Sexy Account(ant)s

One day, and this is pretty normal of me, I decided that I should get into trouble with my fiancé. I told her, “Whoa! I went to this event, and it was full of accountants. Lots of sexy accountants,”

“What do you mean?” she said, her fingers curling over the cleverly concealed little sharp implements that she uses occasionally uses to make a point or draw a line, whichever more painful.

Laughing sheepishly (does sheep laugh?) I told her that it was accounts which as gone sexy. There were so many young girls doing important accounts related job that it must be sexy.

Phew.

Anyway, the point is that too. It was an event jointly organised by ACCA (to lazy to define it, find it yourselflah) and Securities Commission (they usually enforce company regulations) and naturally, there were hundreds of guests, most of who are accountants, auditors and financial officers. I know, it is difficult to figure out which is which, like the Power Puff Girls.

Now, remember the image of an accountant that we know, male, usually clean-shaven, square thick-rimmed glasses, and the demeanour of a geek and nerd with a touch of class? Well, all that is gone now. You see mostly gals, looking dashing in their smart office dresses, with melting smiles and great pair of…I mean, eyes that are very friendly. There were smattering of men there, but I voluntarily chose to ignore them.

Believe it or not, somewhere in me there is an accountant. Its true…hey, don’t go and name the part where the accountant is. You will not believe it, but once I actually attempted to take the highly tough and hopes-killing ACCA course. What led me to that decision, I wonder?

Going back in time (think of the era of the emergence break dancing, baggy pants, Michael Jackson, Ronald Reagan and, ugh, those mullet hairstyle), when I went to high school, I was placed under the agricultural stream. You have three streams those days, trade/business, agriculture and industrial. This concept is, without doubt, was designed by some sexist prig, because under the industrial stream, male students get to work with machineries while female students get to cook!

Anyway, bright students of that year (yes I was one of them, can you believe it!) went to agricultural stream. After second year, I was transferred into another school and the bright students there were placed under trade/business stream. An uncle of ours was an important teacher there. He arranged to have me placed in that stream instead of the agricultural stream where some still couldn’t spell basic stuff.

Aside. This is probably a favour that he probably would have regretted as he hinted to me when he had to rescue me from the can wielding headmaster. That’s another story involving sitting position. End of Aside.

In that stream, I learned a new subject; Perdagangan (trade, but it had accounts and business stuff) and I hated it. I was happy with the agricultural stream, and I think I would have inherited my mom’s green hand (as opposed to the Incredible Hulk’s). And they put me here. It’s like taking a cabinet minister who was handling agriculture to lead the international trade and industry ministry. Wait a minute….

So, I hated accounts. Then, for fourth or fifth year I was happily put in the science stream. It proved to be an inspired choice, because I flopped miserably during for my form five SPM examination. Perhaps, my talent actually lied in accounts, not science. How would I have known as the most accounting I did was whether I had enough cash left at the end of the day to buy Rokok Batang (Academic magazines for those who don’t understand Malay, hehe).

After form five, while waiting for the (expectedly horrifying) result, I worked as an office boy in, ta-daaa, an accounting firm. The boss was a newly converted protestant, whose brother, next door, was always inviting me for “free lunch with talks”.

The thing is, no thanks to the treatment I received in that office, I hated accounts further. But it just drew me closer, as I would realise later. When finishing my form six, I was brought to KL by an uncle who got me the job as an administrative assistant.

Despite the ambiguity of the name, I was basically a clerk and I ended up working in the accounts department. I used to report to a visiting auditor, Juswanth Singh. Juswanth was a nice man, then in his forties, who loved to eat mutton until one day a mild heart attack suggested him otherwise. Of course, he has recovered and is doing fine, still striking terror to many account clerks hearts.

Juswanth suggested that I should take up accounts course. I had this in mind, when I went off to work in Singapore. First thing I did when I got a job was to sign up for ACCA course. In return, they gave me papers and books, which are thick enough to be used in interrogation room.

One week into the course, I realised something: ACCA is not as easy as getting into a phone booth and changing into a superhero costume. Lots of people drop along the way, like those forced to walk the plank in pirates ship. This is one tough mother of a programme. If you survive it, it means you went through an insurmountable task that only proves that you are not human. Well, most accountants those days were not humans anyway (don’t ask which planet they used to be from, but it has to be hostile).

So, for a year, I struggled. Well, not much of a struggle really, considering that I never attended most of the classes – movies provide greater religious experience . After a year, I quit. I told myself, “look, you keep going to accounts but it is slipping away. That’s not you. Maybe that’s part of you in a way that in the intergalactic…” At that point I wanted to slap myself.

So, my ambition in accountancy went out of the window and in came my love for writing. And here I am, bugging the life out of you readers.

But, the ACCA event recently, after thirteen years of my own little adventure in accountancy, suggested to me that maybe accountancy has become more interesting over the years that they attracted all these attractive ladies. Those yummy looking… shoot, Linda might be reading this. I’d love to continue analysing the link between lovely ladies and accountancy, but I have appointment with my auditor.

Banana leaf lunch Redux

Here you are, at 2.30pm in the afternoon, right after your long lunch. You are staring at the PC monitor and the keyboard while typing, sluggishly, and as the minutes progressed like a three-legged cockroach, whatever you are typing do not make sense like this:

The attached proposal would also contain information pertaining to the mango and the fish curry with a little touch of mnsflzzzbljzz…

And WHACK! When you come around, your right eye has been severely injured by the Enter key of the numerical pad in your keyboard.

Yes, it’s the terrifying post lunch sleepiness. How many of you out there have often been terrorised by this phenomenon? I bet all of you, and naturally, yours truly has been subjected to this horror ever since he started working at the age of 20.

Now, here’s the real issue. We Malaysians generally could not live without having rice for lunch. And worst, the wonderful and fantastically filling banana leaf Indian meal.

Having a banana leaf lunch and going back to work itself is an impressive and impossible feat, considering that most of us could not last more than half an hour when we parked our butt on the office seat after that.

It’s not the same as having rice on plate. Eating it off the banana leaf is different. Did you notice that? I mean, I smell controversy here. Why banana leaf? Let me tell you what I think, I_

What? What do you mean you don't care what I think? I have a theory, okay?

My theory is this: Banana leaf contains stuff that makes you sleepy. It is not the meal itself but the banana leaf. Get it?

As usual, lets me take you a ride back in time.

The Indians were mostly credited for inventing banana leaf meal. They have also been credited for other invention, like chewing betel leaf, spitting betel leaf juice, creation of language spoken while holding the betel leaf juice, and of course the favourite fable of crabs.

Here’s a little theory I have been working on based on the history of the India. Let’s go a few hundred years back and imagine the India of that time, especially the 15^th century southern region. Here’s how I see it:

The working community were workaholics at that time, to the point of risking their lives working their butts off. So, the King summoned the chief scientist cum doctor cum lingual professor Cum.

"Professor Cum, my workers are working too damned hard. I fear that their lives may be threatened."

"Great to hear that your majesty O’King."

"Not that, idiot, if they die who are going to work in my kingdom? The Bangladeshis?"

Aside. This could possibily be first incident concerning the subject of the immigrant workers. Except Bangladesh was not formed until last century. End of aside.

"Quite right, your highness. I shall work on a remedy," saying which the professor took nap right in the middle of the king's court.

"What nonsense!" said King in southern Indian accent, though he recently mastered the Northern Indian accent. "Sleeping in my own court, when I have not even dismissed you. Wake up you son of a bitch."

The professor woke up and apologised. But something struck the king.

After rubbing the swollen part, the king said, "You just took a quick rest. What did you have? Did you eat or drink anything that made you sleep?"

"Oh, I was experimenting with Zopiclone, your worshipfulness. Supposed to be sleep-inducing stuff. Good for rest, you know," said the professor raising his eyebrows approximately three and a half time.

The King couldn't believe it. “You liar! Apart from the fact we are talking in some Indian language and some idiot writer translating it in some colloquial English, the word Zopiclone probably never existed in our time.”

“Take it easy, your holy spiritualness! Here have some of these zop_ err, sleep inducing pills,” said the professor and proceeded to give a few tablets to the king.

“ “Where did you get this particular chemical, prof?” asked the King.

“That’s easy, your mighty mouse-ness. The banana leaf.”

“The humble banana leaf? Ah, this could help with my workers. They can sleep like a baby with this, err, babies,” said the King proudly. The professor knew who’s going to take the credit for that new innovation.

“That’s right, your incredible hulk-ness. You will be known as the king who put his workers to sleep,” the professor said.

In deep thought the king narrowed his eyes, pressed his lips, wiggled his nose and weighed the tablet on his palms. Before you can say Edward G. Robinson, a lighted candle popped above his head. “Eureka (Arogara in southern Indian language)! Lets manufacture it and sell it in US dollars."

"But the workers?" asked the professor.

"To hell with them!"

And so the king sold zopiclone to the whites and then went bankrupt because all the US dollars he received were useless, simply because US was not formed until few hundred years later.

Yeah. What I am trying to say is banana leaf contained Zopiclone, the sleep inducing properties. Other properties include dirt, some worm poo and possibly gazillions of microscopic spider eggs, but zopiclone!. Think of it! Smell it, Sleep with it. Am I right or wrong?

Ah, if only someone would grant me a…grant, say about US$1 billion, to do this research, I can have the world know what potential lethal killers banana leaves would be.

In a smaller portion, it can cure insomnia, lethargy and used by movie villains seeking to weaken the heroes or rape the heroines. It can work. Alas, if only I have that budget.

So, there you go. I have the theory and you have the means for the budget. You know my name and number (7777). Pick up that cheque book, please.

Getting acquainted with your MP.

Whether or not your member of parliament (MP) knows you, let alone gives two hoots about you, it is imperative that you know your MP. Getting to know a little bit is good, and getting to know a lot more is even better, especially when you are required to talk to the Anti-Corruption Agency.

For this week, we would be talking to Datuk Joh Hari, the MP for Ayer Bangar – one of the most colourful personalities you can ever meet in the Malaysian politics arena. Come to think of it, we can never have enough.

Hari is no stranger to controversy. Everyone remembers the time when, in responding an angry accusation from a female MP from the opposition party, he flashed his tongue and said, “Oh yeah? Well, your father’s butt stinks!”

This immediately set of sparks of protest, especially from many non-governmental organisations (NGOs), like the Society Against Flashing Tongue and its sister organisation, Sisterhood Society Against Flashing Tongue and other NGOs like Organisation That Blames Only Politicians and of course, Organisation for NGOs.

Joe, as he wanted us to call him (sharp implements are powerful persuaders), was also known for his brash outlook and straight to the face approach. The latter was proven when recently he was literally nose-to-nose in confrontation with another opposition MP. The impending brawl never took place when the opposition MP suggested Joe to consume Listerine on daily basis.

Joe is also a great philanthropist. Acknowledging his own mortality and the fragility of life, he contributes regularly to Association of Retired Datuks. Also, in a clear attempt to promote local fruit industry, he regularly gave out free Durian samples to European tourists at the airport.

Despite his own role as a hardworking MP, Joh is a normal person like you and me, except he owns more and bigger cars. At home, he is just a regular Joe. In fact, his pet name is Regular Joe.

When we were ushered by his private security to his humble four storeys, elevator-fitted abode, Joe, who had just apparently woke up from deep slumber, greeted us in the living room.

“Welcome, welcome, alamak! I misplaced your copy of tenderlah!” he said, growing very nervous by the seconds.

When we explained to him that we are from the media, not a contractor, he calmed down.
Here’s the excerpt of the interview:

Your family:
Father, mother, two elder brothers, one younger sister, two elder cats and one younger parrot.

Your hometown:
Herelah. I got no hometown.

Your favourite food:
Catfo_I mean, err…Indian food.

Your favourite colour:
Beige with a tinge of red and alligator blue.

Your favourite beverage.
Bran…. I mean, branded drinks, heh.

What car do you drive?
Proton Wira.

Not what your press secretary drives. What do you drive?
Are you wired? I cannot answer this one.

What is your favourite movie and why?
Jackass The Movie, it gives hope to those who makes mistake.

What music do you listen to and why?
Slow jazz. They always play that in the hotel where I make deals with…next question.

Why are you not married? People say that you are_
Hey, don’t listen to what people say.

Then why are you holding hands with your PA who is obviously_
Are you sure you are not wired?

Aiyah. We don’t see anything wrong with that. Okay, next question. Who is your hero?
Spiderman. He inspires me with the way he kisses Mary Jane Watson upside down (looks at his PA passionately)

Your favourite place in this whole wide world?
Bilik Termenung.

Huh?
You don’t watch old Malay movies much, do you?

Favourite tourism destination?
Swiss B_, I mean, Switzerland.

What is your hobby?
Oh, I read. I read a lot.

What books?
Oh, you know. Self-help books. Very motivating.

Titles?
Aiyah, you knowlah. Books like How To Get Rich Without Working Too hard, Relax and Get Rich and my favourite, Why work, Squeeze The Jerk!, you get the idea.

Oh yeah, definitely. Okay, that would be all. Thanks for your time.
Thanks. Can I check you for wire?

Dude, this whole thing's on tape. Why do you think it's called interview?

CSI: Never watched a single espisode

I Couldn’t Do It:

Confession of a crime-fiction lover who can’t and never did watch a single episode of CSI.

I have loved crime-fiction all my life. Okay, probably not the first six or seven years, when I started life drooling, crawling and schooling and trying to figure out how to spell giraf. Mmm…its giraph, right? Geraff? You know, that animal with long freakin’ necks?

Anyway, the issue I want to talk about today it the fact that I have never watched a full single episode of that damned and popular CSI* series, that bore many spin-offs and wannabes. Okay, the ambulance is ready; you can pick up those fainted gals.

Yes, I never did watch one. Never watched any of the versions, whether it’s CSI: Miami, Vegas or Salt Lake City or whatever. I tried, but by the tenth minute, my fingers itched, and automatically clicked on the remote control to the Cartoon Network. Yes, I learn more about life, existence, eternity, the earth, the universe, and how to catch a mouse in Cartoon Network. You can’t get it anywhere else.

When I told this to a gal, again through online chat, she was shocked! She said she doesn’t know me anymore. She looked like she may distance herself and start working on the manuscript (sure New York Times and News Straits Times Best seller) entitled, “Dazed and Confused: How a Woman Continues The Struggle In Her Life And Face The Society After Learning That A Pal Of Hers Has Never Watched A Single Episode Of CSI.

That’s a definite Pulitzer, I tell ya.

Anyway, that’s a fact. Even Linda, my fiancée, loves CSI, much to my annoyance. The other day, after watching two Clint Eastwood films back to back, I asked, “Do you now, accept Swami Eastwoodandha as your saviour?” There was an almost (I think) approving smile in her face. Then, I continued, “Do you denounce American Idol, CSI_”

I don’t want to continue that, except to tell you that there is still pain in my left arm. I need to take a rest from typing for a while…hang on…

Aside: I would soon be living with a gal who loves JCo donuts, American Idol, and CSI. Sheesh, the sacrifices I have to make. Am sorry, Clint-ji, I will try to do something. End of aside.

Anyway, despite all that, not watching CSI is definitely strange for someone who grew up reading and watching and loving crime fiction. The one name that triggered it all has to be Sherlock Holmes. I was ten when I chanced upon this abridged version of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

I was hooked immediately. I wanted to be him, so much so that I exchanged something for a stolen (from school lab) magnifying glass from my cousin (Attention Sekolah Kebangsaan Seri Bali Cha’ah, he is now hiding in Singapore…I can name him in private if you promise to put me under Witness Protection Program). I was using the magnifying glass on anything, and to my delight, despite the fact that it makes stuff look bigger; it can also be used to kill insects under sunlight. Wooohooo!

Okay, so I was hooked. I was reading more detective tales as I grew up, and in my twenties picked up on the works of Raymond Chandler and Mickey Spillane. I read on serious, but funny crime tales by Elmore Leonard, and I wanted to write a crime fiction myself. In fact, I’d downright say that crime fiction has been the root for my to become a writer. Hey, I wrote a Holmes pastiche when I was thirteen or something. And thinking about the quality of those writings…I mean at that age, with that zeal…I am glad that I lost the papers.

In the meantime, my movie-watching habit was going into that direction as well. You have to admit, all the main stars must, one time or another, appeared in a crime thriller or appeared as a cop. Imagine, one of the best actor of all time, Al Pacino, a purveyor of stage plays, a Shakespearean nut appeared in many crime fiction/cop drama/thrillers. Think about it, Serpico, Sea of Love, Heat, Scarface, Carlito’s Ways, Donnie Brasco, The Recruit , 88 Minutes, and coming soon, Righteous Kill among others. And what are the The Godfather movies, without crime.

And some of my favourite films were of crime genre. From my Swamiji’s Dirty Harry movies, to the mesmerising 1930s-50s Noir films, and 70s offering like Serpico, French Connection, paranoia political crime movies like All The President’s Men, The China Syndrome, Parallax View, Fort Apache, The Bronx, moving on to Heat, LA Confidential and much more. All crime, and most had forensic stuff in it.

And at that time (I still do) I wanted to write crime fiction and I bought books that can help me. I have books on weapons (guns and rifles) and, of course, on forensics. My younger brother then was a cop and we had long late nights discussing crimes and forensics stuff (aided by certain Scottish Beverage).

So, there it was, forensics and crime scene investigation has been part of crime fiction staple, not the main part. And suddenly, what has been the brain of a single fictional character (yes, Holmes) is now show about a unit.

I can’t criticise the show, since I haven’t watched it in full. I may, one day. But having been reading up on it, and having it seen as just one of the element required in crime fiction story telling, I guess I treated it as a well, sub-subject. It’s like always having broccoli as a side dish to your T-bone steak, and suddenly you are looking at it as the main course. No way!

So, I am glad I got it off the chest. Now, I’ve got to get this right. Geeraff. Giraff. Griaph. Gruff. I …just…can’t…do…it….gareff?

*CSI, I believe, stands for Crime Scene Investigation. Or Crime Situation Interrogation. Or One Of The Series For Has-Been Actors and Wannabe Semi-stars Who Just Overacts Like It’s Freakin’ The Godfather or Somethin’

Election 2008

Election 2008

I just got back from my cousin’s wedding back in Kluang, Johore. The fun part was meeting all the other cousins, uncles, aunties, schoolteachers, and, of course, those bastard who bullied you in school. Okay, the last one was not fun, and thank god I didn’t see one.

Getting together, naturally our conversation centred on one issue that has been THE talk of town the last month or so. Yes, the heated discussion zeroed in the inevitable, the all-important, the mesmerising Aftrican Cheese cake!

Haha, got you. Of course, we all talked about the recent election, though the conversation on the mystery of the African cheese cake would have been intriguing as well, except that the it might involve severe violence*

Naturally, everyone was happy with the blows received by the ruling party. It was about time, they say. Words like “arrogance”, “complacency”, “transparency” and “hair transplant” were frequently bandied about and are still ringing in my hear. I thought it was my alarm clock.

Anyway, the election was sure one of the most interesting that has happened in Malaysia since the independence almost 51 one yeas ago. Other interesting things, of course, involves the ’64 separation of Singapore, the very sad ’69 riot, the ’97 financial crisis and a certain clinging-on-seat-minister with a hairpiece/transplant so frightening he should be rated 18SG so as to keep away from scaring little children.

What was so sure about this election is this: Majority of Rakyat (people) are angry! They are unhappy! They are so pissed with the government they voted a young inexperienced candidate over an experienced minister, unseated a party president from the seat that I thought was actually glued to his ass so long that it was part of his body. And yes, the crème de la crème (creampie on ruling party’s face) was that the people elected the dude who shot the Lingam clip! I mean they choose him despite his complete lack cinematographic artistry! Can you beat that?

There were repressed anger, suppressed dissatisfactions amongst many, and it doesn’t involve one race alone. Everyone was unhappy. It took one peaceful assembly by an non-governmental organisation called Hindraf (Hindu Rights Action Force, though it need not necessarily involve Hindus, it can be Catholics, Muslim and if they can take tear gas and water cannon, Scientologists) to break loose the unspoken bond between these unhappy lot. Many Chinese and Malay folks sympathised with the Hindraf supporters. Many of them, in fact, related to some of the issues highlighted by Hindraf.

In fact, there were many non-governmental group gatherings, intended to be peaceful, but was broken up with tear gas and water canon, like the Hindraf gatherings, by police because these groups are so dangerous they might poke the innocent bystanders eyes with their placards and car keys.

Actually, the peaceful gathering is beginning to be accepted as new culture in Malaysia. When Lim Guan Eng, that dude from DAP, took over as the chief minister in Penang Island, he said something to the effect that it pissed the UMNO members. The members made peaceful assembly, which was quickly broken up by police with tear gas and water canon. Oh, sorry, the cops did not do that.

Then, there was another held in Perak, because Lim’s dad said something that amounted to disrespect to the Perak Sultan. There was a peaceful gathering again, accusing Lim senior of being rude to the Sultan. Hah! Our dutiful cops arrived and dispersed them with tear gas and water canon.

Oh shit, I am wrong again. So much for journalistic integrity. I should know that water gas and tear gas comes with instruction “To be used only against parties not affiliated with the ruling party”. I shoulda checked the fact first.

So many things happened the last four years, after the election in 2004. All those promises, those kept and broken. All those statements, the truth and the lies. But along the way, one thing remained true. No matter which country you are, which party is rulling the nation, the politicians are, and have always been unintentionally funny. From the funny way they talk, walk, behaving like Dodo’s right before their exctinction through some foreign news agencies. Politicians always ranked next to lawyers in terms of being butt of many jokes. But the ranking need to be revieweds, as most lawyers become politicians anyway.

And so, as I said, this is an interesting election. There are lot more twist and turn to happen down the road, in a year or so. I mean, things can also be so messy that it might require poor Uncle Sam to interfere by first bombing the shit out of KL Tower which has for more than a decade served the Malaysian people with….I mean….errr….hummmm..

Okay, it gave many free meals to journalists high up several hundreds of feet with 360 view of KL city. Now, that is service, dude! Anyway, my point is, we are going to see a completely different Malaysia now. It is now a new era for us Malaysia. And there sure gonna be bigger budget for tear gas canisters for the cops.

Okay, we wouldn’t want that. Malaysia has dealt with issues diplomatically and I am one of those few who still believe in the art of diplomacy (though it hardly worked with my fiancé, especially when it comes to some stupid donuts).

Now, all I can ask for from these new elected officials, ruling party or not, is to work together. Set aside your differences, and sit down and look at the Rakyat’s plight. Sure, the ruling party may drive bigger cars and have posh homes, but leave those differences to the ACA people to sort out. You guys just sit down and think about serving the people, ‘kay.

*Uncle A: I tell ya it involves cheese made from moose’s milk.

Cousin C: Haha, he calls a cow, Moo, so childish (Uncle A knocks a teeth out of Cousin C).

Reign Of Donut Terror!

What is it with this fascination for JCo Donut! Why are people crazy about it? Why are there long queues each time I pass by that place?

It's just baked flour with flavour, and for inexplicable reason, has a hole in it. What is it trying to tell us? Or is there some intellectual underpinning, alluding the hole to the very existence of human fabric...

Bullshit.

It's some pastry stuff that, women especially, love and regret for having too much indulgence in.

But why are people going emotional about it? I'll give you an example:

Once, during a press function, we journalists were give Jco donut as door-gift (howzat, donut as door gift, what's next? Coffee as door gift? We are not American cops, for Eastwood's sake).

I brought it back to office, and offered them to my colleagues, since I am about as interested in donuts as would a cat in broccoli.

Then, while chatting online with a friend, I mentioned my generous gesture (I am tremendously generous with things I don't want).

That's it! She exploded, throwing written-fits, and I could almost feel virtual hands coming out to strangle me. The only thing she didn't do is send a B2 bomber to my house.

(Aside. She is in my Friendster and Facebook and her name rhymes with Fellini. End of aside)

I thought I should bitch about it to my fiancée, Linda. I mean, what kind of behaviour is that? Completely childish, and preposterously over the top.

Guess what? Linda did the same, albeit with more rights to cause foot related injury to my rear. If we were married, I'd be spending longer hours on the sofa for giving away those damned donuts.

In no less than a week, as fate would have it (I have to deal with the Maker with this, soon), Linda and I was in Pavillion, where JCo donut outlet is.

And as fate would have it again (I hate this dude Fate, why would he have it all the time? What is It, by the way that he is having?) both of us passed by, and the force of evil made Linda gravitate towards the outlet. Outside there was type of queue that once broke many windows in McDonalds outlet in Singapore (Singaporeans know what I am talking about - it involves verbally challenged cat).

And so, we happened to have some appointment that time, and the queue was too long. But I felt, in the name of relationship, why not make some sacrifice and join the queue. For her.

We actually joined the queue, but laziness and the need to attend the next appointment, mostly for the former, we had to leave. I literally had to drag her out.

Linda was lost. She was not there. Going up the escalator, I had to pacify her. She was making this weird whining noise, almost to tears.

It was freaky, almost surrealistic. Remember the climax of the movie Apocalypse Now, where Brando whispers, "The horror...the horror...the horror."

Well here, while I was hugging her, pacifying her, I heard, "The Almond...the custard...the chocolate." You people! What have you done to my girl?!

I told her that donuts are evil, satanic, anti-Christ. Of course, alarmed that she was, being a devout Catholic, she said, "Shut up!"

Also, I noticed that the donut fever seemed to have affected women a lot. Queueing outside Jco was many excited women, and men, with vacant stares, almost zombified next to their wives/girlfriends. Yes, you could see these guys, who usually looked like life has been sucked out of them in Ladies shoe shops.

Speaking of shoes, why are gals so crazy about shoes? I mean, if it is not like when a hot gal passes by, we guys go "Whoa, dude. Check out her pair of shoes!" No! Usually we go, "Whoa mama, dude, check out those pairs of gazoombas!*"

And I have witnessed some pretty heaty bargaining going on in discount shoe stores. I mean, if you want to punish someone for some serious crime, put him or her in a discount shoe store as a sales clerk.

Sorry for the digression.

The point is, this craze for donuts must stop. I mean no offence to JCo who are merely there to serve mankind by making shitload of money, but making ladies, especially, go nuts (no pun intended) over donuts is too much.

And guys, be brave, put your foot down and get out of those damned queue. I mean...wait a minute. What's that I hear? Hark! The unmistakable sound of stampede made by thousands of ladies shoes, with their owners in it. I gotta get outta here!



*Pair of gazoombas could mean pair of eyes, ears, or nostrils. Depend on usage. Just verify with a local ENT specialist. What were you thinking?

The Colour Of Food

I am not what you’d call a fat guy. Nope. But I do have a belly big enough to qualify as a temple priest. Hang on. It’s not that big. Maybe just nice for a politician.

Each time I make a trip back home, or if my parents come up here to KL, anxiety would strike me. It’s that bad, because my mom would be making comments on my weight.

And it happened this time around. Even my dad got it. His waist size got two inches larger. All his life he had been a 30 and now its 32. Shocking!!! And the attention was later turned on me.

So, that’s it. I got to go on diet. This is actually a sequel. Diet Pt 13, may be. So, for help I did what an independent, intelligent, resourceful guy would do, search the internet.

After deliberating many cliché ridden advises, I came across this:

“In the USDA Dietary Guidelines for Americans 2005, it calls for Americans to eat more dark green and orange vegetables. Use lunchtime as an opportunity to get those veggie servings with the inclusion of a simple salad of, say, green leaf lettuce and shredded carrot.”

Haha. Bloody Americans. Always with their obese problem. I am not an obese but this sounds like a good advice. Dark green and orange vegetable, huh?

ARE YOU FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME????

How the hell would I know dark green and orange vegetable? I am colour blind, for Picasso’s sake. For all you know I might be crunching on purple vege and some Alien from outerspace would come avenging the death of its uncle.

There are so many diet schemes out there, for e.g. Vege diet, Protein diet, Atkins diet, Olsen twin’s diet(also known as third world diet) and Diet Coke. So many choices.

Also, I noted that most diet plans are meant for women. I mean, come on. We too are afflicted with that problem. So, I did more research (I need more funds here for research) and came up with this:

Weight Loss Advice for Men
Be sensible about alcohol.
You don't have to give up

Take some regular exercise.
You don't have to jog your butt off

Eat less red meat.
You don't have to eat lentils

Eat less fast food
Home cooked food isn't necessarily slow food


And the advice ended with this statement:

"Don't wait until you're in the ER to find out about your cholesterol and blood pressure. You may not survive that long."

Makes you feel good, doesn't it?

But the advice looks sound. Simple. Very traditional. So, I am going to start today. I am going to follow what the above said, especially the one in italics.

My Looks ...a.k.a who cares.

A dear lady friend of mine, whom I met over the Internet (not chat, email)and who has not met me in person was curious as to how I looked like.

That’s true. Not many know how I looked like. I have been asked that question before. For example, queries like, “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

Now how would I describe myself?

I will start with my head. There is a head all right, unless someone angers me indefinitely. I lose if so fast that it bounces of the wall and comes back to me and back to my neck – in tact. Haha.

Excuse my feeble attempt at humour. Firstly, I would say that I am balding – at an exceedingly alarming rate. Secondly, I hate it! But I can’t help it. My dear father is balding. So are my uncles. But then there are so many attractive bald men. For example, there is Sean Connery. And then, err, Sean Connery. Hold a minute, there is someone else. Oh dear! I mean, there’s Connery and then. Faugh!.

It should also come to your attention that I have a very high forehead. Yes, I know. It has come to my knowledge that high foreheads are often attributed to extremely intelligent people like Albert Einstein. I was proud of it, until someone informed me that I have a high forehead because I am balding. Confound it!

Now, comes the favourite part of my body. My eyebrows. Nothing exceptional about them, though. But herein lies the greatest talent I posses – the ability to raise one of them individually. It started when I was trying to imitate Connery doing Bond. And then, it became a habit, and the habit included the dying hair follicles.

My eyes. Ah, there have been many description about them. I personally liked to view them as a pair of eyes belonging to a scientist or a astronomer – keen and intuitive. If, of course, you would excuse for the fact that they are my eyes and were viewed by themselves. How odd. I asked a colleague of mine, “what do you think of my eyes?” This colleague, his colours drained out as if fearing for his dear life, remarked, “Dude, I am straight. Stay away from me.” How odd? He never looked crooked to me, poor chap.

Next, comes my nose. Disregarding the cliché, may I say that I have an aquiline nose? I asked your permission to allow me to say that since till this day I do not have a darn clue what aquiline means.

In all fairness, I should say that I hate my lips. Apart from the fact that they are thick and actually do not qualify the wordy ‘pouty’, they have serve no function accept to open and shut when necessary. Also, the fact that I can’t whistle without missing note annoys me a lot. But then, how much has it contributed to the mankind, with exception of Milli Vanili is beyond me.

My ears used to resemble a car with doors opened on both sides. But as I aged, it ceased to look like that. It now looks like a car with doors open on both sides, when parked in a very tight spot.

I shall go ahead with the rest of my body. I am normally middle-sized. When I am not normal, it stays middle-sized. But suffice to say, my waist size have, thus far, only moved to and fro between 33” and 34”. I am neither hairy nor do I have bare chest. It reminds me of the line Connery utters about bare-chested Japanese men in You Only Live Twice : “Birdsh don’t make nesht on bare Ttttreee”. The scriptwriter must have had too many Sakis when he wrote that line.

My posterior, however, is the greatest disappointment of all. An old friend of mine remarked that it reminded him of “the North-South highway”. God bless him.

I generally have a gait of a bear trying to imitate a panther. It happens when I walk briskly. My love for cat somehow influenced my physical movement. Yes, I can be graceful especially when begging for food.

That’s all you readers will have to know about me. Further information could be found in that SPECIAL book in the police headquarters in Bukit Aman. Right now, I have to dash off as I hear scream suspicious of that of a siren.

I thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

Killing Time in Airport

Okay, here's my contribution for September issue of Asian Airlines and Aerospace. Very useful.


Killing Time In Airport

You are in a transit. You have another three hours before your next flight. What do you do? Who do you call? Ghostbusters?

Fret not, I have all the right stuff you can do to kill time. If these steps do not help, well, I suggest the most common and inevitable measure – sleep on the benches.

So, first things first, how do you deal with the stress? Head to the nearest bar and have a glass of beer? Are you crazy? Do you how much a glass of beer costs in airport lounges?

Well, I checked howto.com and it says that you should go to the gym. Well, I know its not much fun, but at least you can get tired enough to sleep on the bench.

What if the airport has no gym? Well, don’t look at me; I didn’t suggest the gym thing. The same site says that you can ‘power-walk’ around the entire airport. “Store luggage in terminal lockers, lace up those walking shoes and get the blood pumping,” the site says. How appropriate! And watch out for that “Wet Floor” sign.

Next, the helpful site says that bored passengers can “Surf the Web and answer e-mail at an Internet kiosk to make the time fly. Keep in mind that, in some airports, you'll be charged for the time you spend online.”

Always remember to spend wisely. We don’t want to see you scrounging for money because you hocked your return ticket. The Internet can be addictive, especially the chat rooms

Next, one can purchase souvenirs and presents for friends and family at the airport's gift shops and retail stores. The most popular souvenirs have always been chocolates. The reason is simple; if you get hungry you can eat them yourself. Don’t worry about the empty box, when you present them to your loved ones don’t forget to quote Forrest Gump.

“Get a shoeshine,” says the site, though it did not state what to do if you are wearing sandals. Shine your legs? The site says that many larger airports feature hallway shine specialists to buff and polish your shoes. If the airport doesn’t have such facilities you can do it yourself. What did you say? No wax of your own? Now, you know what else to bring along during your trips, don’t you?

Next comes the best part. The site asks you to enjoy a drink in the airport bar if there is one. “In US airports,” it says, “the day's big sporting event will probably be blaring on the television.” That is in the US. In other countries, the shows themselves are the reason why we should stick to the bar and drown our sorrows with a bartender who probably does not speak our language.

The seventh step is to have a good book. This is my favourite time killing measure. Make sure it’s a good book. You can scrounge the bookstores in the airport, but I warn you, you don’t usually get what you want. Sure, the bestsellers will always be there. But for readers like me, who prefer books written by authors who p[probably died fifty years ago, it can be tough. So, bring your own book. If not, bring books belonging to other people. Make sure you get their permission first though.

The site also gave an ultimate, “Keep your eye on a clock at all times, and check the departure screens regularly to ensure that you do not miss your flight.” This is provided you are not at the bar or reading a book. One can’t be doing too many things at the same time.

I hope these tips are useful. In fact, I am killing my time right now writing this piece.

Wait a minute…gosh darn! I think my flight just took off!

New Bond

This is crazy. Go to google news and type James Bond and there will be rumours on just about everyone else being tested to play James Bond. Gad. What's happening to this world?

Being a big Bond fan (my friends know how big, that's why most have played safe by staying away and issuing restraining order) I have often been asked about that: Who do you think that should be the new Bond?

I have two names: Clive Owen and Hugh Jackman. But Owen, like the third Bond, Timothy Dalton, might take the job too seriously. So, I am not sure about him. Jackman will be good. Plus, he has the market, especially over here in Asia. People know him from X-Men and Swordfish. Even his flop, Van Helsing, did big business in this region.

But all these argument are dead on water since we start getting so many news about this feller and that feller going for audition.

So, I thought and thought about it. Lets get radical. Lets think of someone nobody would have thought of.

Here it is:

Larry Mullen Jr.

"Who?" You may ask.

And say, "What are you, a f******* owl?" Haha. Okay, sorry. Stole that line from the movie Heat.

Larry is the drummer for the superband U2. I am a big fan. So are millions all around the world. Look at him. What do you think?

I think I am nuts. But back in 1961, many thought of the same of Bond producers when they took in a blue-collarish Scotsman named Connery.

Just think about it.

Movie marathon for weekend

What a weekend!!!!!!!!!

This must be the weekend I saw most movies. Anyway, I have no time to write the reviews for my movie site, so I will write mini-reviews. Here we go:

Fantastic Four:
Great fun. A very balanced script. Everything is in, the humour, the pathos, the action and the delight of superpowers. Chiklis and Evans excel - one suffering and the other having fun. The others are okay too, especially the delicious Alba. CG not overdone. Don't mind sequels.

The Island:
Interesting premise. But halfway, I kinda got sleepy. On one side Michael Bay (the director) wanted to please the critics, and the other, he wants to please the hardcore audiences he had always pleased. So, in between what seemed to be legitimately good story, there's running, explosion, fighting, shooting and more running. McGreggor is very good in what seems to be the usual Tom Cruise role (hero on the run and later gets back at the big organisation he is running away from; see The Firm, MI, Minority Report, WOTW).

Stealth:
absolute f****** waste of time. I messaged someone saying that it is not even worthy of a Pirated DVD. Jamie Foxx is wasted. He is not suited for this kind of role. The technology does not impress. The Talon aircrafts looks like the one Eastwood stole in Firefox. The stealth aircraft does not even do stealth operations. What the F***!

The other flicks I watched on DVDs.

The Mad Max movies:
I watched all three over a week period. Mad Max is okay, a bit dull. Nothing great to be recognised as a cult favourite. I guess it was the other movies that made this one respectable. The one I saw was relooped with American voices, so dubbing was bad. Like the Spaghetti Western movies.

The Road Warrior was good. Damned good fun. Mel Gibson get to do a bit of acting here, and you can see why he is perfect as action hero. The film is often said to be the source of influence for many good and bad post-apocalyptic sci-fi. I'd credit that to Escape From New York too.

Beyond Thunderdome is good, but inferior to Road Warrior. Tina Turner looks delicious. But the ending is all fuzzy. She just leaves and the movie finishes. Huh?

Laws of Attraction:
I watches this for one person only: Pierce Brosnan. He is great at comedies and nobody, not even Bond movies, tested him at that talent. He shines here. Finally shows how versatile he can be and this genre - romantic comedy - is easy as he had had the practice in TV (you know which show). Julianne Moore is good too. Nice movie, but not the one I want to revisit over and over again.

The Fogs of War:
Actually saw this last week, not on weekend. Documentary on Robert MacNamara, former secretary of defence for JFK and LBJ. Powerful. Very moving, with MacNamara (now in his 80s) narrating. Sometimes very honest, and very open, and sometimes not. But we are made aware of how stupid and emotional human being can be and how much it can cost in terms of lives. He talks how he was involved in Cuban missile crisis and the Vietnam war, as well as his other gigs like in the Ford Motor company and world bank. Great piece of work.

Got to write the full reviews for my site.