The Rs in my life.

 

My real name is Rakesh Kumar. My other name is only known to the secret organisation known as SPECTRE (where I am addressed as number 13). Plus the Rs in this post's title mean names that begin with the letter R, and has no relations to the word "arse". Well, maybe...hey let me get on with this post.

When I was young, as tall as a regular flower vase, my mom addressed me as "Geethu:". God knows what the word meant and where she got it from.

Aside: Probably from the name, Geetha, which, sort of, means music in many Indian languages, and I am as musically annoying as a cricket. The insect, not the game. End of aside.

As I grew up and discovered shit lot of things, Including stuff that told me that "geethu" is a girlie name. I scratched that. Being a movie fan (semi-retired now), let's look some Rs that I like in the movie business.


R for Robert de Niro

One of my favourite actors. When you think of him, you better not think of all those violent scenes, especially the one in Casino, directed by Martin Scorcese....If you have seen the film, remember the scene where Bob patted some dude's hand. With hammer.

If you are only remembering that, you are taking a short cut. Remember New York New York, a film also by Scorcese, where Bob and Marty were going through the glory of their victorious lives only to find that they are to be slipped by a banana peel named Liza Minnelli.

But that was a tiny slip....okay, she was not that tiny.

They went on to make many godawesome flicks that involved, to quote (paraphrasing) Schwarzenegger from the fine flick Raw Deal, "murder and mutilations". One fine R here.


R for Robert Downey Jr

Sherlock Holmes. Iron Man. 'nuff said.

R for Robert Duval

To heck with RDJ, Duval can be filmed just eating fried chicken for two hours and I will watch it. Maybe just me. And so, pardon my terrible English, but this Bob is awesomer.


R for Rajinikanth

Speaking of awesomeness, even the Japs accepted this South Indian hero as, well, an awesomestest hero (my superlatives can only go that far). But this guy has been around since my parents got married and still going strong albeit the longish gaps in between his assignments.

Doubt his popularity and you are doubting the existence of solar system which was founded by George Lucas. Ambudutheyn,


R is Hrithik Roshan's dad

Hrithik Roshan, as everyone (who is googling now) knows, is a Bollywood star. Bollywood is....oh crap, you guys have done googling?

Apparently, when I was born in 1973 (same year when P. Ramlee and Bruce Lee went to the other side,,,go ahead and google again, jeez you kids). Raakesh Roshan was one of the hottest bloke in Bollywood, a stardom that probably lasted about 17 minutes and that caught my parent's attention and hence they named me Sivaji Ganesan.

Okay, they named me after him (no not Sivaji) and I think my dad was in charitable mood when naming me that he removed one "a" from the name so that folks, when pronouncing my name, have easier time with their collective jaws .

So, there you go. The R's in the history of my life. The names, I mean. Unless you include others, verbs or nouns like "rejected" or "retard", but hey, I am happy the greatest R of them all, me. Did I mention "retard"?

Dude, Where's My Spage Age part !!

This is a followup to my post back then four years ago, when I was so unbusy that I didn't even bothered to do spell check on the title....and therefore, I retained the "Spage" word, which actually, being probably drunk back then, typed as fast as I can to combine two words "space" and "age" and then, followed by moment of sobrierty when I ran out of beer,  typed the word "age" again. 

Writers, most of them, like me, are the stuff squirels are always looking for. It rhymes with "guts". And I purposely made another mistake on the title just for continuity sake. 

Plus, there is no such word as "unbusy".

Anyway, I write this as as sequel because I am thrilled that they (you know who) are going to 

MARS....yes, that lovely place named after the goddam chocolate bar?

You can read more here and to hell with my rant: 

Recalling my original post, after its own hiatus (it spent time in my parents' home) I got back that scaled down version of Concorde aircraft, albeit the landing gear. The tragic history aside, there is so much behind the supersonic innovation that the world is yet to see, though it can never beat the speed of bitching, gossiping and amateur movie reviews.

Much have happened since then, like losing my job, home, you know usual stuff that hits you when you are in your middle age, or approaching one, like a wet underwear thrown from an apartment few floor upwards when you intent to smell fresh air from your own. Or a suicidal cat. Whichever first.

But, the whole space age thing has always been in the back of my mind, if my mind has an ass. It has been expelling gaseous notion about how awesome it would be if space age is as incredible as they promised. Unfortunately, no thanks to my bad long paragraphical incursion into butt related pathetic jokes, most of Universe is indeed just that, lots of fart....I mean, gas.

As of now, there are no signs of life as we know it. Life as we arrogant mofo human beings would term them, you know, the one that look like the creature from the movie ET, or a mutant potato, or both . 

Seriously...one moment they would say, "hey, there's sign of of water, therefore there must be life!" only to have some pix of goddam canals that could have been, indeed, where some sort of water like stuff flowed or where Han Solo and Chewbacca landed when attempting to wrestle the control of Millenium Falcon.

Speaking of airy excursion, remember how George Lucas started his space sagas, (no, not Howard the Duck), which started like this...."Long long ago in a galaxy far far away...."

And John Williams gets away by composing the same theme music for almost three, or more, decades. It was exhilarating for us kids growing up in the 70s/80/s and maybe 90s. 

Aside: Note to my son, "No, Nevin, Pingu the Penguin was not in it....but considering what happened in the 90s, you do have an idea". End of aside.

The love for space, thanks to, maybe, John F. Kennedy who promised that Men (not gals, one of his favourite subjects, apparently) will land on moon in few years after his administration, sparked lots of love letters from Hollywood, including the best of them all, Stanley Kubrick's 2001: Space Odyssey, a gloriously beautiful film which is awesome to look at and is as comprehensible prime minister's budget speech.

Not many of you know there was a sequel to that movie....no, don't google....I told you....okay, go and get a drink or do that 7% solution.

As usual, my rant is this, where is the space age that we were promised? The Jetsons be damned, we were supposed to be up there, getting up in space home, brushing with space toothbrush, doing business in space toilet (the order of these activities can be  changed, like getting up in space toilet, brushing the business off with space toothbrush...etc....)

How long before we can experience this. As I write this, space tourism initiated by that Branson bloke does not look good. Hell, Branson does not look good. Nothing looks good. NASA is about as cheerful as a Bhuddist Simba in his bro's' restaurant hangout.

As I always say in my most useless and most importantly,  pointless blog post endings, it remains to be seen. Or just go along with the goddam conspiracy theorists and agree that they are faking the whole goddam thing. Don't sue me, I am with Simba in that restaurant getting mauled........

Confession of A Colour Blind Film Fan.

This morning I had a dream.

I was in this woodenish restaurant (later turned out to be a motel one, as you will find out if you read on....err....you are reading on, aren't ya?). And in walks Clint Eastwood. I was as giddy as a school boy who found a treasure trove of ice cream and chocolates, and perhaps a stash of porn DVDs.

Aspiration, Ambition and Asthma

As far as I can remember, I always had Asthma.

What is Asthma? In layperson's term, it means difficulty in breathing caused by some shit stuck in your passageway (no, not that Indiana Jones one, you know, the boulder running down the conveniently dug semi-tunnel; and no, we are talking about the goddam biological tubes inside you from your nose all the way down your ass).

The shit is usually phlegm...or mucus....or the thing you sneeze out into your handkerchief and the ones you secretly scrutinise to make sure it is not red (sometimes it is, unless you are colour blind like me...eh gad, this is a site to be read with parental guidance).

Did I get it from my parents? Sure I did. But who caused it? Me.

Apparently my mother was hale and healthy (what is hale, by the way? Did someone created that word to rhyme with pale, whale or Christian Bale?). When I was born, I immediately triggered the Asthmatic button in my beloved mother's biological circuitry board. She started wheezing big. Little baby Rakesh wheezing little. We were two person concerto.

Poor dad. First year into his marriage, suddenly he got two Asthmatic patients in his hand. No wonder he went back to religion.

Asthma has proven to be a bane and boon. No, not Bane as in Batman's bad guy or Boon....err....isn't that the guy in early US who killed the shit out of raccoon and wore 'em as hat?

Anyway, boon is this: I took it easy. I never went outdoor much, not much of games or sports or fun and laughter. Hah, who wants that. I sat indoors and read and read and read and watched TV (where and when permissible) and read and read.

Bane is not much. I wanted to goddam go out and playyyy!!!! Arrrggghhhh.....Like kids that time and even now, I wanted to play football (soccer, soccer you Americans). Since I can't run from one end of the field to the other (it always look nearer on TV but why they insist on expanding it 1000 times in real life?) means... after 25 metres, my lung gets happy and starts to play the violin, or cello depending its mood. And I am on the ground. Whining ala Beethoven.

Later, those who were understanding and were seriously understanding my gut-wrenching instinct that I make a great striker while knowing well that Mackerel will never make a water fall hopping upwards ala salmon, relegated me to become a defender (our lingo, we simply call this poor schmucks 'back'). “Stay near the goalie (goalkeeper), back,” they would say, “and just kick the ball out from whoever is coming. Err...which means our opponent, get it?”

Or, “hey you....what's your name...back...back.....” I turn back and there goes the ball over me into the goal post.

I get it, you funsucker.

There goes my football career. Both of my brothers had some sort of success representing school, and later forming, with neighbouring friends, their own football team (named after the housing estate in Kluang or something), but I was out, voluntarily because I know my weakness (I was busy discussing Tamil literature my my newfound brother Chitambaram)

So, it is not beause they didn't want me. But I knew that I am going to screw the team up with my biological deficiency. They understood. I was glad. They kept winning. Crikey, I was proud of them.

But I tell you what! The blood inherited from one Shankaran Nair (that is my father's father and there are, apart from us brothers, cousins like Navin [dad's third elder sister's son], Devanan [dad's sister's son, late, I have written about this awesome bloke and his adventures, and ….okay no more parenthesis and Shubash, my younger brother] were all there. It was supposed to be a family business.

What actually made this team awesome was....as the parentheshit...okay I know you don't give a crap...is Shubash, our younger brother, and Anan (the awesome adventurous bloke I wrote about way before)...is that both of them are goddam lefties.

In retrospetive mode now, since I have indulged in flue/cough remedy: I didn't know then that I would be surrounded by these goddam lefties. My younger brother, Shubash is a leftie, my favourite late cousin Anan is a leftie, and....and....tadaaa.....my wife turned out to be a leftie!.

And what need to be told is about my immediate brother, Balan. He is awesome. Striker, he is like a cobra. Right wing? Sure, he flies like eagle. Left wing? Oh heck, he can be communist (do your poitical maths)....and when he strikes....he strikes like Thunderball........(queue soundtrack from the James Bond flick, by Tom Jones, called...oh hell...Thunderball.....google it blokes and gals).

Did I play a part?

Hah! They should thank me for that. If not, they would not have won most of the friendly games with various teams in the district and out. And this was the year end school holiday. The next school season started and they had to hang up their boots momentarily. Seriously, if they had me, there would have been a requirement made in friendly games to have, not only water, painkilling spray or stretcher nearby, but also a Ventolin Inhaler.

They were winning because I was not there.

I didn't know the terrible consequnces of Asthma till at one time, when our beloved neighbour, and I hate to point out the race thing because I want to highlight that as Malaysians we are goddam peacefully living with each other no matter what colour creed, whateverfucknots.

She is a beautiful Malay lady, wife to my dad's colleague, their house neighbouring ours (estate quarters, by the way). On that fateful day, her Asthma kicked out the worst possible predicament, and at that time, dad had a car that was borrowed from one of our relatives.

He took both husbad and wife in...and mind you, the plantation we lived in was about, I believe, 40 kilometres away from the main hospital. And not even halfway, she breathed her last.

Let us not even imagine how her husband felt.

It was a tragedy that we mere mortals can not help, let alone assist. My dad did all he could. Her husband spend his married life which is like his entire life to make her a wonderful partner. All ended....there.

Dad was on in his mid-thirties. It was too much for him.

I think the incident still haunts him.

Oh crap....I forgot the point of what I wanted to write. Dad wanted to become a great footballer, and he is a great goalkeeper. I know, I still feel the pain when he kicked the goddam ball and got me catching it only to have my palm in fire...inferno.

I saw him in a friendly game within some plantation organisation where he jumped like, 9 feets, to catch the ball, roll over the ground, holding the ball like a little infant.

I can never be like that. My brothers are over that, they got kids to worry about. But then....the juniors.....

Blog posts supposed to have points so that it is remembered. Those who read this, don't worry. The point: Life is short, unless you are acting as Ewoks in George Lucas Movie

Life is shit: Because you have to leave the unwanted behind.

Life is awesome: Because there's Rajini DVD my son keep insisting on watching every goddam night.

Life is life: When it is over.

Over and out. Aijamalakkadigiri.

Happy Deepavali...And We Are Only Getting Older.

The memory of the celebration called Deepavali festival, as it is called in Malaysia (some call it Diwali or festival of light or "let's think about threadmill walk later program") to me is not that all memorable as I enter middle age. In retrospect. I still have a little bit of future left. So, I better let it all out here, except the part where we were chased by angry geese during one of those open house visits.

Sure, as kids we had fun. We had blasts, literally, though I have no knowledge of anyone blowing off their thumb through fiery explosive malfunction, or lose their tooth due to certain multi-concentrated ball of grain (called kal-urundai, roughly translated as rounded stone).)

But as a kid, following the rituals of the so-called religion and practices, I must admit that I truly enjoyed the event, alongside my two brothers (later, another bloke, my best friend, joined as blood brother because, well, it must be a cosmic reason).

Our very early days of Deepavali, apart from some good food (we were very poor, we can afford only some good dishes and stuff on occasions like this) was to get to know our relatives, most of whom were as strange as Klingon to Captain James T. Kirk.

We used to visit our relatives on these occasions, rather than celebrate it ourselves. We have gracious ones, (my late uncle Ramasamy @Viswanathan, a demi-god) and some others, some great, some okay, some low-life blokes who appear right out of being dunk in a vat of cheap alcohol.

Early morning all of us would go to temple praying to god that I don't believe in, than come to to great breakfast I believe in. Alas, I have faith in great Indian-styled breakfast. Period. Even that, I indulge very rarely. I prefer Nasi Lemak or Mee Hoon Goreng with sambal on the side.

Then, there would be TV specials, many locally produced piss-pots mainly to exploit the given budget, and, possibly, by male producers, onto the female artistes. We were not interested. There were good old Tamil films that will always and still do get my attention. I am not ashamed of it, even if it has MGR (google that initials) in it.

To me, the best part of the whole festival actually takes place the night before Deepavali (like the night before Christmas, Mr. Tim Burton). All of the family members would gather in the prayer to the late family members of the family, especially my grandfather, one Mr. Shankaran Nair, whose name I adapted for my son.

There would be an offering of rice, chicken curry, vegetables, etc on banana leaf. In the years gone by, there would be a bottle of Guiness Stout (apparently, my grandpa's favourite drink), but due to political correctness, it has since been replaced with plain water (poor grandpa).

What follows is the usual prayer ritual (don't want to bore you on that, you can call me to find out more but you have to give me your Credit Card number), and then WHAMMO!

Sorry grandpa, but fun starts thereof. Dad would mix the whole rice, chicken pieces, vege, whatever curry, anything, into balls and give each of us one. It's what, I think, they serve in HEAVEN!

My Deepavali ends there. The next day is just visit to the temple in early morning, breakfast, expecting visitors, sneaking time to take a nap, watch more useless TV programs, nap again, and then thinking about when to go back (to wherever you think you belong to).

There you go. A very bad David Finch-esque ending for you. But what the heck, Happy Deepavali Everyone. After all, it only happens once in a year and we are ONLY getting older. Ta-daaa.....

Rakesh, STFU.

I am going to be 41 soon, which means I am a lot older. I had issues with health…some involving a taboo-istic issue like alcoholism (Mom: kids stay away from that man…he is an alcoholic) and less pedestrian issue like being a Filmaholic (Very few will understand that).. And so be it. I may be a burden to some folks but I ain’t no murderer or a pick pocket, but my blog posts in the past can assure what I am addicted to movie flicks (Clue: it involves Celluloid).

What prompted me to write this is exactly the issue that I wanted all moms to warn about their kids: Alcoholism.

Is it bad? Is it terrible? Does it kill you like it did to Jim Morrison, Jimmi Hendrix, or any other uncles or aunties that succumbed to that evil, devilish concoction invented so that you stay away from day to day incoming evil dredges, week to week conformities; perhaps confronted by  monthly fears of looking at authorities sanctioned bills?

Who knows.

The recent passing away of Robin Williams still haunts me. The man was a great entertainer (I had to use the word “was”, sorry).. He was energy…someone should have tapped him just for that physics study alone…I mentioned this before, but please do a youtube on him…he is unstoppable. For those who are new to him recently, check out the Alladin cartoon, or ….goddamit anything else….he is everywhere.

But why does the man who chose to entertain everyone decided to put a goddam fullstop one day. Perplexing. Indubitably, missing the point to those who are not familiar with the lives of comics who makes others laugh while they cry (I know, Lenny Bruce always comes to your learned mind).

But anyway, nobody is reading this...And all these posts are for my son..again…in case I am moving to the other side

Son…be patient, be understanding…if you can’t handle it…buy Iced Lemon Tea….it worked when Accha was dating Amma.

Your girlfriends will be talking about issues…this and that….mother said this….father said that….You just take it easy. Sip the juice slowly, and do your best Marlon Brando impression (including scratching your chin) and say, “Aawllll will be fine,”

There is so much in this blog posts. All for you, from the time when I was courting your mom to the time where we are now.

Remember this junior (again, in Sean Connery voice ala Indiana Jones 3)….If it ish not for you mothersh family and my family, thish wouldn’t have happened. The greateshsht trrreassshure is not unity…..it ishhhh undershhhhtanding…)

Robin Williams – You Still Keep Us Entertained.

For those who were born in the 1970’s and earlier, Robin Williams crept into our consciousness through this little sitcom called Mork and Mindy. It used to be a staple for us family way back then. Dad and mom used to laugh at his antics and we used to wonder why. Mork, by the way, is played by Williams – as an alien. His keyword or whatever, was, “Nanoo Nanoo!”.

And then he slowly moved into the film world, most notably, though the film was not quite recognised though it was directed by ace director Robert Altman, Popeye. Yes, the same Popeye the Sailor Man. It was not much of a success…but Williams moved on.

It is hard to pinpoint what made Williams a great actor or comedian. There are various sides to him.

The TV introduced a sitcom actor. The film introduced us a comedian. The stage, most importantly, and this is where most goddam stars, superstars fail, introduced us one of the greatest improvising stand-up comedians ever.

Yes, Williams comes in the same lineage of the greats of the past, such as my beloved Groucho Marx, and the others including ….I don’t know who. Groucho’s speed with wit, lividness and ability to attack you and at the same time can only be matched by Williams. And the latter is not an “insult” comic, mind you, He mimics us on our clumsiest days, worst scenarios, terrible behaviour and most foul moments that we don’t ever want to remember…but with laughs.

Forget the movies, check out his skits through the youtube videos. He is better than the movies when he is on stage, drinking one mineral bottle after another unleashing one wisecrack after another, deadpan lines following a previous sharper one, as well as smacking your face with verbal insult and make you laugh at the same time.

If you are too lazy, try the award ceremony presentations or when he actually accepts awards…you will remember it forever.

As they say, comedy is a mask worn by sad people who don’t want to share their pathos side simply because they are not selfish. Robin Williams, like many great entertainers, held behind his dark side, because he is a selfless entertainer. He drowns his dark side in alcohol for a long time (or drugs, but I don’t want to elaborate on that). Some of these traits, many won’t understand.

To live for others is to die a little everyday. Robin Williams didn’t. He was simply called to entertain a whole bunch of other souls up there, or below, or in the middle, or anywhere…simply because of the legacy he left behind.

Never forgotten. We all love you Mr. Williams. Be in peace, but don’t rest. You are still entertaining us through your work.  

 He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother. Happy Birthday Clinton Fernandez.

I am not quite sure that how old he is, but all I know is this: he is a hell of a singer and great keyboard (synthesizer) player. That makes him ageless. In my calculation, all fantastic singers are ageless. I still sing S.P. Bala song to my son...and apparently the man is over three quarter of a century old and I refuse to believe it. You can check that with my psychiatrist. (My personal ambition is to sing the same songs I sing to my son to Clinton’s audience, but that is a tall...fictional tale unfilmed).

When courting my wife, Linda Marina Fernandez, I had the opportunity to get to know him. I don’t know how to regard him. He was three....maybe four times bigger than Linda, and therefore, do I say my big-big brother in-law? Oh well, I am twice as big as my wife, so I believe he won’t be offended...unless which he can throw his synthesiser at me (after which I can repair and make it my own).

I, then, during weekends, brought my fiancée (yes, we progressed) to watch his performance.

And Holy Ravioli, this man got the voice of something that most Malaysians have never heard of. A brilliant mix of bluesy gruff, rock’n’roll fun, rhythm and blues cheesiness, leaning slightly on Metal (he doesn’t like Metal/Heavy Metal as I understand), preening, crooning, doodling, looking at the audience while he fingers (not in naughty way, you naughty buggers you) his keyboard the only way Bill Gates probably did in the 70s pre-Windows days.

He da man. During my wedding reception way back then (Flinstone’s were already started screening, I believe), this man took on the task of accompanying his father, Mr. Herbert Fernandez, tackling the 50s era crooning (as a writer I am not supposed to use the same word “crooning” twice in the same article, we are supposed to be creative in coming up with synonyms...let me try again. Oh hell ___ with it).

Truth is, he he rocks and this is not current youth talk, we were already doing this in the 80s. During my wedding reception way back then, this man took on the task of accompanying his father, the amiable Mr.Herbert  Fernandez in the task of supplementing musical background to the latter’s crooning (again, crooning, dey Rakesh can you stop using the same goddam word again and again).

But it was a memorable occasion. Where one grandson of Shankaran Nair, marrying a Catholic girl, is privileged to have both brother-in-law to play music and father-in-law singing beautiful song in his own Yodelling style (do Wikipedia, for those who are not in the know). What else can you ask for?

They made our day. Especially Clinton who shares the same name of my cinematic hero Clint Eastwood (Yeah, real name is Clinton Eastwood). My beloved brother-in-law. This is for you. Happy birthday from yours truly, Linda and one small bloke by the name of Nevin Shankaran Kumar who, thanks to the goddamn genes, going to become a singer. Have a healthy long life brother.

Of moustache, machismo, masculinity and follicle overbearing-ness....

The title may baffle you, but I can assure you of this: when I thought of it, I felt that it should represent the best of what I had always loved about being masculine…often which I end up lying down on the floor whimpering why do blokes need that fat caterpillar-istic growth below their nose and above lips to look, err...manly.

I am reminded of this constant nagging sense, why a moustache (re:Why-a-duck…viaduct in an early Marx bros movie…oh, just Google will ya?)?. Why are men compelled to grow moustache and yet, diligently shave away any other follicles that sprout in the regions that does not concern the head, armpit, hands, legs…oh well, you get the picture…I don’t have to detail you everything else.

But a recent posting by a cousin of mine, Vimuna (my dad’s sister’s daughter) which showcased her parents, which was totally overshadowed by my uncle Balakrishan (her dad, of course) and his staggeringly imposing moustache that threatened to jump out and strangle you till you willingly give away few DVDs featuring actor Kamal Haasan who himself is known for his many roles that feature varieties of shapes and sizes of follicular achievements (in one film he just quit and bald himself).

The history of moustache started long time ago when the whole evolution process decided that living beings need a bunch of thread-like woolly thing covering the upper region of their lips for reasons only known to the creator or whoever it is that did the original PowerPoint slide presentation after dinosaurs kicked the bucket.

It was a big mystery to us kids. Both my brothers have had enough of watching our dad carefully shaving and snipping away excessive growth to make sure that what was there looked like a goddam slug resting peacefully after a hard day's work of sucking blood. They (my brothers, not the slugs) are now both clean shaven and leading a happy healthy life. In fact, I heard that once Accha (dad) had shaved the whole thing off and even a close friend didn’t recognise him. Since then, the tache became dad’s barcode (probably give him easy access in airports).

Worst part is, most of our uncles are equally, if not as threatening, in possession of hairy explosion you can’t remove your eyesights from when addressing them. Quite a number of them are bald or balding, but the brutal bristles are as imposing as an atomic mushroom explosion that you just want to keep an eye on so that you can jump overboard if it suddenly protrudes further and poke your eyeballs.

But, apart from these snide remarks, I have long harboured the feeling to have one of those facial brutality myself. Yes, I wanted a Frank Zappa moustache, or Kamal Haasan (70s) or U2’s The Edge (Pop album) downward pointing but fiery growth that makes others think that they shouldn’t trifle with you unless they have a shaving blade handy.

Oh yes, I have experimented dear readers, any styles of moustache…except the Charlie Chaplin one where it may not be appropriate as it might remind you of a brutal dictator...with a comical broad-stroke brush below the nose. Unfortunately, after I got married with all those experimentation, all I got from my wife was an “ewww!!!” as if I had stuck a shell-less snail above my lips. Since then, I always kept it at Bob De Niro’s mild spurt ala Heat, one of my favourite 90s flick. (note that the co-star, Pacino is always exploding furiously…which I believe came from the instruction for him not to have any such growth…).

Anyway, November is supposedly the month for all blokes to grow moustache even if they look like midget cousin of Fu Manchu (something to do with testicular cancer awareness, I believe…but shouldn’t the growth be…oh…never mind). Can’t wait, because I want to do this!!!! Take that wifey!!!! 

Two Popular Superstition Explained and Analysed.

(This might be turned into sequels if the article is successful in generating fantastic results in the worldwide box-office. Or at least RM3.00 to buy me two boxes of raisins which I live on these days).

Superstition has been part and parcel of our lives, or in most cases, those with pathetic miserable lives because we tend to cling on these beliefs like the stubborn phlegm reaching out for our upper lips even after we had just blown our nose. Especially picturesque if you have it draped on thick porn-star moustache. You are welcome.

But I have always had fascination towards the origin of these superstitious beliefs because, let’s face it, no matter how forward thinking you are, you still tend to be irrational when indulging certain actions.

For example, how many of us are preconditioned to stab the lift button repeatedly like Norman Bates in the seminal study on complex human behaviour titled Psycho even if we had already initiated it (the stabbing, not watching the movie) and the goddam lift is already coming down. Does multiple finger-poking (Kung Fu ala Three Stooges) of the incredulous button forcefully motivate the moving metal box to rush to our aid, while ignoring users from other floors who are probably indulging in severe act of intimacy with the lift button themselves even using non-human extensions like hammer or a tiny feline?

Anyway, let us examine some of the popular superstitions and I shall give the actual reason for their existence, and re-evaluate them. For example:

1.     

 Throwing pinch of salt over the shoulder.

Why?

It is for good luck they say. For a simple symbolic reason of talking away the sour part of life and retain the more savoury part. It is like taking away all the computer graphic imagery scenes off the movie Avatar and…oh wait….

The real reason

Here it is: you are cooking for the first time for someone, and your girl friend, boy friend, spouse, neighbour, colleagues, in-laws or political candidate on his or her rounds begging for vote approach you from behind to appraise your superior culinary expertise which mostly consist of dropping instant noodle onto a boiling pot.

In order to even out the situation so that you can be alone with your pots and utensils without unfavourable intrusion, you need to have a jar or a bottle of salt on standby. I shall reveal how.

As soon as an irrelevant personage who fancies himself or herself a vastly knowledgeable person makes an unwelcomed entry into the kitchen the following scene should ensue, as I imagined it:

Visitor: So, you are cooking eh?

You: Yes, I am. I wanted to butcher an African bison, but I misplaced the cleaver.

Visitor: Misplaced your cleavage eh? Hmm…err…what are you cooking now?

You: Stuff.

Visitor: Aha, I spot a sachet of curry flavoured powder there. You see_

You: (toss salt over the shoulder)

Visitor: (runs away, palms over the eyes) Aieeee…me eyes…me eyes…how am I going to, henceforth, watch the English Premier League sponsored by Tiger beer or is it Carlsberg? The horror, the horror, the horror…Brando, Coppola, Apocalypse Now, 1978.

So, you know why now. Of course, these sort of precautions should be taken with…err a pinch of salt. It might be me behind you.

Note:

In the movie Donnie Brasco, Al “hoohah!” Pacino teaches Johnny  “the pirate named after a bird” Depp to cook. And in the beginning of the session, Pacino throws not a pinch, but a “punch” of salt. It was beguiling to Depp and us the audience as he repeatedly asked whether it was a “pinch” to which Al “YELLS for no reason” Pacino corrects and affirms that it is a “punch”. Maybe Pacino did that subconsciously to excise the ghost of Marlon Brando, not the swelt “Stella!” Brando, but the latter day Marlon “Jabba the Hut” Brando. (Any writing with the mention of Brando more than once is worth the writer’s salt…okay, no more “salt”)

2.     Don’t let a black cat cross you.

I love cat and I find this superstition infuriating. Get it? In-Fur-riating. Haha. Well…er-hum…

Coming back to the superstition, apparently black cat brings you bad luck, no thanks to its association with witches and a fantastically eerie short story by early 19^th century gothic/horror/alcoholic/possible murderer writer Edgar Allan Poe, which was titled, though the reason is unclear due to the unabashed subtlety, The Black Cat.

Apparently, if a goddam black cat crosses you, you are in for a bad luck. Like finding out that you girl-friend has been cheating on you, telling you that she is out to get a manicure more than once a day when she is actually a superhero saving the world. That backstabbing dung beetle. I mean, we blokes are smart enough to know that women get their manicure once a day five times a week right? Right?

The real reason

Actually it is so simple that I slapped myself silly for not even realising it in the first place. But of course, it also made me realise this, my self-inflicted full-palmed facial encounter can be inconsolably agonising.

There is a perfect good reason why a cat would want to face risk of being splattered by your poorly maintained sneakers, simply because there is a vermin around – a rat. Perhaps you brought the goddam rodent with you no thanks to your own possession of certain bodily odour that invites the snivelling creatures which has a pair of arse bigger than its head. And as the cat rushes to save you from the buck-toothed plague carrying terror, you are unable to see the former due to its natural blend with shadow during moments of poor lighting (when the world is lighted by either cinematographers Gordon Willis or the budget version, P.C. Sriram) only to have you crush the feline’s back.

Note:

We all know how black cats are indubitably associated with witches (played by Susan Sarandon and the delectable Michelle Pfeifer [dear, she was into me before I met you, but I dumped her after she played Catwoman, I have enough cats in my life]). It will earn the wicked member of the fair sex’s ire if you were to step on their cats. They want the cat to be perfect condition before it is lowered into a boiling cauldron.

Yikes, the end…

Well, I have to stop for now because this piece has hit over thousand words and that is a no-no in blogs where most folks lose interest right after they read the first word because in another tab of the browser someone has posted something in the Facebook walls about a lost cat with crushed back.

I shall be back with more superstitions explained, and you may even want me to do research on other popular pantang as we say it here in Malaysia. You can mail a US$1 trillion check to me as it can be used to do my research as well as balance the world budget from a secret lair I am intending to establish in the moon where there will be no salt or black cats, or salted black cats. 

MH370: Arise leaders, commenters and jesters.

My sentiments exactly. Shuttup eccles!

The MH370 saga has ended, well not exactly. The announcement was made that all the contact from the plane was lost at the Indian Ocean, the southern Corridor closer to Australia to be precise. Even, then, I’d say that it was too early to make an announcement. Not when we have too many bankrupt comedians on hand looking for easy material.

As mentioned earlier, I had quoted Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, through his creation, Sherlock Holmes, “Never theorise in advance of data”. In this case, the announcement was made in absence of pure concrete, conclusive data, as the physical proof of the wreckage itself was not found. But I suppose,  pressure from several quarters forced those responsible to make that dreadful announcement.

As mentioned (again, in my earlier blog post), at times like this, slimes rise from a stirred pond. In this case, some are showing their displeasure with the way the government handled the whole thing, turning it into their usual anti-ruling government venomous spitting match (sometimes they spit upwards, and you know where it comes back to).

The worst was the family, friends and displeased Chinese nationals who demonstrated in front of the Malaysian Embassy in China. They seemed to be pretty free to do so. Try that to their own government, and you will probably never hear of them again. Remember, the dissident and the tank? Or the infant ran over by a vehicle in China, which invited curious onlookers who seemed to be as interested as watching a blind musician making a living? Of course, we need not be reminded that China’s human rights record is as sterling as last year’s home frozen pork chop.

And to see citizens of last big nation, which is still hanging on to their socialist ideology like a Tom Cruise on top of the Bhurj, venting their anger at Malaysian embassy akin to a bullied child of a family throwing stones at the third house down the road simply the owner does car pooling with the kid’s abusive dad.

What is even more troubling is the fact that our own Malaysians spewing venom at the Malaysian authorities involved with the tragedy, for holding out vital information. In Tamizh, there is an expression, “vachukkuttA vanjakam pannurom (roughly translated as, ‘what is there to give when we have none’)”. What the Prime Minister, the acting Transport Minister (yes, temporary, not permanent, and he shed tears fer gad’s sake), the CEO of Malaysian Airlines and the director from Department of Civil Aviation, had was evidence as flimsy as a China doll’s costume (actually someone big who was videotaped cavorting with one of these eminent members of the said “fleshy” profession was displeased himself with the way the government was handling the aircraft issue. Maybe he lost his favourite “doll”).

I understand honestly that one can’t be conclusive with these mere bits and scraps of information that can hardly be put together into one big dinosaur exhibit. But the social media users are not used to this. Gone are the days when it takes time to solve mysteries. We are used to daily/weekly one hour TV series (including advertisements and trailers) of mysteries solved thanks to poor acting, horrific script, conveniently placed clues, and lots of choppy editing that makes the investigators more intelligent than Holmes, Dupin, Spade, Marlowe and Father Brown combined (look it up, don’t be lazy) when they are about as efficient as monkey with a wooden banana.

It is not that easy in real life. I banged into a car, almost a month ago, and the things I have to go through the same day, waiting for tow truck, to the police station, waiting for turn, writing report, going to the Sergeant’s office to get the copy of the report, getting the insurance people in took time…and I am still waiting for them to do my car. And it is just a simple road vehicle accident.

This is a goddam aircraft, with more than 100 passengers and crews in it, and its range would have given Marco Polo multiple orgasms, though the passer byes would have just sat and watched, if old Marc’s aircraft crash landed on the Great Wall. There wouldn’t have been pasta, anyway.

Still, the airlines record safety will still be the best among all the modes of transportation. Road vehicles kill more people in the world than Stalin did back then (oh wait, I need to confirm that). We have aircraft crashes here and there, and if there were no terrorism involved, then it was mainly because of matters that were completely out of the pilot and his or her crews’ hands. To put the blame on the government of the day is, how do I put it, a convenient way of swimming ones way into the deepest vestige of a human refuse treatment plant and prove that you are the brightest person in this side of the hemisphere. But such analogical practices are normal in Malaysia anyway, just look at the opposition political parties. Not to mention their supporters.

A lot of fingers are pointed (index finger, the rest are pointing elsewhere, duh) at the Prime Minister. Najib is Malaysia’s prime minister and he has made as much effort to help with the situation as he can, and, in the meantime, he has to deal with the rest of the Malaysian; deal with those residing out of this country who are still yearning for Nasi Lemak, Mee Goreng and finding themselves filling up too many forms too often, and face some red necks who can’t tell Asians apart from Africans; deal with illegal immigrants wanting to come to this country (apparently there are, maybe they don’t read our alternative media wonderful portrayal of this country, poor blokes and gals); dealing with own country people, most of whom as trustworthy as a tarantula babysitting a butterfly; and in the middle of it all, deal with half-wit critics, poor man’s experts, toilet cleaner’s Einstein, and ungrateful citizens whose lineage can be traced back to the regions where poor treatment of the regular folks - not to mention the astute observation of the class and caste system - were a norm.

Death is certain. Tomorrow I can be crossing the road texting to someone about how frustrated I am with the acting Transport Minister who was not manly enough….crunch, I am under a steam roller. We have all lost many loved ones, some in terrible way like my cousin who was murdered and ran over a car. He didn’t deserve it. So many does not deserve these sorts of demises, but life goes on. Pointing fingers will not bring the deads back, which is not entirely an issue if you considered Hitler or Kim Kardashian (crap, she is still alive). If one is not happy with the government of the day, do what he or she can to in most civil possible way to change that government or influence the members to behave the way one wants them to behave. It is not an easy process, because truth is, many may not agree with you. Living in your own cocoon (social media) pleasing your cohorts (“like” clickers), bursting out your freedom of expression through keyboard clicks (that’s how pathetic technology have made us) gets as much exposure as a wounded bear in a cave in Antarctica.  

So far, I have not heard from the real heroes, those who face the media everyday taking in questions, sometimes really ridiculous questions, those involved in the search team, both in and off the field, bitching about the Malaysian government. Maybe the media like CNN which is as credible as my grandfather’s recounting of his rip-roaring adventure with Robinson Crusoe.

Rambling that I am with this post, the main aim was to salute those involved helping to shed some light to this tragedy, from the people in the sea, right up to the authorities and leaders who try their best to give the most credible, verifiable information available. It’s tough to the family of those who are lost. We should give them a break, as even the media was asked not to disturb these grieving folks.  

In the meantime, those who still bitch about the government and its inefficiency will continue to do so until they find something else to unleash their liquid refuse on. That is what their miserable life seemed to be about, as far as their online presence is concerned. Soon, I’d landing a full time job (I am unemployed now, how do you think I have time to write these long ramblings), and I feel sorry that I will have very little time to be entertained by these Internet court jesters. In the meantime, show me more of your brilliant deductions, analysis, commentaries and criticisms; I have coke and popcorn ready.

Kajang by-election: A fence-sitter's view.

To be or no to...ouch.

If the recent Kajang election was a four digit lottery draw, there would be many winners, and too little cash to spread around. It was that predictable. Never mind that the original candidate for Pakatan Rakyat, Anwar Ibrahim (henceforth referred to as AI), was called back to the court of law rendering him unqualified to contest for that seat, he always has a backup plan, to have a replacement who is equally, if not more, brilliant, a great tactician, a proven politician that have served the Malaysians well for a long time in the past, a dedicated politician who puts the need of the people ahead of own family.

He chose…his wife.

But it was devastating to note that she had tough fight, not earning a massive majority as this writer expected. Maybe there were a few who felt that the opposing candidate from MCA look like someone they like to hit on who didn’t vote for Kak Wan (Wan Azizah, AI’s wife).

But something went wrong somewhere. It was AI (which interestingly is an acronym for Artificial Intelligence) who was supposed to be there, as the desas desus (Malay slang for rumour) noted that he wanted to become the Selangor Menteri Besar and there were pressure for the current MB to resign. But Selangor’s chief, a former successful corporate lion, refused to even move his mane, much less his posterior from the seat.

Truth is, clock is ticking for AI. He is not the youthful, idealistic, energetic, rousing speech-maker that he once was. Instead, we have an old man, with a familiar goatie that look like it would rather hang around with real goats, an eye which is enhanced probably by contact lens (he used to wear glass, but then again, I suppose, his wife, an optician or something, got it done so that he would have long, hey, wait, I am not done yet, I meant, both short and long sights), and eyebrow that he kept raising fearing that it might fall below his nose which would not be a bad idea as it would create the image of a swashbuckling Eroll Flynn (One of the first on-screen Robin Hood) in his 90s.

All if fine for this writer. My question is, what does his allies think of him now? Sure, they used him as “Victimised poor bloke hammered by ruling party” ticket, but is he going to be an hindrance to the allies growth. Forget about the allies, what about the poor blokes who were once young, idealistic worshippers of AI who hopped that they could join him, and possible pick up the baton from him when he is all shagged out, er-hum, and run the party and hopefully the country?

They still have to wait. As for the allies, they will have to be satisfied with their little kingdoms or states that they rule. Now, the Islamic Party (PAS) are the one which is going to be really pissed if the Selangor Menteri Besar is forced to leave (like sawing off his hand that stuck to the arm of his chair) as he is a quite favoured to be there.

As for DAP, they are still going to be the bitching, nagging, whining, frustrated blokes and gals who are in no way going to go to Putrajaya if AI is still going to be their jumping platform (he might heave them too high that they might end up in Sumatera). They need a break. They need to rule too as would any boys and gals with ambition would. They too have plan for the people of Malaysia, which they have been refining and polishing over the decades that you can actually see through it and see the DAP chief, Lim Kit Siang’s grinning face, the look of hope and joy as sincere as an alligator lost in a chicken coop.

Are these allies going to continue with their relationship with Parti Keadilan Rakyat, a party that was founded by AI that resulted from mostly the rumination culled from the exploits of his certain physical appendage? Or would they decide enough with an apple of dubious nature, and move on with their own strength which mostly has been noises. Plenty of them. Like firecrackers in the neighbourhood just when you thought your infant has taken its first step into the lalaland.

Nobody is perfect as they say, including one you worship, or so says the one who is not worshipping what you worship. Doesn’t matter to an agnostic like me. I am fine sitting on the fence, till the sharper bit start poking me arse. But that is not the problem with those who have issues with the neutrals. Fence sitters earn the ire of the supporters. Because A would think you are actually supporting B and B will accuse you of being pro-A and these two supporters are not anymore smarter than a 4 year old who can get beyond And B alphabetically.

But come election, the leaders of these factions would announce that they can woo the fence-sitters and it makes you ask whether are there actually fence sitters out there? They are. They could be both the silent majority and the noisy minority or vice versa. They could anyone, you, me and the dog named Boo. To me, fence sitters are also those who can be easily swayed by last minute emotional outburst, like the moment when you want to strike the waiter down because he brought you fried rice when you actually asked for fried Bee-hoon Singapore style. And he is not even from the Island.

Aside: There was this disgusting scene I saw once at a food court. A family sitting at the next table ordered drinks and the waiter, a Bangladeshi, got the wrong ones. The head of the family, father this time, gave an earful to the waiter. And it didn’t end there. His son, probably in his early teens, continued balanced out the whole thing by giving an earful to the other side, including a couple of table banging to prove his point. Proud father and son moment. This is what our country, used to be known for the Budi Bahasa (roughly translated as ‘courtesy’) culture, have become. End of aside.

I am writing this mainly not entirely because I am affected by the by-election result. Maybe a little. But mostly because I couldn’t sleep. And what better way to hit the hay then after you have unleashed your venom. But all these talks about AI, his actions and sitting on the fence are not making my ass feel better. Damn.

To Kajang With Whole Lotta Love: My proposed campaign speech for Anwar.

Prelude: I am no stranger to Datuk Seri Anwar Ibrahim’s speeches, though I believe he is chummy with mine…in case he wants my vote. Apart from the usual clips on TV news, after leaving school, I had direct experience of watching him give speech during a dinner function. It was a comfy event with minimal select group (my uncle was with a defence/politics strategy think tank organisation, hence my being there with him). I was blown away on how educated Anwar was, mostly listening him to spout quotes from various intellects and their books to support his points. I was 19 then. Now, I was thinking, being jobless and all, that maybe I should take a crack in becoming a political speech writer. Good moolah, better use of creativity and best living imaginable, especially so if your boss is as bent as his phallic treasure.

Here is something I would write for Anwar to canvass support for his wife in the upcoming election in Kajang. The points in parentheses are my notes for him, just, you know, he is in the right direction…End of Prelude.

 Prelude is sponsored by Artificial Intelligence Lubricant: AI Lubricant, Glide Your Way In.

Remember, the notes within the brackets are my notes/reminder/instruction for him.

The Speech

This will be the last speech before the rakyat (don’t say “people”, “rakyat” is the preferred word, just like innocent Mee Goreng, instead of Fried Noodle that comes with knowledge that it has enough cholesterol to give a T-Rex heart attack)go out voting for the Kajang constituency.

Yes, the last speech to garner your support to vote for my partner, Miss…I mean, Datuk Seri Wan Azizah, who have been with me through thick and thin and touched me (don’t touch your cheek; you know, I know, so leave it) with her dedication and strong will during trying times.

Let’s talk about Kajang. We all know what Kajang is famous for, the satay. Yum, stick it in the back of the flesh, like really deep (don’t get emotional here if it all comes back to you) and grill it. But I am not here to talk about cooking show (pause here, there will be roar of laughter from a bunch of blokes and gals we will be providing and to whom we will show signal as to when to laugh) but what is cooking in Pakatan Rakyat’s cauldron (seeing that many may not know that word, say it anyway to make you look smart), a cooking pot that is, which is meant to be served to the Kajang folks.

In a book called Gastronomy: An Insight on Gaseous Intestine and the Use of Methane, Jamie Oliver Cromwell noted that the best way into others heart is through the stomach. Which is weird, because the food does pass by the heart to reach stomach, huh? Huh? (pause again for audience laughter, if none, scratch your nose and proceed)

Speaking of food, there have been snide remarks on how Kajang constituency looks like that extinct bird, Dodo, on the map. What piffle statement is that? Add the letter “L” to Dodo, and it becomes Dodol, a sticky, gooey delicacy (pause for laughter from ‘audience’ and scratch your arms while you wait).

But should Kajang be satisfied only with the satay? How about the development here? The basic structure? 

In his milestone book, Erections of the 21^st Century: Stimulating buildings and pulsating towers of the future, by John Cocksure, the author noted that, and I quote, “the orgasmic achievement by a towering erection is measured by the deepest involvement of the owner”, the owner he meant was the rakyat ourselves. If we are elected (elected, not erected, careful), we will definitely fill this city that has not been receiving any attention due to lack of landmark, despite the apartments and condominiums (condo-minium, not condom-minium, be careful) with awesome buildings and towers and gigantic appendages that will compensate our (not ‘my’) shortcomings (not ‘short-cumming’).

The ruling government pays too much attention in seeking attention of the voters, who are adult, that they tend to ignore the children. If you vote for us, rest assured, we shall make sure that the small ones are generously feted with toys, and especially, dolls from china. For boys, we have manufacturers from the US which is currently working on an action figure, called Super Anwar, which is designed to win cases in toy courts, judged by the evil Wig-Man, and defended by a toy non-action figure lawyer in wheelchair and Super Anwar is always saying, “Hi man!” in Jamaican accent.

I shall not take away the limelight from the star of this election. Be focused, and vote wisely. The future of Kajang is in your hands which means we decide what you do. Adieu and to quote Edgar Allan Poe when he conquered Monggolia, “I’ll be back”.

MH370: United States of America, you dear, are one …you know the rest.

US is an awesome country only because of its awesome factory called Hollywood. So many amazing products came out of that manufacturing site. But when it comes to politics, international arena that is, I have my reservation. No long blog post this time, but here is something I picked up from the excellent, perhaps, the best film directed and acted by my idol, Clint Eastwood who plays John Wilson (loosely based on director John Houston). Here’s the scene that struck cord with me, and felt is relatable to the current situation…

                        

John Wilson: I would like to tell you a little story.

Mrs. MacGregor: Oh, I love stories.

John Wilson: Well, you mustn't interrupt now, because you're way too beautiful to interrupt people. When I was in London in the early 40's, I was dining one evening at the Savoy with a rather select group of people, and sitting next to me was a very beautiful lady, much like yourself.

Mrs. MacGregor: Now you're pulling my leg.

John Wilson: Now, just listen, dear. Well, we were dining and the bombs were falling, and we were all talking about Hitler and comparing him with Napoleon, and we were all being really brilliant. And then, suddenly, this beautiful lady, she spoke up and said that was the thing she didn't mind about Hitler, was the way he was treating the Jews. Well, we all started arguing with her, of course. Though, mind you, no one at the table was Jewish. But she persisted. Are you listening, honey?

Mrs. MacGregor: Mustn't interrupt Daddy.

John Wilson: That's right. You're way too beautiful for that. Anyway, she went on to say that that's how she felt about it, that if she had her way, she would kill them all, burn them in ovens, like Hitler. Well, we all sat there in silence. Then finally, I leaned over to her and I said, "Madam, I have dined with some of the ugliest goddamn bitches in my time. And I have dined with some of the goddamndest ugly bitches in this world. But you, my dear, are the ugliest bitch of them all." Well, anyway, she got up to leave and she tripped over a chair and fell on the floor. And we all just sat there. No one raised a hand to help her. And finally when she picked herself up I said to her one more time: "You, my dear, are the ugliest goddamn bitch I have ever dined with." Well, you know what happened? The very next day, she reported me to the American Embassy. And they brought me in for reprimand. And then when they investigated it, they found out she was a German agent. And they locked her up.

[smiles]

John Wilson: Isn't that amazing?

Mrs. MacGregor: Why did you tell me that story?

John Wilson: Oh, I don't know. It wasn't because I thought you were a German agent, honey. But I was tempted tonight to say the very same thing to you. I didn't want you to think I had never said it before. You, madam, are the - Well, you know the rest.

Top reasons why authorities should be careful about what they throw to the media.

At the end, its all about kittens.

The members of the media are an impatient lot. I know, I was one of them. But sometimes, their impatience should not be rewarded with tossing of scraps of information just to satisfy them like tossing a politician in a cage full of Rottweiler. The canines will die of food poisoning.

No thanks to the tragedy recently occurred (see my previous blog post), the media, instead of the victims are becoming more and more the centre of attraction. Former prime minister of Malaysia tweeted that Malaysians should behave themselves because the whole world is watching. Who is he kidding, we were the laughing stock of the world long time ago.

Of course, authorities should know how Malaysians react to tragedies and that is why I believe they are not going to be fast in dishing out information due to some of the situations I think is prevalent, like:

Alternate Media vs Mainstream Media = oh shit!

Mainstream media usually means printed newspapers, magazines and such. While alternate media denotes those you look at on the internet, or pretend to, while you have porn sites on another web browser.

Mainstream media is an expensive operation. Bales of papers, inks, sweats and bloods of the reporter, blood pressure pills and alcohol for the editors, and fiery phone calls awaiting the management are the sort of rigmaroles that goes into the final ingredient in form of nicely folded pages of papers that get tossed in your letterbox, outside your office, or in your porch if the dog has not sunk its teeth already.

Mainstream media usually go through shitload of checking before getting a story out. Every journalist out there has a story about how he or she had been called by an editor, deputy editor or even a sub-editor and given hell for writing pieces of unverified trashes, and worst still, writing trashes. I myself was given an earful for misplacing the decimal points in some goddam numbers.

In fact, I recall the first week working for a business daily, where I was called by a somewhat hung-over looking sub-editor the next day after submitting a story, accusing me that I got the order of the information wrong. Inverted pyramid they say, important message up, and least important bottom for them to cut if needed. Sort of like upside down food pyramid where the bottom most are the ones that will decide in what form they want to emerge into the toilet bowl the next morning. Of course, feeling tremendously guilty, I checked the edited work only to find that it was exactly how I reported it. The sub-editor did not last long there. I don’t know why.

I don’t know if these exercise of checking and re-checking and quoting and crediting goes on in alternate media. Most of the time I read “according to a source working in Acme Corp” or a “spokesperson from Nosedigger Bhd, under the guise of anonymity said…”  or a “representative from Digg Head Enterprise, who didn’t want to be identified said…” in many crucial news pieces, often by senior journalist. For all I know they might have pulled a fast one out of their ass and simply credit it to unknown source.

These people makes a mountain out of a molehill and it is not their fault – it’s the competition, plus they don’t want to earn the ire of their respective editors who didn’t get where they are now by writing piffles. Granted they may have slept around, but that takes lots of sacrifice too (especially when it involves not so great looking politicians or approaching past expiry date corporate figures).

Information may not be valid.

Nobody is perfect and this includes; I kid you not, and don’t call this a blasphemy, online social network users. I recall an old game we played in the classroom, where the teacher would tell a secret to the first student sitting right in front at one corner and ask him or her to pass it to the next student, and next, and next and finally to the last student at the corner who is probably taking the geographic advantage by looking at a porn magazine under the table.

And that student is asked to tell what the secret was. For example the teacher must have told the first student this: “A cat knocked down my vase”…and the last student might regurgitate “my dad smacked my arse”. The incestuous kinky revelation may not please the teacher but the student is not at fault. It was the dad’s.

But you get the drift. Information goes to various stages of editing, purification, addition (with no preservatives added), and when it reaches the intended audience the goddamn dog has lapped up the first paragraph. You just need to wait and hope that it didn’t digest.

Good news, or bad news comes to those who wait.

It may not be instant, but some news takes times to be revealed, such as that moment when your mother announced that you are going to have a baby brother or sister, despite the fact that you yourself are in your late-forties and your son is entering the high school.

Some events take time to unfold. Witness the farce that was the US presidency election back in 2000, everyone thought Al Gore won and bzzzzt, wrong answer. After scratching the head and the bum (not necessarily in that order), they had to do a recount, and the sequel to the Iraqi War was later announced by the real winner. It takes time, no matter how technologically superior we have come from the days when you have to wait for messenger on a horse, or a pigeon, or a pigeon on a messenger horse or vice versa to find out that the enemy is planning to launch an attack on your kingdom, and they are probably riding around displaying your severed head already before those four legged and fury messengers arrived.

Impatience breeds dirt suckers

Technology has made us impatient. Look at how people stab the goddam lift button more than once hopping that they have the magic touch that will make the lift answer only to your command ignoring other floors where someone is probably already smashing the lift button with his goddam elbow. At the click of a mouse, click of the TV remote control, and slight crack of your shoulder muscle for staring too long at screen(s), you expect information to jump out and flash itself like a five bucks stripper from a phony looking giant birthday cake

Many (this author included) hit on the search engine looking for precisely what they wanted to hear. For example, someone may have given the prestigious title “bitch” to your favourite actress. You would want to counter that and furiously make variety of searches looking for results that complements your own opinion, and upon finding a link, you would attach it in your Facebook status, tag your enemy and write “take that, sucker!” under which lies the prodigious link with the headline, “Hunger Game Actress Delivers Kittens”.  

That will make a big impact in the social media circle, with everyone lapping it up to the point that certain British tabloids may have to close down their business and start fish and chips lunch truck.

When all is done, it’s back to normal.

Gnashing their teeth, hissing through their nose with boogers stuck on their upper lips, arms akimbo, the readers and viewers do get finally fed the information that they are looking for. It was worth the wait, because they have left behind something that means a lot more to them – their own goddam pathetic lives.

I wrote about this in the previous blog. Things do go back to normal, dogs to be fed, children to be pet, husbands bum to be washed, wife’s make up kit to be arranged, or maids to be abused and not necessarily in that order. As I said, only those directly involved in the event the media informed about are impacted throughout the rest of their lives. For the others, life goes on.

Life, as Jeff Goldblum put eloquently in the greatest documentary since Jaws, Jurassic Park, will find a way.

Whatever I wrote above are something that has been bugging me the last few days. I hope I will never have to revisit this post again when another tragedy strikes and the blame game starts again. Because I would be too busy looking after Jennifer Lawrence’s kittens.