into their fold. I sincerely hope, for their sakes and mine, that the lyrics are not historically correct.

I simply could not enjoy this play. I was squirming in my seat. Soon2 actually fell asleep. People were chattering away, oblivious to what was happening on stage. For me, it was a typical establishment theatre: politically correct, bland, boring. It snuffed out the tiny flicker of patriotism within me, never to be resurrected.

And it angered me. That such a sad excuse of a teater muzikal could be staged, and with much pride too. Let's break new ground. Let's go beyond. Let's entertain.

But I'm repeating myself.

Should have gone to watch a singing frog instead.

MWT: My Best Friend's Wedding

2007-08-27T12:24:00.000+08:00

In the midst of the neverending rat race, it is very heartening sometimes to take a time-out. A pit stop of sorts, if you will.

SLeong's email reached me this morning. In it were a few of his and Yv's wedding photo. They made me smile.

I've known SLeong for about 8 years now, yet I feel that I've known him all my life. This bugger is the most dependable friend. If I were stuck in the middle of Sahara desert, there's no other person I'd rather be stuck with than him. Patient and resourceful, and most importantly, being able to stand my primadonna histrionics, SLeong will pull us through. That I'm sure. Though what he can actually do in the middle of the desert beats me la.

Sure, we've had our rough patches [with Gy siding him more than me! Hmmph!], but in the end I have to admit that he was the better friend.

At my pit stop, I feel truly blessed to have this fella in my life. And I am darn proud of him too. There aren't many people you can truly say are your real friends. SLeong is.

He'll be a great hubby and daddy - though now I think I'll be his kid's god-father earlier than he'll be for mine. And Yv - what a catch! Pretty, sweet and down-to-earth, PLUS a fantabulous cook to boot! Trust me, when you're stuck in the MNS chalet in Cameron Highlands next to a neighbour that has curry chicken, noodles, makanan berlimpah, you're darn glad that Yv could whip up sausages to match. Of course her world-renowned fried bee hoon and cookies... Yummy. Darn, will miss the food, I mean Yv. Not that I get to eat them that frequently, it's just that they will be sooooo much farther.

Naturally, they got the best man to be their best man. Me. Ahem. I dedicate this verse to the both of you:

"Love so true,

Love so pure, with you,

That will last

for all time

You must know I love you"

Here's to you SLeong and Yv! I'm so so happy for you. See ya in 2 weeks!

Opinion: KFC

2007-08-24T09:53:00.000+08:00

I admit it. I’m addicted to KFC.

I’ve had KFC three times this week. And each time as I drove to the outlet, I told myself firmly: Order the Alaskan Fish Burger la. Or try the Chicken Chop. Or the Garden Salad. Zinger also can. Anything but the Snack Plate. No Snack Plate. No Snack Plate.

Good evening sir! Having here or take away?
Give me a goddamn Snack Plate! Spicy! Oh, and a Cheesy Wedges too, please…

Weak, my constitution is. I can’t help it – it just so happens that each time I arrive, they have a crispiliciously new batch of Hot & Spicy coming out from the oven. How to tahan?

It’s not that there’s nothing else to eat in Jalan Ipoh. I mean, there’s the decent open-air tai chow (big fry), or the inaptly named Million Restaurant, also serving tai chow. While I’m on the topic of this Million Restaurant, this place is run by a family. The daughter/daughter-in-law looks like the typical Gangsta Mama (think Karen Mok in a completely Ah Lian makeover).

She once sauntered over to my table,”Eat what?”, spoken with that tilted chin, pissed-off tone and accusatory eyes. “Er, let me think a while ah…”, I humbly replied. Then Gangsta Mama retorted sarcastically,”You s-l-o-w-l-y think a while la” and went off to wipe some tables. 5 seconds later, she stood with a tapping foot and folded arms, clearly impatient at my tardiness. Wanting to try something new, I asked,”Got Emperor Noodles?” “No.” Rolled eyeballs. “Got Fried Udon?” “No.” Rolled eyeballs. Clicked tongue. “Got Fried Loh Shee Fun?” “No.” Rolled eyeballs. Clicked tongue. Flared nostrils. For the love of my life, I quickly mumbled the staples,”Wat tan hor and fried rice please…”. Whoa, better not mess with her!

Of course there’s that weird dim sum shop too, where everything tastes the same; only colour and shape different. Should promote themselves as ‘The One Dim Sum Shop: After Tasting One, You’ve Tasted All’.

Back to KFC, I was never really a big fan of KFC when I was young. It must’ve been Gy’s infectious craving for KFC that got me going. I considered myself a McD’s boy all this while, but so far eating KFC three days in a row has yet to make me jelak.

It’s not like I want to go there every night. The weather has been wet, and KFC is the only place that is most convenient. Given half a choice, I wouldn’t even consider KFC… I think.

If I do end up in KFC again tonight, that will be really scary!

Opinion: Frownster

2007-08-16T17:11:00.000+08:00

I had the privilege of being involved in one of the biggest theatre productions this year in Malaysia. Due to my hectic workload, I could only pop into rehearsals a couple of times a month. Anyway, as I was seated behind KG, Sian came over and cracked a hilarious joke, which made me laugh out loud. Sian pointedly stared at me:"Ini kali pertama saya tengok you senyum!"

Wha-?

I happen to think that I'm this warm, fuzzy, approachable guy - well, not quite the perpetual sunbeam KG is - but surely amiable enough to talk to. Kinda like a good Marshmallow Man. Or a Marshmallow.

Apparently (after conducting a few experiments a la Readers' Digest), I'm perceived as a Frowning Monster. A Frownster. Not only by casual acquaintances, but even by close friends as well.

Wha-?

Well, even my mom once told Gy's sister that my face is "smellier than a toilet bowl" (in Hokkien, so that's real funny). But Ma!

The thing is, I do try to smile. Like real hard. Like real real hard. But sometimes, my forced smile is even more off-putting than my frown. You know that face - the baring of teeth in a sort of frozen grimace, like the exposure of my pearly whites (or off-whites, since I last saw my dentist 13 months ago) is license enough to make me a Care Bear. So why bother?

People like JJ and JJ can see right through me. And even Ruhs and Aaaa. Plus Gen. Thank goodness I'm aware of this annoying un-friendliness of mine. So I think to make life easier for everyone, maybe I should suggest to the people around me to:

1. Stop making lame jokes, to avoid fake laughter.

2. Stop saying stupid comments, to avoid rolling eyeballs.

3. Stop telling a long-winded story about something boring, to avoid feigned interest.

4. Stop being overly manja in words and actions, to avoid cringing.

5. Stop talking, to avoid me.

Wha-?

As I see the list above, I realize - damn it, I am a Frownster! Shuckz, guess Sian was right! Man, Chuang the walking thundercloud. Not unlike the Dementors in Potter. The everlasting PMS.

A Friendster or Frownster am I? That really depends. That's good enough for me. I am who I am.

MWT: Relative Wealth

2007-08-14T12:16:00.000+08:00

There is one thing that you cannot get enough of – that’s money.

I would like to introduce the concept of relative wealth (please note that I coined the phrase first, before Covey, Robbins or Kiyosaki). In a nutshell, we tend to measure our meager income not in absolute dollars, but in relative dollars. Example, John may make RM 5,000 a month. Does he feel rich? No, he doesn’t. He feels poorer than Jane who makes RM 8,000 a month. Hence, he is relatively poor.

What about Jane? She is relatively wealthy compared to John, but her satisfaction is short-lived, as she realizes that she is relatively poorer than Mark who makes RM 10,000 a month. And so the feeling of relative poverty is moved further up the financial strata of society.

My theory is simply this – once we can chuck the concept of relative wealth into the molten lake of Pinatubo, can we achieve real contentment.

I used to set RM 200/month as my ‘ideal’ income. I thought that then, I’d be able to afford a well-managed life. Eating in slightly fancier restaurants such as Jake’s, Ms. Read’s or even Old Town Kopitiam would be a delightful indulgence once a month. Being able to buy Haagen Dasz for my birthday would send me beyond the Milky Way.

But then I made RM 200/month. Then I said, hey, if I made RM 250/month, I’ll be able to afford decent Raoul shirts and Kenneth Cole shoes. Just that wee bit more. Even as I dined at fine eateries whole month long – I still wanted that jump. That small jump.

I got to bring home RM 250/month. But I want RM 300/month – to be able to afford to go to the spa once a week. And maybe 4 European escapades a year. Throw a BMW 5 series into the package, then I’ll be happy. I swear! The fact is – my fridge is stuffed to the brim with Haagen Dasz, and yet I don’t feel happy eating them anymore.

And so it goes. At times I really wonder, wasn’t life much simpler when McDonald’s was considered luxury food? Even with jangling coins in my pocket, I enjoyed traveling by public transport and ate at the most unhygienic of places. I had a great time then. Being able to have a scoop of Haagen Dasz ice-cream is pure ecstasy. It was fun being relatively poorer but emotionally richer. Simple pleasures easily completed my simple life.

Sigh. Another bout of soul-searching is called for.

But I’m rich, aren’t I? Aren’t I?

King Pong

2007-07-06T14:27:00.000+08:00

I am Pong. King Pong.

I bear no relation to the suave blond (previously brunette) secret agent of Dame Judi Dench. Nor do I scale the dizzying heights of the KL cityline in the vain hope of attracting Maimunah of Ampang, the love of my life. I am, least of all, a mis-spelt ping pong.

I am, or at least sometime or other have been, everyone’s best buddy.

During your more innocent days, when you and your fellow Scouts went camping in the deepest darkest jungles of Bota Kiri in Layang-Layang Kiri (there exists such a district, I must stress), with nary a fresh pair of socks between you, I was there. Or after you trudged on in the rain to catch your public bus home (green colour, Number 113), your white canvas shoes soaked to the core, and your feet squelched punctuating each step you took in the pothole-ridden Medan Kidd bus station, I came.

I manifested myself evidently during your tuition classes, mingling with my other well-known peers Emperor Phew, Lady Rancid, and Sultan Stinko Shah. Remember? Ah, those good old days.

I extended my reign to your friends too; See and Ess. I basked in the moist dark caverns of their mouth, beyond their lips so luscious. There I claimed dominion, there I ruled. Any utterance, be it long or short, loud or soft, civil or rude, would make my presence warmly felt to all.

Would you be so impolite so as to turn away when my long snaky tendrils so foul reaches for your olfactories? Or would you silently gag, in breathless stupor, until See or Ess finished their words?

But of course, in all the realms I lorded over, none could be bring me as much pride as Tee’s underarms – all pitted with micro-cesspools of gooey sweat brimming with bacteria (and algae I think) galore, creating fumes equivalent to 1.35 gazillion stink bombs. And he wondered why he sat alone in class. With me as his close companion, he had no need for others. My power was complete.

Try as hard as you may, you will not be rid of me easily. Your dime-a-dozen remedies – Chanel perfumes, Listerine mouthwashes, clean socks – wither in futility against my gawdawesome power.

Tsk tsk. I am Pong. King Pong.

And I am here to stay.

MWT: The arts

2007-07-02T14:34:00.000+08:00

Let’s take the Malaysian arts scene for example.

You have the powers-that-be that dictate how theatre should be like; the demigods and semidemigods of the stage. Is it any wonder more than 95% of the productions come and go without so much as a ruffle amongst the common folk?

Where are the appreciative audiences that flock to the quasi-Broadway/West End productions (by virtue of having a few Caucasians in the cast, and using misleading quotes like “Direct From Broadway”… not!) with prices that would burn a gawdalmighty crater in your pocket?

Cost does not seem to be much of a problem. I believe that if a show is worth its salt, pepper and mustard, the audience will naturally come. Look at Puteri Gunung Ledang, it took a couple of days, and once the tongues started lavishing praises, the tickets were snapped up like KL – Ipoh bus tickets during CNY.

Those self-elected arts authority figures tend to steer away from what is painfully obvious – the audience does not require high brow black box artsy dramas that have a million and one layers and imagery so abstract Plato would have scratched his beard. Twice.

The Malaysian arts scene is still in its infancy. Think simple. Entertain. Before Waiting For Godot pleasantly confounded the Americans, they were a happy lot watching Rodgers & Hammerstein and Lerner & Loewe. Now we’d probably look back at these evergreens and think – Why would anyone accept the simplistic Oklahoma! up front? Is Curly even a believable character? In those days, they probably sang along ‘Oh what a beautiful day…’, nodding their heads in merry agreement.

So why are our stages littered with abstract high falutin’ plays that only a select few would grasp and appreciate? Those fortunate few who were exposed to theatre in the UK, Australia, the US probably.

Personally, I feel that for Malaysian theatre to grow, it has to be accessible first and foremost. People need to realize that you need not be a MUET Band 6 scholar with an intimate communion with Shakespeare’s works to have a good night out at the local stage show. It is like any other media – it can and should be entertaining. So entertain, gawddammit!

Once the awareness is there, it is only a matter of time before different groups of the populace would have their own pet favourites. Some may like stand-up comedy, some would prefer monologues, some like myself will root for musicals. Only then will the different facets of theatre blossom, with ready audiences as the base.

But for heaven’s sake, get the audience first!

Gawd knows we have a dearth of accessible plays in Malaysia. When the general feedback is negative, the production team usually has an automatic in-built response: They (read: the ignorant uncultured general public) can’t appreciate it.

Yeah, that’s right. Then stage it for yourself then in all your self-indulgent glory.

I’m frustrated I guess, when arts is done for the sake of the arts. It is the people that shape the arts. Let’s figure out how we can reach out to these people, before we consider breaking ‘theatrical standards’ with quirky dances, blank sets, abstract topics, profound monologues, unrealistic themes and avant-garde costumes.

Guess I’m the anomaly. The boring fella that panders to the public rather than sticking to his own artistic guns. Sorry, I’m no Van Gogh.

Curtain call coming up. My final one maybe?

Wicked

2007-06-29T21:05:00.000+08:00

Sometimes in your life, you see a performance that lifts you off the seat and transports you to magical world filled with wonder, awe and a I-don't-want-this-to-ever-end feeling. Wicked did that to me.

Imagine, the longest-running Broadway show in Chicago... After 2 years, it still plays to full houses every night!

The story in itself is remarkable; a prequel that manages to tie up all the loose ends leading to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. More importantly, Wicked convinces us, with ease I may add, that our long-held understanding of the good guys/bad guys is terribly wrong.

I will not attempt a review, for I personally feel that Wicked is the pinnacle of musical magic that should be experienced, and not narrated.

Yes, this musical trumps Lloyd Webber and Boublil-Schonberg. It only has one reason for existence: to entertain (and to make Stephen Schwartz lotsa cash).

And heck, it did one helluva job.

Wicked, truly wicked.

Opinion: Pengkritik Kerusi Lengan

2007-06-28T06:14:00.000+08:00

We Malaysians are armchair critics. We love to defensively sit in our well-oiled leather chairs while we noisily vomit opinions about everything that happens across our solid teak tables.

And being Malaysians, more often than not, we have not the slightest idea what the whole topic is to begin with. We claim superior knowledge by making loud general statements about general topics in a general manner. That saves our arses, by shouting "Misrepresentation!" whenever our general statements are obliquely referenced in a negative light.

Example: Anything economic in nature, just blame it on China. We have an unemployment rate of 6.3%. That's because of China lor. FDI has decreased by 21.4% since last year. China wat. Real inflation has risen by 7.5% in the past year. Tsk tsk, these Chinese ah, going too far lah woey. MPSJ didn't clear my garbage today. It's China, I tell you!

China as an excuse could easily be replaced by India. But you hardly see that happening. We find it impossible that India could emerge as a bigger economic superpower. Perhaps if we ignore India long enough, it would quietly go away.

We snuggle in our respective chairs with a nice Macy's mug of hot chocolate and marshmallows, while loudly complaining about how the West is de-culturalizing our multicoloured country. Sip. My cocoa needs a dash of Hershey's, methinks. Orang puteh-ism of our products is killing us! Oh, you're using Pensonic speakers? Bose is the way to go!

You know what's worse? Armchair critics have some sort of alliance or something, like I'll Do It like Others Too Society. You just need one General (to make the general statements about general topics in a general manner) to start the ball rolling. Then an avalanche of exponential proportions is started. The general statements by the General gets generalized even more, till one whole community of very angry armchair owners is formed; none of whom would have spoken up in the first place, but hey, it's safe to hide in numbers. If heads have to roll, I'm fine, as long as it's not mine.

But what's really funny is this - the people who are the target of these criticisms reply in the same general non-commital way. Accusation: The contractor who built the RM 50 gazillion super highway with 5 one-way lanes (so that the lanes going the other way could be built 5 years later - ensures optimal cash inflow for the company) that cracked, is still awarded other projects! Reply: If the doctor sees 10 patients, and he injects one out of nine patients with the wrong drug, that doesn't mean he cannot see other patients!

Huh? I for one would never see a doctor that has a 10% mis-prescription rate. But these projects - should one fail, you may get hundreds injured! But it's ok. A general retort (or a very bad analogy) always works.

So what's the point of my rambling today? I'm getting there. Hopefully.

What we need to realize is that facts and figures matter. The wise utilization of facts and figures matters. If you do not know a certain issue in depth enough, don't pretend that you do. Get your homework done. Then engage in a constructive discussion.

When you transmogrify (tribute to Calvin and Hobbes) into a General, you end up a big fat balloon of hot air.

But hey, this is Malaysia. We are full of hot air anyway.

Stage Review: The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee

2007-06-26T03:13:00.000+08:00

Drury Lane Theatre Water Tower Place in Chicago, Illinois looked a wee bit unassuming. Since it's the current home of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee (henceforth shortened to Spelling Bee), I expected something more chika chika pow POW, chika POW, chika POW POW! As usual I was 2 hours' early. I was the only person at the ticket counter.

Hmm, is this the musical that was a 2005 Tony nominee for Best Musical? Impossible! But after the usual how-do-you-dos and take-care-see-ya-arounds (Americans really do sound genuinely friendly, y'know), I took my $69.90 ticket (flat rate for all seats - another huh?-moment) and had lunch in Water Tower Place. The $4.00 slice of pepperoni pizza could fit my face twice over; now that's huge!

I was the first to enter the theatre lobby. Cosy little place, with plush red carpets all around. Apparently they would pick 4 members of the audience to participate in the play. Being the Oriental man, they didn't bother asking me. Probably I couldn't even pronounce Ronald Reagan... I'd just say Lor-nul Lay-gern. White supremacists. *Snort*

The theatre itself was relatively small - quite like The Actors Studio in BSC, except that this place had an 'English' feel to it - gilded pillars, chandeliers, velvet seats, the works.

The set was interesting, in spite of the very limited space the stage offered. The floor was made to look like a basketball court, with bleachers at the side, and even the basket above the audience! The piano was at one corner, just behind the judges' table - very much part of the show. Lighting was ingenious, with different coloured tones (and window pane shadows) creating a warm sunny day. To one corner, we had a huge poster - Putnam Optometerists (who 'sponsored' the Spelling Bee) and on the other was the Putnam Piranhas (followed by the years the basketball team won second place - real funny, get it!?!).

Soon enough Miss Rona Lisa Petrelli commenced the spelling bee, with Vice Principal Douglas Panch at her side. We were then introduced to the line of spellers - that includes Leaf Coneybear (supposedly dim-witted but gets self-actualized eventually), Marcy Park (the usual Asian stereotype that excels in everything and anything), Olive Ostrovsky (unloved child at home), Chip Tolentino (sex-crazed kid), William Barfee (the geek retard, show-stealer) and Loggaine Schwartzandgrubbenierre (daughter of a homosexual couple), and of course the four selected members of the audience. One more hilarious character was Mitch Mahoney, the comfort counselor for losers - but Mitch himself was a mean-looking man who's on parole. Talk about irony!

For more details, you may get it here.

The story was extra light, with nice catchy tunes. However it was the intimate setting (and the participation of the 'accidental' cast) that lended the play a warmth and sincerity rarely possible in theatre back home. The American audience was sporting and engaging. Heck, it was a simple musical on a Sunday afternoon.

But Miss Petrelli had wonderful one liners for the 'accidental' cast that were so so funny - Example: Mr X's wardrobe is fully sponsored by Abercrombie + Fitch (this kid was all in surf gear). Or Miss Y's dress can probably be seen from the moon (this lady had on a huge yellow skirt!). Or Mr. Z is currently recovering from head lice (this guy was almost bald!). Hilarious!

It was a simple over-the-top musical comedy. Professionally done though. Even the off-colour jokes were never crude. Such was the finesse of the actors, to which I must applaud.

If Spelling Bee were showing in Malaysia, it would have been hugely entertaining for RM 50. Anything more, and you'd be demanding for falling chandeliers, or helicopter scenes. For my $70 ticket, I would not say that the entertainment value was worth that much, but I am definitely inspired by what a small cast and stage can do.

One more thing - they weren't even selling programmes, or t-shirts, or memorabilia. Guess it is really meant to be small. But for one so small, it sure had a big heart!

Opinion: Naming names...

2007-06-14T14:47:00.000+08:00

“Thou shalt not use the name of the Lord, thy God in vain.” That’s true. In the past (and some may say even the present), it’s considered blasphemous to utter the holy name of God. The ancient God of the Old Testament was named YHWH (no vowels in Hebrew, perhaps?). But then nowadays, we have Christian songs going ‘Yahweh’, so I guess it’s not so big a sin anymore.

Anyway, back to my main topic for the day: Names. And funny names at that.

It was an innocent day (as most days are, unless of course you’re planning for a shag-fest sometime in the day which would render the day not-so-innocent anymore, but who plans for a shag-fest anyway?, especially me, so that was a pretty innocent day to start with) as I was driving down the world-renowned carpark, the Federal Highway (credit of joke to Priscilla Patrick), when my thoughts went back to when my pants looked like pants instead of a garbage bag with three holes in it.

Being in an all-boys school, we had the weirdest of weird nicknames that we casually gave each other. The craze then was to call out fathers’ names. Harmless, eh? Actually no. There had been cases of flying fists and karate kicks because a guy couldn’t stand it (and because the father’s name is darn hilarious too). And Indians usually bore the brunt of it, as they would have the ‘anak lelaki’ in their names. So when you did find out the father’s FULL name, the grandfather’s name was generously available. And if you got the grandfather’s FULL name… that was when the whole class broke into loud cheers, and the poor bloke would be christened [insert great-grandfather’s name here]. Poor Sanveer. The practice was so prevalent that nowadays I still recall some schoolmates not by their actual names, but their fathers’!

Of course nicknames were given to close friends as well as gossip-worthy guys. I knew a Sotong, who somehow was renamed Mary, all because of one incident: we were playing cards in Genting and poor guy, despite a burning fever, wrapped himself up with a blanket (hence looking much like Mary, the mother of Jesus) and continued playing. His other name was Loch Ness, for reasons best left unexplained.

We had our share of Hau Poh (simply because his actual name ends with Hau) and Fei Poh (for his very round belly). There was Ngap Chui (Duck Mouth) who is now a successful engineer. Lau Tak Wah looked nothing like Andy Lau. We amended his name to McDonald’s later on to suit his fringe which was shaped like the Golden Arches. Lai Si Pet (Purging Pet) was another original one.

In Form 5, there was this new addition to our class. Among his many likeable traits, one stood out. He sat by the side of the class where most of the wind from outside came a-blowin’ in. Somehow this kiddo had a stomach full of gas. So whenever he let go, the swell smell enveloped the class, choking us to death. His name? Bomber.

Teacher nicknames were another joy of yesteryears. The nickname had to stick to the teacher’s person, yet subtle enough so that he or she could not figure who it was we were complaining about. Some likeable ones even got names, because of the misfortune of having a certain je ne sais quoi that was fertile ground for a new name. They included Mah Meen (Horse Face, despite being quite a good-looking chap actually), It (she dressed up one day in huge polka dots that reminded us of Stephen King’s crazy clown), I-Can-Survive (Gloria Gaynor look alike) and Long Kau (Wild Dog, since she permed her hair). These are wonderful teachers whom I respect and love, but hey – boys will be boys.

I had quite a few names myself, none of which I will disclose here, for obvious reasons.

10 years after leaving ACS Ipoh, I wonder if my creativity is somehow stunted now. No more creative names appearing at the snap of a finger. Or perhaps maturity has taken over.

Sigh… being adult sucks. What's your name?

MWT: Whiteman's burden

2007-06-11T16:18:00.000+08:00

There I was, in tattered jeans and a t-shirt that was begging to be reincarnated as a washcloth, tapping my foot impatiently. I had a whole furniture shop to unload, and the porter, let’s call him Aboo, wasn’t exactly moving in haste to assist me.

As Aboo sulkily sauntered towards me, his face lightened up with a flash of brilliance that could rival Her Majesty’s crown jewels any day. His torso turned. His head bobbed like a cork caught in a bad typhoon off the coast of Vladivostok. And the piece de resistance, his right palm lodged itself firmly on his heart as he effusively welcomed the new visitor – a White man, let’s call him Whiteman. “Selamat datang! Welcome!” Aboo did three somersaults and four cartwheels before he carried off Whiteman’s colonial baggage of 35 trunks with a flourish. All with one hand too.

The Cina pek – me – with mouth agape, glared at Aboo with utmost disdain. Too bad my small eyes couldn’t express my fury enough. After I started complaining loudly, a replacement (also) sulkily helped me take my things, as if that were the most undeserving favour I could receive. No hand-on-heart gesture. No smile. Zero.

So we have been an independent nation for 50 years? It sure doesn’t feel like it. Whiteman gets what Whiteman wants. Why is it that we immediately associate Whiteman with fat bank accounts? If you frequent the shopping malls that fester with Whiteman’s countrymen such as KLCC, Bangsar Shopping Complex, Bangsar Village or Plaza Damas, you will immediately sense the double standards that pervade our service industry.

Shouldn’t one serve a customer for the simple fact that he is a customer? Whether he owns a yacht in Tripoli or not is of no goddarn business of the salesperson. No?

Just because Whiteman talks a lot, and likes to listen to himself a lot, doesn’t make him right a lot. Whiteman doesn’t need a red carpet treatment. BUT we locals do not deserve a shoddy service either. Just be fair.

The problem is not Whiteman. It’s us.

But of course, it’s a different thing altogether if it’s Whitewoman…

MWT: Balls wanted!

2007-06-04T14:04:00.000+08:00

Eventually, I would have gotten around to this topic, since this issue has been festering in my mind for months now. Well, as the Chinese would say: Better short pain than long. So let’s flush it out of my system.

There comes a point in one’s life when one asks: So what’s the point of it all? I work my ass off day and night (and weekends too!) so that my job gets done decently. Heck, so that my job gets done perfectly. All for the sake of the paycheque that comes in at the end of the month? Sure I make an honest living and all, but the futility of this exercise is staring back at me right in the face. Do I really want to climb the corporate ladder?

Or am I sick and tired of the whole notion? Breaking my back for a monolith that only aims to pad the shareholders’ pockets with more moolah, that hardly adds up to some glitzy form of self-motivation. Having noble values with big big words (along the
lines of ‘Let’s save the whales, and while we’re at it, maybe the seahorse, the starfish and some plankton too!’) that crumble to nothing-ness the moment budgets are not met.

I’m not complaining about my job. It is more than a good job.

I’m questioning the thought behind being employed versus having your own business. When you know you’re good, why slave for someone else? Sigh, apparently balls do not come off Carrefour shelves. It’s the putting-two-feet-on-the-edge-of-a-precipice metaphor; to take the next step and see where the journey takes you, or to stay put and probably live comfortably for the rest of your life.

Which is it? I’d love to have my own business, but is it worth leaving my current job? What can I offer? Good wan tan mee? Excellent crap consulting? A kooky Kumon centre? Porn DVDs?

Again, life should be lived. It gets boring when you stay on in your comfort zone, even though every single nerve in your blasted body tells you it’s not the right place to be. Yeah, then start flailing your arms saying “I want a life worth living” but straight after, hop onto the car and drive back to the office block. Do something!

Crossroads? Or pre-mid-life crisis? The ball is in my court. I know that. But do I have the balls to do what I want to, rather than what I should?

Stage Review: Broadway Parodies Lah!

2007-06-03T12:16:00.000+08:00

Photo by Nick Dorian www.misunderstoodcreature.blogspot.com

Broadway Parodies Lah! (BPL) contains music. Ergo, I go.

BPL promises to be a showcase of famous Broadway tunes spoofs, with a Malaysian twist lah. Taking its cue from the wildly successful Forbidden Broadway series, I guess.

The opening number (Les Miserables’ At The End of The Day) was supposed to be rousing, but felt flat. Number one, the diction was bad – hence the jokes went unappreciated. Number two, the use of MIDI basically transformed Boublil’s grand music into an incoherent verbal diarrhoea. A dampener from the start?

Act 1 ambled along, punctuated by some humorous pieces and some that tried too hard. Glorious Food from Oliver! hardly made a lasting impact. Heigh Ho! from Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs was fun, largely due to Glamorique Arshad’s sharp enunciation and the choreography. Joanne Kam made excellent comic. But Douglas Lim stole the show (what’s new?) with his rendition of There Is Nothing Like A Dame from South Pacific. Excruciatingly entertaining.

Act 2 gave us a very good The Phantom of The Opera by Soon Yoon and Doreen Tang. Though the graph hit a new low with Annie’s Tomorrow by Kyra Dani. Nothing, and I repeat, nothing could beat the hilarious Do-Re-Mi (Sound of Music) with Douglas Lim as a very annoying tour guide. We had to suffer the pointless Climb Every Mountain before Do-Re-Mi, but man, it was very very good. Taking a stab at the whites, followed by a backhanded slap for Singapore. Such delightful comedy.

Douglas Lim proved himself as a very very good stage performer once again. The guys, on the whole, fared much better than the fairer sex. They have nice voices and crisp pronunciation. Joanne Kam’s stage presence is spot-on, though it falters somewhat when she starts to sing. Doreen Tang has an amazing voice, and Cheryl Tan deserves special mention too. The rest were very very mediocre.

Heaps of praise on Brian McIntyre who did the lyrics. A lot of thought went into it. And my complaint is, why no lyrics sold?? I would have loved to read his lines again over a nice cuppa.

Having said that, the MIDI was an awful idea. Piano accompaniment would have sufficed (such as in Forbidden Broadway), and sounded a whole lot better. The encore number was bad. After the delightful Do-Re-Mi, Les Miserables’ Do You Hear The People Sing? did not really cut it; the way it was sung, not the actual song of course.

Ok, so to surmise, it was worth my RM 30 and Friday night weekend lah. Despite the nitty-gritty misses (you can’t please everyone, can you?), it was a good night out.

Opinion: Let's talk about my dog, Boone!

2007-05-29T17:47:00.000+08:00

Boone is a beagle. Almost 9 months' old now. He has these huge furrowed brows that knit together whenever he's confused. And that's most of the time lah.

He is most attentive and obedient, especially when you have some treats in your hand. The maroon bow-tie looks good on him, no? Gy and Annie got it for him. Probably he'll be wearing it as the ring-bearer on Gy and my wedding day... when that day comes lah...

Boone bites everything! Table corners, stairs, door, what-have-you's. Good thing is that he's a wimp! Totally terrified of these foldable Ikea chairs. Hmm... Swedish chairs make good fences. But that twit is still wagging his tail. Sigh...

Boone is a strict fruitarian/vegetarian. Yeah, he has a pathetic dog's life. He loves the crunchy fruits most of all - apples and pears. Other than his usual dog pellets, of course. He's a sucker for grapes too, until I found out that grapes are toxic to dogs.

Boone is a sound sleeper, with snores to rival mine. Totally lazy mutt, I must say. See those furrowed brows? Getting confused again, I guess. Well, Boone - say hi to kak Shasha who demanded to talk about you. Ha ha.

Stage Review: Muzikal Cheng Lock

2007-05-28T13:16:00.000+08:00

It was over an early dinner at Caltex that KG, Gen and I decided to go for Muzikal Cheng Lock that was to start in 2 hours’ time. Simple action plan: I was to check if there were still tickets available while KG and Gen would go home to change and powder up for Istana Budaya.

Luckily there were loads of empty seats. Hmm… empty seats on a Saturday night should have set alarms ringing, but I guess I was running low on Spidey-sense that day. Another warning: stall seats were going at RM 50, grand circle at RM 30 and upper circle at RM 20. My Gawd, that’s peanuts for an Istana Budaya production! Got the RM 30 tickets.

Now Muzikal Cheng Lock came pretty much unannounced to the Malaysian stage. No teasers, no ads, no nothing. The publicity team must have been the same group working on the roof of the Parliament building. Despite big names like Jalaluddin Hassan and Louisa Chong, the total absence of promotional activities is strange, to say the least.

Further surprises awaited us. We got ‘upgraded’ to stall seats, on the front row! How cool is that? Darn, should have bought the RM 20 tickets!

We sat back, relaxed, and dozed off for the next couple of hours.

As its obvious title tells us, the musical charts Tun Tan Cheng Lock’s life. The prologue starts quite promisingly; a wheelchair-bound old Cheng Lock exchanges ‘Merdeka’ cries with Tunku. Then it zips back to his birth in Melaka in a perky little chorus number. In the blink of an eye, Cheng Lock has grown up – the perfect leader in the making. A play of coy stares, we’re introduced to Yeok Neo, Cheng Lock’s eventual wife, with an immaculate personality no less. Of course they fall in love. Then we see their wedding ceremony in a most painful 30-minute scene, that has no purpose whatsoever other than showcase a traditional Nyonya wedding.
Of course the bad guys appear (the British, the Japanese, the Klingons, the Gremlins, whatever). Our hero in white inspires the people, protects the people, leads the people, [insert positive verb here] the people.

Malaya is born. Yay. Applause. Throw in some other unnecessary scenes (pointless ballroom dancing, long-winded MCA meetings, meaningless multilingual monologues), and voila – you have got yourself a surefire yawn-a-second musical.

In the smaaaartest twist of all, the epilogue is the same as the prologue. Oooh. Aaah.

Songs. Predictable four-liners with karaoke-inspired arrangements. Think Chinese wedding background music. No live music, and some lazy leads did not even bother to lip-sync properly.

Story. As KG mentioned in his oh-I’m-so-literally-rich way, the plot is linear. No conflicts, no character development, no internal tug-of-war. Good guys are whiter than white. Bad guys stink to high heavens. As a thinking member of the audience, I am insulted by the overly simplistic storyline. I was filled to the brim with cliched RTM-like patriotism.

Sets. Well-thought of. While the finishings may not be perfect, the ideas are cool. I like.

Stars. Good, considering the cud they were dealing with. Gen was spot-on when she mentioned the old-school acting, where the actors had to make sure their backs did not face the audience, so they would awkwardly stand in semicircles facing the audience.

Dancers. Excellent. The saving grace of the show. Such enthusiasm, such oomph. Their joy in every number they danced in was infectious. And the kids too. Always great to have some kids on stage.

After the amazing PGLtM, anyone and everyone seems to be making ‘musicals’. Guess Tiara’s boots ain’t that easy to fill. Homework for those aspirants: Entertain the audience. Plain and simple. Entertain. Or grow larger feet. Whichever is easier.

MWT: Why work in Malaysia?

2007-05-16T14:38:00.000+08:00

Strange, how my thoughts meander to such patriotic topics. Must be the sight of Siti Nurhaliza wrapped in a sparkly sequined Jalur Gemilang gown (with a 10-foot long train no less) belting out “Tanggal 31, bulan Ogos 57…” over the Golden Channel.

Fai went to Melaka with me a few days ago for a business call. Somewhere between the yummy bee hoon goreng at the Seremban R&R and the Ayer Keroh toll, Fai asked me how did I find Singapore.

Well, the Phantom of the Opera was ok-lah. No point declaiming a 50-minute long analysis of the musical, since he’s more of a Jamal Abdillah and Anita Sarawak et al fan. Polite question begets polite answer.

But how is Singapore like?

Er… they have better-looking and more fashionable Malays. Let’s talk about my dog, Boone!

How’s the economy? What would graduates earn there? What benefits do Singaporeans get?

I could have answered: Let’s see. Sa-ya o-rang Ma-lay-si-a (spoken slowly and deliberately, in case he did not quite get it).
But of course, I didn’t: Er… Great, I guess. Excellent public transportation system. Giant multinationals abound. Many steps forward in stem cell research, biotechnology, genetic engineering, arts, tourism, all that jazz. Let’s talk about my dog, Boone!

Why is Singapore more developed than Malaysia?

Lee Kuan Yew, I guess. Meritocracy maybe. Let’s talk about my dog, Boone!

Would Singapore be a good place to work?

Why?

I want to work there.

Huh?

I want to work there-lah.

That was when I felt a wave of patriotism cascading over me. What? In Singapore you’ll always remain a second-class citizen. You want to work in a country where its own citizens are emigrating by the thousands? Where chewing gum was once banned? Where there’s no affirmative action for Malays? Hello...?

I am extremely loyal to my roots: Ipoh, ACS Ipoh, USM, and of course Malaysia. I cannot imagine extricating myself from this country and working anywhere else, where I’d probably be treated unfairly anyway. At least in Malaysia, the policies plainly sideline the Chinese. In Australia, or the UK, you’re probably another Oriental face crowding to eat from the same rice bowl, unless of course if you’re there as a dish-washer or a floor-sweeper. I maintain that the NEP was necessary to ensure that the economic pie is fairly split. Whether or not the desired split is achieved is not my concern. My concern is the necessity of it. We cannot afford to have the majority race getting only 20% of the pie, for example. That would lead into even more fractious disputes.

In the end, Malaysia has her faults. But like it or not, she has treated her citizens well. I’m grateful for the diversity Malaysia offers, and I would like my children to experience the common bond – rather than the differences – all Malaysians share.

But that’s me. Idealistic. To a fault.

Let’s talk about my dog, Boone!

Stage Review: The Phantom of the Opera

2007-05-09T14:03:00.000+08:00

Maybe my expectations were too high.

The Phantom of the Opera was my first West End love. At that time, I thought Alan Menken was the musical genius. Until I heard Andrew Lloyd Webber. Back when I was 15, I would stick my headphones into my parents’ hi-fi set, and play the POTO double-cassette again and again as I soak in lush orchestrations that transported me to the Opera Populaire where the tale was set. I would imagine the wonder and mystery of the Music of the Night, the surprise and pain of the falling chandelier, and the effervescence and class of Masquerade. POTO was my number 1 album for years, until I was introduced to Les Miserables, but that’s another story.

Ending up in the Esplanade, Singapore, I was more than ready to feel the musical magic tingle up my spine once more. Gen and Soon have told me that the sets are far grander than the one in UK, and by all accounts this should be a show worth its weight in gold.

The sets were amazing. And that was it. Full stop.

KG and I have always struggled to produce characters with ‘background’ ie they are not one-dimensional paper cut-outs. No evil man is evil without a reason. And in every good person, there has to be a motivation that drives the character. It could be the history, or a goal to achieve. The character should not be created for the sake of having the character itself.

I was surprised that that was how I felt after watching POTO. Madame Giry and Meg Giry were totally dispensable. Firmin and Andre provided the comic relief (and these characters get away with everything). Carlotta and Piangi, other than being pompous self-indulgent prima donnas, were nothing more. Raoul de Chagny was the undamaged, baggage-free (royal!) hero to complement the run-of-the-mill damsel in distress Christine Daae. Only the Phantom had a semblance of a whole person.

Underwhelming – that pretty much sums it up.

I could list the things that I liked and didn’t, but at the end of the day it is not the little things that matter. It’s the big ones. Sadly, POTO missed the big ones by a mile or more.

Boublil-Schonberg, will you ruin my dream too?

MWT: The Cina Cina

2007-04-14T21:34:00.000+08:00

Now that I have a huge population of avid readers I need to pander to (at last count, 5), I solemnly promise to blog as regularly as possible. I 'arrange my ten fingers' to ask for the pardon of some other peeps who posted comments, but I inadvertently deleted - no thanks to my tech prowess. I welcome all comments - except ham sap ones, I mean ESPECIALLY ham sap ones, so keep them coming in. I should have disabled the 'moderate comments' thingy... I think. Ha ha.

And true to my word - I intend to introduce a fortnightly column. That's right. My life has no meaning if I do not share my vast (in)experience with my highly discerning readers. Tah-dah-dah, behold my new column:

THE CINA CINA

Some people tend to lump all Malaysian Chinese into one general blob of babi-eating denizens. At 28, I see a schism (ooh, big sociology word there) essentially forming 2 groups. Of course you can be a hair-splitting detail freak who disagrees - by saying that the Chinese population in Malaysia can be subdivided into countless categories, depending on dialect, wealth, religion, and everything else your right brain can think of. Good for you. Go blog about it then.

Take a look at the Chinese peeps around you. Consider Ah Meng: He's had impressive academic results, most probably through hard work and many gallons of midnight oil. He is punctual. He doesn't talk much, and accepts things as they are. He abides by rules and regulations. He counts every last sen and makes every last sen count. He probably has a house, and is saving for a second and third for investment purposes. His whole life is well-planned ahead. He is practical. He reads Sin Chew Jit Poh.

Consider Ah Beng: He has average results. He's a chatterbox with a million questions (not all make sense). He has no problems challenging authority. He cuts corners when given half a chance. Most of his monthly income is spent on things of passion rather than necessity: beer, guitars, travelling, gym fees, magazines. His financial accounts probably don't balance at the end of the month. Renting an apartment. He reads The Star.

Ah Meng is a typical Cina Cina. Ah Beng is a bukan Cina Cina. Of course these are crude generalizations made, and there are endless permutations to the kind of personalities in existence. But at the most fundamental level, I cannot help but notice an inherent difference between English-educated (a misnomer, but oft-used) and Chinese-educated Chinese.

As an English-ed, I have not-too-good memories of my varsity coursemates, who were mostly Chinese-ed. They would come to lectures way way early, and book the front rows for their Cina Cina gang (placing files, water bottles, bags on the chairs!). They would hound the lecturer before he even stepped off the podium. They would get 'secret notes' from the lecturer and keep it all to themselves. In group tasks, they would frown when they got me - since I'm the class idiot who hardly appeared for lectures. In fact they would even do my portion for me, for fear that my ineptitude would drag their precious marks down.

It was no wonder when Nadd said that the Chinese are known to be kedekut ilmu. I agreed whole-heartedly. With exclusive attitudes like that, you expect hand-in-hand racial integration?

But to be fair to the Chinese-ed, I'd come across as a lazy bum, who skipped lectures (and even 8 am quizzes - ha ha). They must be ashamed of me. I must be irresponsible, boring (how do I laugh at Chinese jokes that I do not get?) and totally marked for extinction in the 'real world'.

Sad but true. Even at my age, I've seen couples breaking up - caused by the different viewpoints of life. Strange isn't it? - how the medium of instruction could influence such a vast gap.

Cina Cina? Is it a deragotary term, or should one wear it with pride?

Thus concludes my first column. Purposely written to be controversial.

Stage Review: Ah Steve

2007-03-05T13:10:00.000+08:00

Now that Gy and I have grown somewhat accustomed to having Boone and Auntie Girl in our lives, we can afford a breather or two.

That was how we found ourselves – together with Annie – at The Actors Studio on Sunday. Ah Steve would be having its final performance for this run.

Now, it took some super-effort on my part to go watch this play, as there’s no music (don’t get me started now). Better catch Dreamgirls, mesays. For the sake of luscious lips (private joke – ha), what the heck!

Disclaimer: I know 75% of the very sizeable cast, and this will make the review slightly difficult. I implore their indulgence at allowing me to spout my usual sarcastic comments without inhibitions, for I am but an unappreciative jerk when it comes to music-less plays.

Mark Beau has written some amazing stuff, especially the very poignant Stories for Amah. With Ah Steve, Mark Beau invites us once again to witness the intimate ramblings of the protagonist.

The show starts with a glimpse of Ah Steve’s true self, as he lip-syncs while applying make-up. Gradually the other three characters, Dr. Lau, Jane and Aunt Tabitha take their respective spots on stage, with Ah Steve smack in the centre. Most effective props.

Ah Steve recounts the tale of his memories past, Ah Bo the village pondan to Dr. Lau, his psychiatrist. And in nifty changes of topics, we learn that Ah Steve will be playing Susie (the modern name of Mother Mary) in the Nativity play of his church, and about the overbearingly Catholic Aunt Tabitha of his. And of course, Ah Steve’s long-held fascination with My Little Ponies.

Little slivers of information (past and present) creep out from the exchange between Ah Steve and the other 3 characters. His parents are dead; father who was ashamed of his cha boh heng son, mother who spoilt her helpless son, while sister Jane sleeps around (You think my down there like your mouth ah: Open close open close non-stop?). Aunt Tabitha is just a postmenopausal Catholic extremist (BMW is satanic), while Dr. Lau is a very American shrink (in consultation, not in accent).

The point of the story is some sort of a coming-of-age or rather a coming-out-of-the-closet journey. My main gripe is that the eventuality is so obvious it is unnecessary to tell the story. Ah Steve is gay, through and through, right from the moment he appears. There are no grey borders to tackle, or nebulous issues to clarify. For example if Ah Steve enjoys football but digs My Little Pony at the same time, wouldn’t that make him slightly more enigmatic, as in where is this guy exactly? But when Ah Steve loves make-up, and is an all-girl jee mui, with no inclination whatsoever towards socially sepet views of machismo, the conclusion is, as I’ve said, obvious.

There is no story. He’s gay. And his journey of (not-so-revealing) revelations simply paints the other characters (save Jane) as being oblivious to the obvious. Aunt Tabitha reacts with much gnashing of teeth and pulling of hair (exaggeration here) when Ah Steve reveals himself in full homosexual splendour, which is a tad bit weird, unless she is in denial all this while (but it has to be one humongous chunk of denial cake, that).

Credit to Mark Beau though; he spins a lovely yarn, peppered appropriately with witty (and coarse) humour that is very Malaysian in nature. Some of his one-liners are classic. Simply classic.

Initially I found Carol Wu as Jane a wee bit flippant. But as the play progressed, I took a liking to Jane. Very much in character, Carol’s Jane was brash, crude and vulgar. Excellent acting, Miss Wu.

Valerie Low as Aunt Tabitha was predictable. There were moments when I felt that she ‘zoned out’, and ended up reciting her lines rather than meaning them. Frequently resorting to her quite-formidable loud voice, she lost out in the slight nuances that would have made a world of difference.

Johann Lim as Dr. Lau was alright (but I could only see the back of his head from my seat). What struck me as odd was the degeneration of Dr. Lau, the professional shrink, to Dr. Lau, the Manglish quack, later on in the show – when he finally got up and threw in generous helpings of ‘Aiyo’ and ‘-lah’.

Mark Beau was entertaining. But Ah Steve comes across as a 12-year-old mind trapped in a 30-year-old body – his naivete and innocence, with his petulant comments make Ah Steve distant. Not so much a man with a cross to bear, but a kid with a tantrum to throw.

Ah Steve, nevertheless, is one of the better plays I’ve watched (considering that I’ve not seen many). Kudos to all.

Opinion: You've got a friend(ster) in me!

2007-02-17T18:23:00.000+08:00

So here goes another self-loathing session. Give me a minute to step off my oh-so-high horse, and finally admit: Yes, I'm a jump-on-the-bandwagon mass-appeal dingo number 1. Numero Uno. Nombre un. Di yi. That's me.

I've condemned friensdster a whole year before it was even conceived. Only blah people would want to quantify the blah friends they have. I, the mucho happening guy (who gets a kick out of shopping at Carrefour, and sleeps at 10 pm each night), am above and beyond all that blah.

So the world continued to revolve around the sun. So the tides turned. So the moon waxed. So the blah blah-ed.

Until one fine day, when I was having a rare moment of silence at work, that I logged onto friendster, all up in arms ready to fire salvo after salvo of condescending spittle. All under the lame excuse of - let's see what these blah people are up to.

I searched a few names, mostly long-forgotten faces from primary and secondary school, and lo and behold - they appeared! On that despicable blah online social network thingy! And from these few names, I was linked to more and more old buddies - those whose 13-year-old faces I could recall but not the names, those with embarrassing tales lying dormant in my head, those that got married, those that migrated, those, those, those!

In no time, I was thanking friendster for enabling me to reconnect with so many long-lost friends with just a few clicks of the mouse. Man, friendster should pay me for promoting them like that, but they wouldn't 'cause:

1. friendster does not need publicity

2. I only have three readers to my blog (pathetic but true)

I stand corrected. And ashamed. Why label people blah based on my own misled notions? Now, I'm the blah one. Blah for being late, blah for not utilizing technology to its utmost, blah for not making the simple effort to reconnect.

Well, the first step counts. And now, I can't stop checking my friendster profile every other breath. So if you're not linked to me yet... do it now... need to count how many friends I have. Now, am I blah or what?!?

Opinion: Just Be

2006-12-27T11:31:00.000+08:00

It’s not about the money. Jer sincerely said.

After a delicious meal of Josh’s mom’s world-famous mutton curry (all the other dishes didn’t register – such was the impact of the curry), we were tucking into an equally sinful dessert of vanilla choc ice-cream when the topic of ker ching came up.

I was just telling KG about the ridiculous amount of incentives my company pays out for our sales team. Just’s lower jaw dropped to the floor. That’s when Just suggested that maybe Jer move to the industry I’m in.

Jer, as far as I can tell, is doing extremely well in his current job. He enjoys it, he excels in it, and as he put rather plainly last night: It’s not about the money.

Keong was over at my place a couple of days ago. And inevitably the conversation found its way to work, in general. We were engrossed in remuneration packages, perks, benefits, bonuses and the like. I too, since getting bogged down with a new house, have been trying to grow my humble bowl of income. Dollars and cents matter. Upward career path matters. As long as I’m paid slightly more than the next guy, I’m a happy chap. That’s schadenfreude for you. Whistle-dee-dee.

Yet Jer’s simple words adjusted my Chinese-tinted glasses a fraction last night. I used to tell myself that life is more than hundred ringgit notes. Life should be lived. And for that I’m thankful. For Gy. For family. For friends. And more recently, for Boone. Thanks for the timely reminder, Jer.

So does it matter if I don’t make RM 10,000 a month like Richie Moneypants, or if I don’t stay in Mont’ Kiara? It doesn’t.

My New Year’s Resolution – don’t set prerequisites to be happy. Just be.

Movie Review: Happy Feet

2006-12-22T09:43:00.000+08:00

Happy Feet looked like everything a bad cartoon is made out to be – penguins that could have been a lot cuter (take the Mafia penguins in Madagascar, for example), dreary-looking landscape (there’s only white, white and white!), less-than-arousing previews ( a bunch of ugly birds singing soul to a backdrop of aurora borealis… yawn), the list goes on. Yup, Happy Feet will meet its sad demise in no time – so I prophesied.

But hey, even glass-ball-gazing Madam Zorra gets it wrong sometimes, ok? Happy Feet turned out to be spectacular fun. And those birds, they ain’t so passé-looking after all.

This animated tale talks about the little penguin that is different, Mumble. You see, when he was still warm and snug in his wee egg, his dad dropped him; a big boo-boo in penguinland. Now these Emperor penguins, they are all blessed with Aretha Franklin and Andrea Bocelli vocal chords (you may get the odd P Diddy la) – and they sing what they call ‘heart songs’ that lead you to finding your true love. Cool concept eh?

Problem is Mumble can’t sing. He sounds like David Beckham with a sore throat. He can only tap-dance (hence the title la). And that of course is the conflict in the movie. The penguin flock can’t stand him because he’s different, and daddy is agonizing over his mistake during incubation time.

And as all cartoons go (other than South Park), Mumble goes forth, challenges the norms, and reaps big rewards for the whole colony. Very American, no?

Still, it was a good watch. The characters are lively (the three sidekicks are a hoot to watch, really!), the issues are real, the music is great! Definitely not the bad cartoon it was supposed to be. Way way unexpectedly good!

Guess it makes more sense to catch cartoons nowadays then real peeps. Whaddya think?

Movie Review: The Prestige

2006-12-21T13:59:00.000+08:00

One of the most gripping shows I’ve seen this year. The Prestige starts off with a leisurely stroll in the park, then gradually escalates into a hurried anxious run that concludes with a breathless leap into the air – such was the tight pacing.

Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman) and Alfred Borden (Christian Bale) are two young aspiring magicians in turn-of-the-century London, both apprentices for Cutter (the very formidable Michael Caine). Borden is thought to have caused the death of Angier’s wife when she died due to a foul-up of a trick; setting the stage for lifelong enmity.

Borden manages to do a seemingly impossible trick – The Transported Man, which Angier desperately wants to know. As time passes, we see how the magicians resort to the most devious schemes to sabotage each other.

Angier dies – that much we are already told in the prologue itself. Yet the twist at the very end left me awestruck by its ingenuity. The double twists – first of Borden, then of Angier – at the penultimate scene are very original, very unexpected.

The trivia about how early magicians perform the tricks are educational, to say the least. Definitely a good movie, judged by any means.

Why is it called The Prestige? Behold the quote below from Cutter in the show:
Every great magic trick consists of three acts. The first act is called "The Pledge"; The magician shows you something ordinary, but of course... it probably isn't. The second act is called "The Turn"; The magician makes his ordinary some thing do something extraordinary. Now if you're looking for the secret... you won't find it, that's why there's a third act called, "The Prestige"; this is the part with the twists and turns, where lives hang in the balance, and you see something shocking you've never seen before.

Condensed Reviews: MH 203

2006-12-14T16:33:00.000+08:00

I had the good (mis)-fortune of taking a 13-hour flight overseas. As you'd know, the soles of my shoes did not touch the decomposing caramel-coated carpets of TGV/GSC/Cathay for the past 6 months or so. So the in-flight movies were a welcome respite!

Here goes my brief 2 sen's worth:

1. Poseidon

You see the storyline coming at you miles away, with blinking arrows to boot. So Poseidon, the ship, gets turned over by a rogue wave. Everyone is trapped in the ballroom, supposedly safe. But main actors and actresses manage to make their own escape. The obligatory Latino dies early on, followed by another equally obvious victim. With boring characters, and an even more boring turn of events, it's a wonder I stayed awake!

2. Cars
Now people left and right and up and down have lavished praise after praise on this cartoon. And sad to say, I agree with the masses. Who would've thought that cars would have such believe-able characters? Funny, colourful and with the must-have moral-of-the-story, this cartoon made one and a half hours in a cramped cabin 35,000 feet above the Indian ocean a breeze.

3. Monster House
Another two-thumbs up for yet another cartoon. This cartoon is so simple, yet so engaging. I liked the best friend best (whatsisname again?). The graphics were cool, and who would've seen the Giantess coming?

4. Superman Returns
Brandon Routh should've stayed home. Getting a kayu to play Superman would have been nicer to watch. And Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor - yawn! -. Even the villain ends up looking like a caricature instead. The whole mess about Lois getting married with a kid is a pathetic sub-plot. But then, it may be due to my lack of sleep... of course, I'm just being polite.

5. The Illusionist
This movie starring Edward Norton looks like a bad period drama from the 80's. Such a waste of Norton's (usually) sterling acting. It's set in Austria, and this guy (Norton) could actually conjure people up (dead or alive). And he's in love with a girl (Jessica Biel), who happens to be the Crown Prince's desired consort. Long story short, bad guy (Crown Prince) gets his comeuppance, while the Illusionist gets to have his abracadabra with his gal. Such a pain to watch.

6. Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man's Chest
The first movie was way way better. Mr. Depp, tsk tsk.

7. Little Britain (sitcom)
Three thumbs up for this. The flight had about an hour to go when I thought I'll just watch some in-flight tv instead. Little Britain is made up of little sketches about British life - played quite atrociously by 2 lead actors of course, who are so so funny. It's like watching Kumars at No 42, except that it's white this time. No one is spared - the cross-dresser, the geriatric, the crippled, the coloured, anyone and anything. I'll be keeping my eyes peeled for the DVD series, if available. Wonderful way to end my flight.

More reviews on the recent movies coming soon! Stay tuned!

Opinion: The Boone of my life

2006-12-13T17:41:00.000+08:00

It was the best birthday gift ever - the permission to have a dog.

I have always wanted a dog. Since I was a little tod, my eyeballs always dripped green goo whenever I saw any of my friends going home to playful yelps, warm licks and floppy ears.

Tried my luck with mum. She nearly fainted. A gold fish maybe? In your wildest dreams, boy! And thus commenced her lecture about how I would not bathe the dog, nor feed the dog nor care for the dog after the initial 2 minutes of joy. My supposed warm, warm chicken shit phase. And this was all hypothetical - but to her, it seemed as true as day! Bleah. Her son - the blatant dog-neglecter.

And now that I finally have my very own ramshackle home, I can get my own dog! His adorable features caught my heart at first sight! And since my very obvious craze with Lost not so long ago, Gy and I scrolled down the names we'd like him to have. Hence Boone - yes, he's named after that good-looking fella' in Lost. Wanted to call him Sawyer initially (the best character!), but it would be quite a mouthful for a name.

He's been with us for almost a month now - and we have become extremely anti-social - since taking care of a 3-month old puppy is immensely time-and-toilet paper-consuming. You see, Boone - being the big bully that he is (all1.5 feet of him!) - wakes up way way before dawn. He barks the house down at 5 am, after his morning poop deposit in the cage. Bleary-eyed, and armed with no more than yawns, I dutifully creep downstairs to clean Boone's cage, and play with him. And that little tyke doesn't sleep until 10 pm!

In a way, it's a mixed bag - both of joy and geram-ness. But his huge warm eyes and floppy ears never fail to warm both our hearts.

The newest addition to my family - Boone!

Opinion: Laziness Last

2006-11-03T16:34:00.000+08:00

I couldn’t take it anymore. I – the to-hell-with-what-everyone-else-thinks bloke – have succumbed to *gasp* vanity.

I became acutely aware of my ever-growing waistline recently. For the past one year, I’ve pooh pooh-ed suggestions that I’m ballooning. Me, fat? Hah! *Stuffs another moist chocolate brownie oozing with sinfully thick chocolate sauce topped with a generous dollop of melt-a-minute vanilla ice-cream into face*

Now I’m down to my last pair of work slacks (the other five I’ve barely been able to stuff one leg in, what more two...). I’ve no holes left in my belt. Rafia string can ka?

Realization dawns. I am getting a bit too pudgy for my own good. Though I tend to relive my zaman kegemilangan of 31” jeans, I know that drastic times call for drastic actions. Ya, my male-boobs are begging to be straddled by Yobos.

Going undercover (you know how self-consciousness always heightens one’s sense of perasan-ness, especially when it comes to clandestine spots like gyms, beauty parlours and porno DVD stalls?), I surreptitiously met up with Shan, a “membership consultant” for a well-established gym, Laziness Last (name has been changed to ensure anonymity).

A quick tour of the spacious premises included a peek at the guys’ locker room (is it me, or am I the only one who’s like 50 kg overweight around here?), the cardio section (treadmills, steppers, bicycles), the weights section and the classes section. Cool stuff.

Then Shan ushered me into a claustrophobic-looking room, where some Romulan weighing scale was. A personal trainer, Winner, was there. He asked if I exercise.

Heh, heh. Of course la. I mean, I enter decathlons like 24 times a year, hike the Everest once in 6 months, and all I eat is oats. I mean, am I healthy or what?

Winner, the smart-arse that he is, did not buy my macho story. After I stepped on the scale, Winner casually remarked:"Oh, this will measure the amount of body fat you have too. Whistle-dee-dee..."

Wha? Wha? What? I do not want to feel inferior to you, just because you have pecs and abs! I have them too... just that you can't see them that clearly.

"Your BMI is **". Oh, not that high la. Slightly overweight only what.

"Your fat is **, while the normal range is (**-100 gazillion percent)." *Bats eyelids* Oh my gawd! Am I a walking tub of lard of what?

That's it, man. Give it to me! All geared up to fit into my old Levi’s once more, I signed up on the spot.

Opinion: What?

2006-11-03T09:10:00.000+08:00

Have you put the what on the what?
Yeah, I have.

Behold the simplicity of communication.

A group of us were BBQ-ing in Rumah Tysim, a cosy little colonial bungalow tucked in a private corner of Port Dickson’s beach. Keong and I were busy with slabs of mutton, beef and the obligatory chicken. The golden-red flames in the pit were a-crackling, and our stomachs were screaming to be filled (despite the durians 2 hours ago).

Hence the conversation above. Keong understood my question, which was “Have you put the butter on the beef?”. Gy was incredulous. Her already big-enough eyes expanded to saucer-like proportions.

“How on earth could you understand that most ambiguous statement?” she prodded Keong. Keong and I just shrugged.

It happens. This I-got-what-you-saying-man-despite-your-apparent-nonsensical-sentence phenomenon. And I’m beginning to suspect that subscription to this Gobbledygook-Demystified channel (GD) is exclusively male.

When I speak to Josh J:
Hey, have you watched the what yet?
Eh, not yet la.

Or to Just J:
Hey, have you watched the what yet?
Yeah, it’s so what la…
I agree.

See – the economy of speech. Try it on the fairer sex though, and it never works.

Even with Gy, the sunbeam of my life for 7 years:
Eh, pass me the what for what.
What?
The what la.
What? Say properly, can or not?
The keys.
For what?
For what la…
* Saucer-eyes start to narrow*
Ok, ok, for me to open the back door to throw this thing out.

Ayoyo, what would have taken 10 seconds now became 2 minutes.

Why is this so, you think? Perhaps the testosterone-laden creatures have yet to evolve from the prehistoric days of grunts and snorts. And somehow, the rudimentary GD channel remained intact through the ages. And the GD channel was very important, to inform each other about bountiful hunting grounds, or impending danger, or the results from the latest Gua United vs Padangpool match.

While the lady apes waxed lyrical about anything and everything under the sun. Saying a lot, but not much. Perhaps some remotely life-and-death issues like which leaf works best for the interior cave decor: jambu or ciku?

Ho well. Gotta do my what before what so that what can what.

What?

Opinion: Service Matters Too

2006-10-27T13:58:00.000+08:00

It was late evening. The dark pregnant clouds threatened to unleash a flash-flood scale downpour. Gy and I were tired after a hard day’s work of scrubbing and mopping. Well, just to get it over and done with… Gy and I went to another Peraboot outlet, which was a convenient stop on our way to dinner.

Mood-wise, I’d say we were pretty whacked.

Out popped Eric. He introduced us to a few sofa sets, but Gy and I still somehow preferred the one we saw earlier, which BB offered at RM 10.00. When we indicated our choice, Eric went on to say that the sofa set came in 3 prices: RM 5.50, RM 7.50 and RM 10.00. Eric explained that the different prices would be reflected in the different cloth materials we chose. Oh… He produced the cloth samples, with a running commentary on the various features each texture produced. Oh… BB never mentioned that.

We saw the RM 1.00 coffee table, and Eric, with a twinkle in the eye, conspirationally confided in us that the table was quite problematic. Quite a different story from BB.

We looked at bedroom sets next. And Eric led us to a decent set priced at RM 4.00, a far cry from the RM 20.00 in BB’s Peraboot. Not only that, Eric threw in two single-bed frames at a very very good price.

To top it up, Eric added some complimentary throw pillows for our sofa set. His group of sales colleagues were friendly too. Not once did Gy and I feel stifled by any sales attacks. Eric was attentive to our needs, and at the end of the day, we bought quite a big chunk of furniture from him.

This was Peraboot. That was Peraboot too. As a customer, I’d definitely go to the former one anyday.

Gy and I left the shop with smiles on our faces. And this time, we didn’t even eat thosai.

Service really does matter.

Opinion: Service Matters

2006-10-27T11:55:00.000+08:00

The sky was blue. Gy and I had just gobbled down like 10 piping-hot thosais and 5 idlis served with authentic Indian chicken and mutton curries: tender chunks swimming lazily in a heady concoction of spices and colours. Yum. Splendid Deepavali lunch – thanks to Kumar. Or his mom, to be exact. Ha.

Sated, we stepped into a furniture shop, let’s call it Peraboot, for anonymity purposes. Ooh, the mystery. Gy and I were seriously looking for some real furniture; like those with boards, and trestles, and doors, and hinges and stuff… not some pseudo-furniture like rugs or toothpick holders. This was big-time adult shopping, man.

Out popped Bumbling Bee (or BB for brevity’s sake), the chosen one to stuff us to our gills with Peraboot wares. BB commenced her standard sales spiel. Gy and I had our eyes on a sofa set, which was coincidentally a third cheaper than the sofa set BB recommended (can wash, can change colours, can withstand nuclear bomb attack… you get the picture).

No, thanks BB. We prefer the cheap and ugly sofa set instead.
Ok lah – sell it to you RM 10.00!
Hey, BB you’ve got a coffee table that’d go with this?

BB showed us one at RM 1.00.

Wah, at this price this table can tahan or not?
Sure can – you put 10 buffaloes and 20 hippos on it, you won’t even see a dent!

Half a minute later, BB said actually the price is RM 1.20.

What?
RM 1.20.
But you just told me RM 1.00!
Ayoyo, RM 1.00 sell to you, I rugi la… have to top up the RM 0.20 myself.

Gy stepped outside to see the promotional items brochure, and saw that the coffee table was RM 1.00, and not RM 1.20! Only then BB reluctantly nodded.

Any bedroom sets, BB?
Got… all RM 20.00 and above, all also got.
How about RM 5.00 like that?
Where got price like that wan?
Thanks BB. We’ll come back later if we need anything. Do you have a name card?
No need name card wan. Come here and you’ll see me lor. Haisay man.

Gy and I left Peraboot, disappointed. The earlier thosai-induced mirth was gone.

DVD Review: Supernatural

2006-10-26T10:53:00.000+08:00

I am still very much obsessed with Lost, but more on that later.

Like all geeks and dweebs before me, I find the paranormal fascinating. Yes Evangeline Lilly too, but… the paranormal: the whole mumbo-jumbo about the living and the dead… Simply super.

I’m such a sucker for the ‘doo-doo-doo-doo’ *cue Twilight Zone theme* that the dud of all duds – Charmed – still got my eyes glued on the idiot box (no, Alyssa Milano’s generous boobs had nothing whatsoever to do with it). Yeah. Pathetic. I religiously followed Angel too – up till when Cordelia turned all freaky.
I read some pretty good reviews about Supernatural and with a title like that, the DVD box set was a guaranteed hole in my wallet. Especially after Lost shook the earth beneath me, I kinda had blind faith that ‘modern series’ from Follywood (cool play of letters eh?) would be quite a safe bet. With great shows like CSI, 24, Gilmore Girls, Grey’s Anatomy… how could anything go wrong?

Right.

Starring two strapping young actors Jared Padalecki (Sam), Rory’s Dean in Gilmore Girls, and Jensen Ackles (Dean), Lana’s beau in Smallville, the story starts when Sam is just a 6-month old baby. A demon kills his mother (in a gruesome fire-and-brimstone sort of way – picture a back-on-the-ceiling yoga position served a la flambé). Daddy never recovers emotionally, vows to find the s.o.b. demon and blast him to smithereens.

Fast forward 20 years (?), Daddy goes missing, Dean (the elder brother) looks for Sam(my) who is about to enter law school. Sam, who has some serious authority issues with Daddy, is unwilling to join brother Dean to track down Daddy until his girlfriend Jessica dies in the same yoga-fire way too. Screw law school, Sam wants to kick some ‘supernatural’ ass!

Daddy and Dean boy have been going on these ghost-busting missions (that’s their calling in life, it seems) while Sam chooses the unconventional normal life (note the paradox). Not so now Jess is dead. So on their quest to find Daddy, Sam and Dean form the new team and continue to slaughter the spooks and crooks episode after episode.

It just so happens that they always have the right ID (be it a health official, or CIA, or home inspectors, or Ramley burger boys) at the right time. The boys, despite impersonating all possible officers of the law, are never apprehended. And the Internet, whoa, the Internet! Can’t figure out who the ghost is? Google it. Don’t know what that weird-looking symbol means? Google it. Need porn? Google it. Yup – answers abound in the world of the two lipstick-ed studs.

The spooks are a mish-mash of B-grade horror flicks in the past. In one episode, you get The Ring in the mirror. In another you get Wrong Turn (without Eliza Dushku, unfortunately). Oh, there’s House On Haunted Hill and What Lies Beneath too. Pretty much a Tesco-relabelling exercise, if you ask me.

Daddy still holds his grudge for the demon after a million eons. If you ask me, he needs a shrink, like badly. After the run-of-the-mill slash and burn act every episode, Dean, Sam and Daddy converge in the end to face the biggest bad-ass bloke ever. Did they kill it? What do you think?

Perhaps my expectations were too high. Hopefully the central theme gets developed more for the next season. There has to be a unifying thread of events (not unlike the very good Lost, for example).

All in all, this may just be the male version of Charmed. How guys ogled at the witches in Charmed, gals would do so for the two main actors here (at least, I think that’s Warner Bros’ ploy…).

Season 2? I ain’t exactly biting my nails in suspense over the wait. May just forget the whole show altogether. Hmm… maybe Carnivale or Deadwood will just do the trick. Later.

DVD Review: Lost

2006-10-20T14:52:00.000+08:00

Time is precious. Somehow or other, the stage shows that ended up as casualties due to my lousy personal time-management include YKLS’ A Malaysian Affair and LiT’s Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Hollywood seems pretty yawn-worthy too lately. Have to wait for the line of year-end blockbusters, it seems.

My current obsession is with Lost. The series. Excellent. Bloody excellent. I’m sure most are well-acquainted with the show. Being the television-deprived bloke for the past 3 years (ya, I’m pretty sad in that sort of way), I was literally lost when it came to Lost. Not so cool pun. Whaddya expect? Puns don’t grow on trees, k?

Abso-friggin’-lutely ka-pow ba-boom plot. Story starts when this plane crashed on a god-forsaken island in the middle of nowhere (probably between Sydney and Los Angeles, but 1,000 nautical miles off course en route to Fiji… Ya, go figure). The survivors number about 40 – and tah dah, the action unfolds almost immediately.

We learn soon enough that there are other people on the island, and there’s this mysterious beast that’s really huge (till the pokok kelapa sway in its wake) but no one really sees it… Unexplained miracles and weird technical conundrums only draw the audience in more. Each episode reveals a bit of the past of a particular character as well – and we get to go: “Oh, so he is actually the bad guy!” until another episode which will get us going: “Or is he the good guy?” ad infinitum. The twists and turns Lost makes is real fun, as nothing can be trusted at sight.

It’s a significant bonus that babelicious Kate (Evangeline Lilly) is present in every episode.

For better synopses, you can check them out here and here.

I’m just starting on the second season… and well, suffice to say the story in the island seems to have taken another course. I’m not sure if I like where it’s headed – but hey, I’m only done with the first 3 episodes so far.

But go watch it if you haven’t. You’ll get your money’s worth – with 24 episodes of pure nail-biting suspense.

Opinion: The haze season

2006-10-08T12:28:00.000+08:00

Being the patriotic Malaysian that I humbly am, I have decided to do my part for the nation I love, by constructively promoting Malaysia to the world and beyond!

You see, my dear tourist with bagfuls of foreign currency, Malaysia generally has four main seasons: the monsoon season that brings the rain (and flash floods - an amazing occurence that you must be fortunate enough to catch; witness the city flooded in half an hour, or less if you're really really lucky!), the non-monsoon season that brings the heat (you white peeps love that don't you? - see Malaysian beaches transform into one huge tanning salon), the shopping season (with the dubious tagline The whole of Malaysia is on sale!), and the recently added haze season!

We are in the midst of the haze season now. This annual phenomenon can only happen in South-East Asia, where we live and die by the prosper thy neighbour policy. Our brotherly ties with a neighbouring country ensures that the beautiful blanket of smog smothers Malaysia once a year. It's not easy getting a big number of their citizens to do this slash-and-burn thingy every year... free of charge some more... and all of it for our sake. Aren't we lucky?

Who would want to see blue skies and inhale fresh air? Every other country has them - go to Maldives then! Malaysia must be unique! We give you sceneries that are shrouded in a thin veil of grey - quite like the misty hills of Scotland, except that the temperature here is 30 degrees and above. Enjoy the feeling of walking through the dreamy mountainous landscapes, only now you can do it in your spaghetti straps! Is Malaysia cool or what?

And the air, there's an acrid sort of quality to it. It's meant to reconnect humankind with our forefathers who used to cook their hunted spoils over fire. Sniff, and your primordial brain will recall those long-forgotten roots of the past. Breathe in - and get in touch with your inner pre-historic self. Very New Age, no?

On a positive note, the Scientific Malaysian Olfactory Group (SMOG) is conducting clinical tests on the benefits of inhaling ash and smoke. The preliminary results have been encouraging thus far, though the full report has yet to be published. SMOG intends to complete the RM 33.5 billion study sometime in the next millenium. But it's ok, we can wait. A mere 994 years to go.

One important thing, when you're down in Malaysia, you must get these limited edition souvenirs: face-masks. They are sold for RM 1.00 (USD 0.26) each. They sell like hot cakes, and you can only get them during the haze season. Forget key-chains and t-shirts. Face-masks: they represent Malaysia better than all the rest.

So we'll be seeing you soon? Selamat datang! *cough cough* Welcome to Malaysia!

Movie Review: My Super Ex-Girlfriend

2006-10-07T15:59:00.000+08:00

Time for a quickie:

Matt Saunders (Luke Wilson) is your typical guy-next-door. Jenny Johnson (Uma Thurman) is your not-so-typical art curator by day, superhero G-Girl by night. Through a quirky twist of fate, Matt happens to 'help' Jenny when her bag got snatched in the subway one day. Love blossoms.

Hannah Lewis (Anna Faris), who dates a hunky male model Leo (Stelio Savante), is Matt's pretty colleague. Matt obviously has humpin' pumpin' feelings for Hannah though he only realizes it halfway through the show. Erratic, neurotic, pathetic Jenny aka G-Girl cries murder when Matt puts a halt to their relationship. Naturally, all hell breaks loose. To paraphrase: Hell hath no fury as a [super]woman scorned.

Put the bleah baddie Professor Bedlam (Eddie Izzard) and best buddy Vaughn Haige (Rainn Wilson) in, mix it for about 2 minutes, and there you have it - My Super Ex-Girlfriend!

The story is likeable (though predictable) enough. There are no obligatory PC characters like the black best friend, or the Asian doctor, or the self-pitiful Jew. Some scenes are great LOL ones: the sex scenes (both the bed-banging and the romp-in-the-stratosphere), and the unexpected appearance of JAWS (yup, see it to believe it). While the film had so much going for it, I was surprised that I went,"Huh, that was it?" at the end of the show. I didn't get the ka-pow-damn-that-was-good satisfaction.

Maybe Thurman doesn't look that hot here. Maybe. Conclusion: get the DVD instead, and enjoy some sinful caramelized-popcorn over it.

Stage Review: Butterfly Lovers

2006-10-06T03:25:00.000+08:00

RM 92/=. That was my ticket's price. And that price is daylight robbery, especially if it is not staged in Istana Budaya. But then again, it is Dama Orchestra - and word has it that they rarely, if ever, get anything wrong.

A caveat first: I am a banana. I most probably missed out the nuances of the dialogue and lyrics. I am also averse to mechanical sweeping staged movements that may be appropriate for period pieces like this. However, my expectations were not high to begin with - and as mentioned in my earlier blog; I just want to be entertained...

This will be a difficult review to make. The storyline existed way way back during the times of long flowing robes (minus the gravity-defying abilities this time around): it is a Chinese classic. So can't fault that.

The music is adapted from the earth-shattering Shaw Brothers' production in the mid 1950's which gained such mass appeal that Chinese the world over commerorate 30th February as the day of love, butterflies and flowing robes. So I'm exaggerating. Sue me. The infallible music. Silence from the ignoramus typing this then.

This timeless tale tells of a maiden fair, Zhu Yingtai, who is the Condoleeza Rice of her day. She stamps her dainty foot and demands that daddy sends her to school. Yes, in those medieval backward times, only men can go for academic pursuits. Strange how the world treated people based on their genitalia then. And daddy relents after Zhu's clever prank. She dresses as a man, and voila she meets the main actor Liang Shanbo who - after a lame duet by the river - decides that they should be sworn brothers.

Zhu falls in love with Liang... while Liang (I think) seriously doubts his own sexuality. Zhu gets summoned home after 3 years only to be betrothed to Ma Wencai (an evil sleazy playboy - as all antagonists are). Liang finds out that Zhu is actually a woman (smacks head) and runs off to her abode to ask for her hand in marriage. Too late. *Weep weep* Liang coughs up blood (in an unexpected HVD moment). Liang dies. Zhu goes to his grave on her wedding day - then in a burst of strobe lights she dies too. The ending sees two gigantic butterflies emerging from the grave (someone better register their size with the Malaysian Book of Records). Ah... love triumphs at last... never mind that the life span of insects is ephemeral.

My main gripe: the actors all lack stage presence. They do not command the audience's attention; hence the difficulty in connecting with them. I must commend Tan Soo Suan as Zhu - simply because of her beautiful voice. While Edwin Sumun did bring some semblence of acting into the piece, it was a bit too little, too late. I really cannot figure out why the acting seemed so subdued. The emotions seemed rehearsed, rather than genuine.

The story is beyond reproach, I know, but it verges on being overly simple. Every character suffers the dreaded two-dimensional syndrome – all height and width, but no depth. So Liang is a peasant boy – yet he can afford a tag-along attendant. Liang, at times, comes across as ‘a wuss’ (so says KG). Smart of Edwin Sumun’s lines that make fun of that apparent homo-slanted innuendo, yet whiny Liang still is. For example, Zhu name-calls him ‘big stupid buffalo’ – and of all reactions, he merajuk! He is the ‘elder brother’ yet his dependence on Zhu, the ‘younger brother’ really begs belief – inflicting another dent on the already awkward love tale.

Some scenes are tres melodramatic: Liang coughing up blood, Liang giving his blood-stained kerchief to Zhu as his dying memento (?), though used to great effect in the ‘thunderstorm’ scene.

The music sounds ‘accomplished’. The arrangements are well thought of, with sly inclusions of modern harmonies at times. Unfortunately after the first two pieces, the rest do not sound any different. The saddest cut is that there are no memorable tunes. While the accompaniment (I’m guessing 2 synthesizers for most of the music with a few solo instruments) is commendable, the melodies suffer from you’ve-heard-something-like-me-one-song-ago boils. Sigh, such maladies (ooh, nice pun there)!

The set design is another one of those ‘whoa, great idea but…’ stuff. Splendid idea: mobile multiple-level platforms that can be soundlessly and artistically arranged. But the vertical props (trees, doors, walls etc) look almost amateurish. For me, it’s either avant-garde all the way, or if not some realistic-looking ones then. But the final result is neither here nor there. Tree branches with 2 shades of brown, interspersed with secondary-school pavilion cut-outs sap the magic the moving platforms could have created. But hey, that’s just me.

The lighting is consistent throughout, though I think the multi-coloured ‘leaves’ pattern is a bit overdone. Quite a few bursts of brilliance, actually – especially during the penultimate scene where Liang creepily emerges at his tombstone (in that oh-so-exciting thunderstorm scene).

Choreography? Dikir barat meets RTM sequin-clad back-up dancers. 'Nuff said.

As with most plays, it is the audience who decides its fate. When I looked around me, I saw many aunties sniffing, and one who actually blew her nose! Such was the impact of the musical on them. Perhaps the tale and the music brought them back down memory lane – with waves of nostalgia bringing them to tears. Sadly, I do not share a similar point of reference – thus I remained aloof and unaffected. A waste actually, this is supposed to be my culture… yet I cannot appreciate it.

Truly, Dama Orchestra has created another milestone for themselves, judging from the audience’s rapturous applause. Congratulations! Obviously this mutinous banana twat has no idea what he’s talking about…

RM 92/=... *sob sob* could have gotten me 10 meals at KFC - that's where I want to be!

DVD Review: High School Musical

2006-10-02T17:21:00.000+08:00

I have fallen to the Dark Side! Soon2 insisted that Disney's High School Musical is a bona fide blast - and while I do have some reservations about the compatibility of his tastes with mine, I got the DVD! Man, another empirical evidence of the might of peer pressure.
While I'm generally a sucker for all musicals (no - Riverdance is NOT a musical!), I tend to take tweeny fads with a pinch of salt. After the wonder years of Alan Menken in Disney, Mickey has not been churning any tunes of worth (okay la, Elton John did bring in a cash cow The Lion King)... so why bother?

Since time and tide waits for no man, I watched High School Musical 3 days after I bought it. Ok - cut to the chase. Formulaic storyline (it's Disney after all): Troy Bolton, highschool jock, who's a closet karaoke singer, falls for Gabriella Montez (ah, how politically correct!), the smart-ass geek who looks more like a whup-ass slut. Of course the jock has his posse of basketball players *cue primate grunts*, and Gabriella her assembly of dweebs *cue braces, ugly spectacles, dated fashion sense* - talk about predictability. Throw in the drama gang - led by brother-sister pair of Sharpay and Ryan Evans - you'd have the 3-way conflict. Brilliant!

Moral of the Disney story: you can be who you want to be, no need to conform to what is expected of you. Troy cannot sing because he's the Testosterone of East High and it would be pondan for him to do that *cue primate grunts*. Sharpay and Ryan, devious and scheming, but still essentially beautiful M-I-C-K-E-Y characters at heart, concoct plans to prevent Troy and Gabriella from usurping the lead roles of East High's musicale that year. But no prizes for guessing the eventuality. Troy and Gabriella get to sing *gasp*, and win the basketball tournament *gasp gasp* and ace the academic decathlon as well *gasp gasp gasp*. Oh ya, they happen to fall in love too. Amazing, ya? Kinda like USA can conquer Afghanistan, Iraq and Iran too - oops, topik serius there. Everything ends fine and dandy *cue confetti and group dance where everyone (from geek to sleek) turns incredibly gorgeous (only in the Land of the Free)*.

Can't complain about the story. Get real. It's a musical - you won't expect it to tackle big issues like racism, or double standards... no. It's gotta be simple. Now, Troy is an excellent actor - he has a relatively intense presence, but then again it's because everyone else is so drab. Even Gabriella. Yawn. No wonder he's the new tween Brad Pitt.

The songs - contemporary, but totally below Disney's standards la. The 'basketball song' and the 'cafeteria song' are rather lame... but then again, it may just be me - turning old. Oh Menken, wherefore art thou? I didn't enjoy the music at all la. Senility speaking here.

But it's such a big hit. That means, it's gotta have done something right. Well, good for Disney then. Anyone wants this DVD? Sell it to you half price la... Damn nice wan... well, sort of. Ha ha...

Stage Review: fiftynineminutes

2006-09-29T15:15:00.000+08:00

When someone mentions Malaysian theatre, the same few names would inevitably crop up. While we have this handful of theatre stalwarts to thank for passionately pursuing the solo crusade for the Malaysian arts scene, there is a noticeable dearth of new blood.

Admittedly ker-ching is a huge problem when it comes to the arts. Maybe that’s why many ‘up-and-coming’ writers/directors/actors don’t get the same amount of publicity as the more established players. But golly gee, youth’s unbridled enthusiasm is an amazing thing; aptly capturing Nike’s mantra ‘Just Do It’. And The Oral Stage (TOS) did it, again and again. Providing a platform for the Malaysian pre-adults’ creative and artistic expressions, TOS may just act as an ‘underground’ arts group – by the artistes, for the arts! Very bohemian, no?

fiftynine minutes is the latest production by TOS, featuring 7 short original plays. One big disclaimer before I move on: I really do not fancy stage performances that do not have music, and I loathe artsy ‘black box’ types. So don’t stone me because of my obvious artistic preferences… Sigh, fastidious I am! So why did I come? Being Chinese, a free tix was too good to resist. Ha.

The venue – Dram Projects – looked cool, in an ‘underground' sort of way. The stage was just a simple raised platform, with 2 amber lights. Plastic chairs were placed in a U-shaped formation. Found next to Food Foundry, which serves value-for-money food, by the way, Dram Projects was unpretentiously simple.

My favourite piece was The World’s Smelliest Durian. Patricia Low gave a fresh take on clichéd issues. The story was ingenious, and Johann Lim, in his acting debut, carried the role excellently. His role could have suffered a bland and predictable interpretation, yet thankfully it did not. And I'm not saying this due to cronyism...

The other pieces were cool, though there were of course a few that made me look at my watch a kazillion times. For example, good stories that suffered from weak direction included Best Foot Forward and The Ground Floor. Somehow for these two pieces, I felt that tighter direction might have worked wonders. Mother Tongue was annoying or delightful, depending on whom you spoke to. Lam Wai Yee performed perfunctorily, I feel. Fruitcake did not work for me mainly because Vinolan Batsalaruban was a kettle of dead fish, compared to Sharanya Manivannan's electrifying presence. Intentionally or not, dead people can still be 'intense' characters, me humbly thinks. Showers of Flowers was alright, but barely just. TRACK, while unique, simply did not connect with my grey matter (or whatever that was left of it).

Again, talk is cheap. Watch, then critique. Heck, anyone can do that. But if you wanna make a difference... 'just do it', as TOS has done!

Essentially, fiftynine minutes offered a peep into the artistic talent that the young have. Pretty impressive really. Going against the grain, now that's what I call courage. Cool job, guys!

Opinion: Where have all my 'other' friends gone?

2006-09-25T17:32:00.000+08:00

Now, S'kali should really pat itself on the back, as even now the rusty wheels in my long-hollow cranium are still happily spinning... and that's truly something.

I pride myself on being colour blind. In lower secondary, I had the honour of being the oddball. I counted Yus (Malay), Katty (Indian Muslim), Su (Baha'i Indian), Ram (Indian), Naveen (Indian), Palan (Chindian) as among some of the closer friends I had. Race (or for that matter, religion) was never an issue.

Chats with Su, Yus and Katty, especially were always a great verbal battlefield. Su (whose dad is a lawyer) would be the smart aleck who corrected everyone else's 'Sally's-berry' to 'Salls-bree', even Miss Poa's! Yus had this American twang, and who's nose was never away from a book! These guys spoke their minds, and they made many a teacher quake with fear at their own inadequacy. More importantly, these guys, together with me, went against the so-called Establishment of Puan Pergie in Form 3 when we were unfairly disciplined for coming up with a supposedly "censor-worthy" class magazine. We had our ideals, we had our distinctions of right and wrong, and we fought tooth and nail for our beliefs.

Come Form 4, Yus and Katty left for MARA. So did a whole group of other classmates (Hazly, Ridzuan). My class was predominantly Chinese, with a few Indians. Su, Naveen and I pored over ancient tomes in the school library preparing for debates - when fledgling intellectual discourses were held in one corner of the dusty and musty library. Where were the Malays? Where did they go?

Where are the Yuses and Katties of my world? Yus later went on to an Ivy League university, I heard. While Katty and Naveen are now doctors. Su is also a doctor in the UK. Being a Chinese did not prevent me from mingling with non-Chinese. And I am not a product of the 'old education system' - my secondary school years were during early 1990's: the KBSM. Yet we bonded across colours and creeds.

However, I may have to say that spiriting elite Malays to MARA is not going to alleviate the racial divide. You need to be in an environment that is not so racially uniform as a Malay boarding school. Not only do you deprive the Malays the chance of getting to know the other races better, you are preventing the other races from knowing the Malays better. Or is this part of some grand national scheme?

In the end, I have a simple conclusion. When I think real hard about what made us click, I realize that language was the binding factor. In this case - English. We all loved English books, and we thrived on the language itself.

But that cannot be true also la. In uni, I befriended the craziest bunch of Malay girls I know! We used to mamak during midnight - complaining about our lecturers and assignments. And we spoke Melayu campur English. I picked up tons of Malay slangs: kot, skema. Yet these same girls were rebuked by the Persatuan Mahasiswa Islam for mingling with non-Muslims. Where's the logic in that? How fanatical can you be? Nadd went to Germany to further her studies. Aina will be a doing her PhD soon. And Aiyah just got into the elite Diplomatic Corps.

I'm glad to be a thread in the colourful fabric that is Malaysia. Yet, I cannot help but feel frustrated as I see how strings of similar colours now end up making the same pattern. We could do so much more if we accept, rather than tolerate, each other.

Yadda yadda yadda - I won't start a sermon here. I know we can overcome our differences. But do we want to? - that, I guess, is the more difficult question to answer.

Movie Review: S'kali

2006-09-22T09:44:00.000+08:00

I am not the kind of person who revels in the arts. I do not go for deep abstract stuff for the sake of ‘supporting Malaysian theatre’. Me simpleton. Just give me entertainment, and I’ll be one happy fella. Make me think too much, and you’ll lose me.

So I would say that I’m not the kind of target audience S’kali was aiming for.

S’kali’s premise is simple enough. Five best friends (multiracial some more!) Ravin, Sze Huey, Bahir, Tzao and Tehm are at the crossroads of life, having completed their secondary education. Issues crop up along the way, conflicts happen. The strong ties of friendship start to fray, and the big question pops up: ”Is it perhaps time to move on?” And this is one phase that all of us must have gone through. I have asked myself that question many times; sometimes with regret, sometimes not.

And therein lies the strength of S’kali. The story feels so real to me. The ‘realism’ of life’s ups and downs is captured beautifully in the screenplay and the acting. The five new actors give amazingly natural performances – a far cry from the Cerekarama fodder that pollute our terrestrial tv channels. My favourite scenes are the ones involving Ravin and Sze Huey: the ice-cream rendezvous (has any other love scene in any Malaysian film ever felt this genuine?), and the intense break-up scene (which other Malaysian film can boast such adept delivery of such brilliant lines?). Ravin reminds me of a close Indian friend (yah, way back in secondary school) – excellent anchor to the other characters. Sze Huey is a treat to watch – purposeful, intelligent, yet so unsure about her beau. Bahir is another up-and-coming star, judging from his presence, even when he is silent. Tzao carries his character well – whiny, vengeful, calculative, aunty! Typical Cina. I can easily rattle off a string of Tzaos I know. Tehmina is a character I like the least. Could it be due to her lack of lines or underdevelopment of character?

Special mention must be given to the cameos: Jason Lo who was really really wacky (really really!), and Yasmin Ahmad whose presence in the movie must have given the S'kali gang a big boost of confidence!

And the issues. God, the issues! Spot-on Malaysian issues that hit home every time it’s almost freaky! The conversations in S’kali could easily reflect the numerous ‘intellectual discourses’ I’ve had with my buddies during our schooldays. Friggin’ excellent!

Some of the issues that struck me the most:
1. Bahir’s ‘favoured’ status as a Malay.
2. Tzao’s frustration at feeling like a second-class citizen.
3. In the arts scene, it’s more about who you know, than what you can do, that matters.
4. Parents in this day and age still cannot accept interracial marriages.
5. We may proclaim to high heavens that we are not racist, yet the cancerous tendrils of prejudice still linger in the deepest recesses of our hearts.
6. ‘Best friends’ need to move on.

I have overlooked many technical shortcomings (sound, editing) as in the end, I would just ask myself – Was it enjoyable? For S’kali – it is a resounding ‘YES’!

This has instilled a sense of hope in the Malaysian arts scene. Talents abound – take notice, you powers-that-be and back the right horse! In a few years time, perhaps Cerekarama and LipurLara can be an embarrassing legacy of yesteryears!

So why the name S'kali? Go watch it - it captures their theme of 'Love Life Friendship' beautifully.

I guess S’kali has won a convert – it has made the wheels in my head turn, and for once, I actually like it!

You can visit the S'kali production blog here.

CD Review: Wicked

2006-09-18T18:15:00.000+08:00

This CD is currently one of my personal favourites. Stephen Schwartz outdid himself in coming up with excellent original tunes (much better than his Pippin, or Godspell). The musical opened on Broadway in 2003.

Now, Wicked itself has a most exciting storyline, based on the novel by Gregory Maguire. In a nutshell, Wicked offers a different view of the well-loved and well-known story of Oz, way back in the pre-Dorothy days. Remember the Wicked Witch of the West? We see the 'real' story about how she became 'wicked', and truth to be told, the tale just begs to be 'musical-ized'. I will leave the story out, since it is too complex to be shrunk into a paragraph. But suffice to say - the plot is simply mind-blowing: all loose ends are tied-up in neat little Munchkin stacks.

The CD consists of 19 numbers. There are the customary chorus songs (No One Mourns The Wicked, One Short Day) which were nice enough. But the coolest tunes and lyrics are some of the more frivolous numbers (Popular: "You'll be popular, but not quite as popular as me!" and What Is This Feeling: "She's blonde!"). His I'm Not That Girl has a contemporary touch, but it is oh-so-beautiful. When you hear the lyrics for For Good, and you realize how the two best friends are parted, it is a most amazing feeling. No Good Deed deserves mention for the angst and frustration that are so well-captured.

Idina Menzel more than holds her own against the veteran Kristin Chenowith. Both have exceptionally strong vocals, though I personally prefer Menzel's 'rounder' tone. Norbert Leo Butz has a nice jagged rock-voice (kinda like Adam Pascal) that worked pretty well. It was Joel Grey (the Wizard) that sounded a bit 'hollow' as compared to the rest. The orchestrations are some of the freshest I've heard in a long while (try Lloyd Webber's musicals from 2000 onwards, and you'll know what I mean).

I would strongly recommend this CD to Broadway/West End virgins who are into contemporary mainstream music (well, second choice la, after the even snappier Rent).

Bought from: Borders, Wheelock Place, Orchard Road, Singapore
Bought in: 2005
Chuang's rating: 9/10

Caveat: Sorry if this CD review did not turn out to be as 'informative' as it should be. I'm strill trying to find a balance between writing only the necessary and regurgitating grandmother's stories. Will improve with time, fingers crossed.

Movie Review: The Banquet

2006-09-17T23:40:00.000+08:00

Disclaimer No. 1: I have not seen any movies for the last 4 months.
Disclaimer No. 2: My Mandarin is as good as my knitting skills.
Disclaimer No. 3: I just need to put this in, as I love to write things in three's.

As mentioned, after my 4-month long self-inflicted movie-abstinence, I have decided to enter the doors of cineplexes once more. Ah, soak in the dank mustiness in the dimly-lit rooms, where the bums of a thousand people past have fore-warmed your cushy (or is it mushy?) seats.

Having a soft-spot for all things martial arts (and Zhang Ziyi), I've decided that my movie-celibacy should be broken with The Banquet, starring Zhang, Ge You and Daniel Wu.

Set in the ancient Chinese times of the Five Kingdoms and Ten Dynasties and Two Hundred Kampungs (or something to that effect) where people wore long flowing robes, and gliding through air seemed a better mode of transport than horses, the story could be concisely compacted thus: Emperor murdered by brother who then became Emperor Li. Conniving ex-empress used her Zhang Ziyi assets to become new Empress Wan. Old emperor's namby-pamby son Prince Wu Luan wanted to avenge daddy's death. Minister Yan's family consisting of his son, General Yin, and his daughter, Qing, (whatever happened to his wife?) had the role of forming the (forgettable) subplots so that the film can be 2 hours' long.

The main problem with the characters is that NONE of them are like-able. The Empress is a b*tch, true and true. Is she a self-centred snake, or is her love for Wu real? Wu Luan is boring, boring and boring. Being able to tear on cue does not an actor make, Daniel. He has the whiniest lines available - effectively emasculating his character - and his gold eye-shadow does not help much. The funny-hair Qing remains an irritating girl whose love for Wu comes across as a teenage crush for the high-school jock. Of course the 2-dimensional Yan and son play their 2-dimensional characters with as much 2-dimensional aplomb as could be mustered. But Ge You as Emperor Li rises above the mediocrity that is everyone else to give a much needed film presence (fuyooh - like expert review like dat wor). I enjoyed his acting the most!

The sets are breathtaking, as is the case with most Chinese period films post-Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon days. The costumes have been stylized, I presume, but the colours, texture and cut effectively lend a surreal feel to the whole film. The weird female semi-eyebrows though are quite an acquired taste. Expecting edge-of-my-seat action in the kung fu sequences, I was sorely disappointed as I got beautifully choreographed ballet dances with swords instead.

- Spoilers ahead! -

The story eventually plodded its way to the final scene where the main cast (along with a few thousand extras) are all in the imperial hall having 'the banquet'. Empress tries to poison Emperor using wine. But the idiot Qing drinks the wine instead, and sings an aria (Puccini anyone?) before breathing her last. Wu (surprise surprise) is one of the performers in her We-Wear-Nothing-But-White Troupe and gives her a loving final embrace (never mind he raped her in the rain 45 minutes earlier). Emperor is astounded that his mummy-licious consort he just shagged 10 minutes earlier would want him poisoned! Wu finally finds his manhood and in the weirdest twist ever, Emperor breaks down and wilfully poisons himself.

I started laughing at this point, but oh golly, there was more to come!

Yin, after grieving for his sister Qing for an appropriate amount of time for Emperor, Empress and Wu to have their respective monologues du jour, tries to stab the Empress. But Wu holds on to the blade with his bare hands (taking his newfound manhood a tad bit too far eh?) long enough for the Empress to do a superb back-hand knife-through-the-throat stance. And guess what, the blade Wu held is poisoned. And tah dah: he dies too! And not a moment too soon!

The finale cracked me up big time!

It ain't over yet. The Empress in the epilogue goes through a Norma Desmond moment, just before a blade (you guessed it again) went through her heart. They must think it cool that we do not know who the final assassin is. But the saddest part is this: we, the audience, couldn't care less! If you ask me, it's probably the director who stabbed the Empress screaming: "Enough already! Just because we pay you a bomb doesn't mean you have to be in every friggin' scene!"

It felt like four hours. It was only two.

But don't take my word for it. Go. Have a ball. I mean 'banquet'.

The beginning

2006-09-17T23:27:00.000+08:00

Being my usual anal self, I will blog on the following 3 issues only:
1. The arts (music, movies, theatre)
2. The society (my 2 sen's worth as a Malaysian)
3. The life (pseudo-philosophical ramblings I lapse into from time to time)

Let the typing begin!