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.

MH370: From deep within comes the sludge.

"It is a capital mistake to theorise in advance of data."

The recent tragedy involving the missing of Malaysian Airlines flight MH370, needless to say, is devastating. Friends, family, why, the entire nation (Malaysia as well as China and other countries where some of the passengers come from) is keeping their fingers crossed, some praying, some hoping, some believing that the passengers and crew are still alive. It’s nerve wrecking especially for those having sleepless day and night waiting at the KLIA airport and the hotel in Putrajaya where some are invited to spend their waiting hours.

In the midst of it all are the authorities involved with the investigation, the ministers, the civil aviation authority, Malaysian Airlines personnel, and eager beaver media folks waiting to feed readers and viewers any scrap of information available. And, among them comes the sort of sludge that arises from deep water when it is disturbed…the worst kind. The kind that take it to the worst possible media platform – the social media, especially the Facebook.

Of late, we see some nitwit from the opposition party mocking Malaysian Airlines, and indirectly the government on twitter, and he was lambasted. Then, it comes knocking in your own social media doors when you see disparaging comments on the people who are spending sleepless nights trying to recover the aircraft and its passengers. Calling the authorities moron, as if these users have had an IQ competition with the personnel involved and scored the highest, when they are probably resting at home, having iced tea, and knocking about the keypad or keyboard thinking they are the greatest gift to mankind since Sherlock Holmes; like finding fault with the authorities is akin to solving the Jack the Ripper murders.

I am pro-government, meaning I am for all good governance, no matter which party is on board. So far I am fine with the opposition running the state I am in right now (Selangor, when I have not stepped on KL). Personally the members of the Islamic party, PAS, are swell folks, still maintaining the Budi Bahasa Sopan Santun culture so prevalent back in days among the Malaysian, especially the Malay community. The buck stops when it comes to politics.

I still recall during the first day of working as a reporter for a business newspaper, I picked up News Straits Times daily, known for being staunch pro-ruling party, when a colleague took notice and said, “So, it’s true you are from Johor”. The joke is, I am from the very state which had been fiercely loyal to Barisan Nasional, the ruling party that has been in control of Johor for a long time.

No thanks to the firm grip on the state, when growing up in Johor, we treated those who are supporters of the opposition with suspect. But recently, when the whole Anwar Ibrahim episode come rolling down like an avalanche, the young blokes including those from my state found it especially endearing to be anti-government ie anti-ruling party, and support the former deputy minister and education minister (Anwar was the minister when our education system went downhill during the 80s, the very product that belched out these flag bearers).

Not my parents,  brothers and I. I have heard about Anwar and his escapades way back in early 90s, thanks to my brother who was working in Carcosa Seri Negara (where ministers and diplomats hang out or meet other minister and diplomat blokes and gals) and he said that he had never seen anyone as insecured as Anwar, barging down the lobby with security details that will make the US President cry “unfair”. Not the then Prime Minister, (now Tun) Dr. Mahathir who prefers to amble about on his own saying hi to the staff, do his meets and rush back to either his office or home.  

Now that the aircraft is missing, armchair political analyst are crying “Conspiracy!”. And one of it involves the very Anwar’s determination to take over Selangor state and make his way to Putrajaya, the country’s administration city (planned during Mahathir’s time, by the way). Very interesting theory that is, get a plane in which the majority are Chinese national, have it disappear so that the entire nation would be worried about the aircraft and its passenger, not a politician who is charged for (attempting to?) poking his sexual appendage at the legally prohibited hole. And in turn, earn the wrath of the very country which Malaysia can be proud of calling a friend while being as neutral as she can (the buck stops at Israel though, I got no issues with that, I don’t like the side braid).

Then, of course, the critics of the ruling party had a good time rolling down the social media aisle, laughing their posterior with hole in it off, when a Bomoh was called in to aid the search for the missing plane. If eleven countries got together, with technology that would make George Lucas have sex with himself, still have issues finding the goddam plane, I am sure desperate folks would insist on getting non-scientific help. It is not also helped that the Bomoh was said to have predicted that the aircraft was in air. The critics ran out of aisle to laugh their sagging buttholes off.

Then of course, the criticism that the authorities are unprofessional. I thought they were, they were polite too. I have been to and covered many press conferences where I felt like shoving my tape recorder onto the collective mouths of the blokes and gals supposed to respond to the media yelling, “say Aaaaah!” like a frickin dentist.

This time, the prime minister and the others at least talked and assured that it is too early to divulge anything because more than these poor reporters, it is the grieving family looking for answer, or closure who needs to know first. And frankly, they got nothing to say except that whatever was blown out of proportion by social media and some irresponsible online media is not true until verified.

This brings me back to something I posted in response to that, that was said by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle through his creation, Sherlock Holmes: “Never theorise in advance of data”.  In this age where data is available anywhere, everywhere, for anyone and everyone, information has no value. Revealing what they know so far about the missing aircraft is not going to hurt anyone. Because, once everything cools down, everyone will go back to their miserable lives, updating their Facebook statuses, sharing imbecilic jokes, copying and sharing uncredited quotes, or some positive self-help shit that is not going to get me a good paying job, or posting pictures of friends and family members that are as interesting as last year’s torn calendars; and waging keyboard war with another knucklehead which will have as much contribution  to the growth of our society as a pimple on an elephant’s ass. And that includes me too.

But the family who has lost their loved ones? They will continue to grieve. In the meantime, there would be another tragedy that would stir the pond and get the sludge called social media truth seekers out floating like ones our family once saw below the Kota Tinggi waterfall – human turd.

Ultraman: The Fear of Impotency.

(co-written with Nevin Shankaran Kumar)

Ultramen and their strategically misplaced sexual object.

On afternoons, back in early 80s, us kids would bundle around the Television (idiot box is an old joke, it has documentaries that will make you a dumbfuck), just to watch new adventures of Ultraman.

To the unitiated, Ultraman is kids TV series where a bloke, some cop or other, becames (or so I think, it’s unclear as he just brandishes a rod thing to the sky) Ultraman, a mouthless piece of being with glowing eyes and is suited in silver latexy thingy. And it’s a giant, big enough to fight monsters which failed the audition for the original Godzilla TV series.

It was quite a series as we kids devoured, perhaps, the first ten to fifteen minutes waiting patiently for Ultraman to come and kick the monster’s rubbery ass, and it literally does. Ultraman goes on kicking, punching, carrying the monster twirling it around, slamming it down and all without the gigantic ropes in the gigantic ring called Tokyo traffic.

Of course, like many TV shows and movies that showcases monster, we never get to see people get squished with the innards making their TV debut. It was a clean entertainment as far as we kids are concerned, no more violent than Tom the cat turning to pie-shaped being after being clanged by a rubbish bin top, or Sylvester the cat being repeatedly abused by the old lady with the parasol. Not to forget Wile E. Coyote that has been bombed to smithereens, smashed to pieces, torn to shreds, and blown into oblivion no thanks to its extraordinary efforts (and budget to spare notching up Acme Co’s share market) just to trap a goddamn road runner. All, to this author, didn’t matter as it meant, if you can’t for the first time, try and try again…till you see a TNT with burning fuse stuck in your ass.

Coming to back to the matter in point. The Malaysian home ministry has banned the Ultraman series (there are many Ultramans, of various shapes and sizes, some with horns and some not, but mostly without sexual devices I presume, though the buzzer in the creatures chest often gives warning red signals as if they have reached certain climax) and it annoyed many Malaysians, especially those who loved to see their kids enjoying same thing that the parents did when they were kids themselves: watching monsters being trashed about by another monster, a good one, till the bad ones explode, discombobulate, dismember, disintegrate and disappear in thin air.

The last, I suppose, was an alternate when the producer runs out of money for special effect.

Which is precisely the reason why I actually wouldn’t want my son to watch these damned men in latex suit superhero films in the first place. Look, if you are going to show some kids some awesome superhero flicks, make it look like a million. The early Batman TV series knew that and played it for a laugh.  

Then, came the Superman movies which were million buck entertainment and they still look good today. So were the Batman movies, never mind that somewhere they did the script smoking weird shit and tried to control the damage by having Arnold Schwarzenneger say varieties of ice related pun (it was smoking alright, from pan to fire). But they are watchable and they got the superhero thing right of late with the Spider-Man and Iron Man flicks, where, not only they spent millions, but they also added a human heart into it.

Not Ultraman, oh no. Ultraman continues with the 30 cents script and RM7 budgets per episode and tried its best to continue to hoodwink kids who are now already into mobile phone porn at the age of seven. You kidding me?

Ultimately, the shows are stupid. They belong to be in development hell, where they rot and if history is a good teacher what happened to the big budget version of Godzilla? Huh? Speaking of which, I sometimes wonder why Japanese are obsessed with size. If it is not about miniatures, it is about monsters, and why should we too? Don’t we have enough miniatures in form of politician brains from which spills innards of unbelievable stupidity. Or monsters in form of parents abusing kids, employers abusing maids, and leaders peeing over their minions?

We are now way beyond these monster shows. Dinosaurs movies came and took a hike. Size is scary. What used to be twin towers have since become mangled steel and burnt concretes. The new bad monsters in town are not terrorists and hackers, but what motivates them. But we can’t have TV shows for children where the monsters are religious zealots, corporate raiders, slithery smugglers, con artistes and big timers with loots stashed away in Swiss bank. No way, the politicians would want that to be banned as well. The last things they want a kid to see on screen is their own adventures.

Ready, aim and duck.

It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts of …

Wait, those are words by one Dr. Watson, the opening paragraph that leads to the story about the final days of Sherlock Holmes, which was actually full of baloney seeing that Holmes returns (See The Empty Window. Also see Gillette, Barrymore, Rathbone, Cushing, Lee, Moore, Heston, Brett, etc. and of late a certain Downey Jr.).

Well, to connect things, this marks my return to my beloved blog, triggered by an unusual incident involving a malnourished duck and red paint, which is why the regret about taking up my pen. Fret not; I use a goddam keyboard, not a pen.

Purveyors of newspapers and online news portal must have been mortified recently about the incident involving a splash of red paint and a barely alive duck in a box placed in front of the office of the insipidly very government friendly, er-hum, news portal Malaysiakini.

For one I felt that it was strange…has Malaysian politics gone to the dogs, I mean, ducks?

Sometimes back, some blokes were parading a head of a dead cow (you can’t, naturally, parade the head of a live cow considering that it may burrow additional holes to the supposed bearer’s posterior) in a religiously motivated action that shook the nations and rocked the calm world of bovine grass grazers. It was event that sent many news editors into orgasmic pantaloons that rattled many a cubicles around in the media industry.

But cows have been safe ever since, bar the rude mammary intrusion or deadly intervention by meat peddlers. Likewise, the remainder of the duck population in this country may go on with their lives waddling away and hoping that someone would outlaw Peking Duck dishes.

What amazes me is this: why do such a thing that will only make readers, especially those who are too lazy to turn a newspaper page and are generally anti-establishment (it’s cool to be “against it” See Marx Bros “I’m against it” epic song), voracious clickers of the mouse, openers of browsers and critics in armchair (with beverage of choice) to be more than eager to provide hits to these portals that mostly rely on advertisements and foreign investments. Or so I think…allow me to sip iced water.

A conspiracy theorists would actually suggest that the whole stunt was mainly concocted to boost the organisation’s fame amongst the supposedly erudite news junkies, and enhance its image as fighters of national cause amongst those who can’t even fight against bodily fat, or coffee shop analysts whose forte, till this day and age, remains at not discussing on what they are shoving in their mouth. For all you know they might be expressing their displeasure towards the recent government policy on pest control while not realising that domestic flies were hitching a ride on the toast straight into their collective oesophagus’.

But my polite query is this: Why a duck?

Why not a chicken? Or a cat. Okay, not a cat. I have an ex-colleague of mine working there and she’s terribly fond of cats and pull a stunt like that she will blow the whole country into oblivion.

Incidentally I like cats and ducks, especially the animated versions. We all know how Tom and Sylvester the cat always get the shit end of the stick. And so does poor old Donald Duck (I just got the shit end of the employment stick, but that’s another matter). And this incident gave a totally new twist to the world of Malaysian politics.  

But not this poor duck. What sin has it done to deserve to be the pawn of political intrigue? Why is not where it should be (simmering in a pot)? These are the question future historians would struggle to answer as they shove in spoonful of duck rice.

I am not smart myself, but this incident only confirms one thing: most Malaysians are about as bright as the rear end of a Penguin. And that is an insult to those birds. Malaysians are still at the drooling stage politically and should be more cautious about making political comments.

Like the ones on the recent foray by one opposition political leader who bulldozed his way into contesting for a seat in a township mostly known for satay. Satay, for the uninitiated is chunks of meat with a stick driven to it, a thrusting gesture not unfamiliar to the said politician. There were praises from the supporters and complaints from those who consider it to be a waste of public fund while being chauffeured around in expensive cars paid for by taxpayers.

But I am unfazed. Like most Malaysians, I am not going anywhere. I need not store and cherish these idiotic moments, they will resurface in form of slapstick nightmares – you don’t know to whether you should be worried or laugh your ass off and continue supporting noodle-heads and Billy goats to run this country.

There are still more wonderful moments to come in the Malaysian political scenario. I am upbeat about it, while reminding myself to renew my passport, because we Malaysians are awesome when it comes to heaving ourselves from hot pot and directly into the inferno.

By the way, the Marx Bros song I mentioned above incidentally appeared in their best entry back in 1930s, a masterpiece of a film titled “Duck Soup”. I rest my case.

Happy 2^nd Birthday Nevin Shankaran Kumar, now…and please eat your veggie.

Or so says my wifey, as she wanted to post something with regards to the impending…I mean, upcoming birthday of our offspring…a bloke named Nevin Shankaran Kumar.

You see, he is turning two  on the 14^th February this year. Of course, every parent would rejoice on the fact that the very same datema is apparently confirmed by some calendar saying that he or she is so and so years old. And, of course, the date seemed to be indicating something about romance. Hmmm…

But not our kid. He is a bit on the hyper side as in “I look young, but I am matured baby…how about Italian dinner..no worries my mom and dad will clean my ass and dispose the goddamn napkins”.

And so it has been that way. As the narrator and the infrequent log-meister of my day to day affair of this site, I am extremely happy to note that the bloke who is the subjecout of this post just told me to “sheddaappp” ala James Cagney which follows an indoctrination program that I have unfortunately influenced my wife when we got married. She has since become a hardcore Cagney fan

My revisiting of this blog is not so much about updating my current status. It is more about late night insomnia that reveals my persona as being both creative being, as well as hopeless individual looking for survival.

In the end. Or, as per the sub-editors’ recommendation, “at the end”…all I ask for is to recognise my junior as the next super star. Ilayarajaa, MSV, ARR, Kamal, Rajini, Bono, Freddy, Michael, and all those hard rock fellers confined in my little thumb drive and my own beloved Nadigar Thilagam (do your own translation,) that makes my journey with my NevinMobile memorable.

Have a great day. As my life dictated the last one year or so, it is all about kinship, love, altruism as Rajini said in the movie “Baba”  - “Man to man help”.

Happy 2^nd Birthday Nevin Shankaran Kumar, now…and please eat your veggie.

Chronicles of Nevin:. Year One

Talking to my mother over the phone recently, I reported the current status of my son Nevin’s movement capability. Well, he is still crawling (rapidly like those very hungry alligators or crocodiles or whatever if you can tell them fucking apart) and haven’t started walking yet.

He can hold on to furniture or wall and walk, and actually stand for few seconds on his own. But the weight of his diapers surrenders to the gravity and its back to square one which happens to be crawling to the TV decoder and speakers that he keeps terrorising at no end.

Nevin is one years old today and still yet to start walking. My mom said that I myself was a late bloomer. I was one years and three month’s old (Christmas day, little would I know that it coincides the most important festive event my-would be wife would celebrate) when mom first saw me walking, after which she was immediately whisked away to deliver her second baby, my brother and my best friend, Balan Kumar, the next day.

I think it was the dismay of my mother not relishing the “first walk” moment, that a year later I pushed Balan off the bed onto the floor causing hairline fracture on his shoulder bone (we still have the X-Ray. He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother..

Currently, Nevin is making lots of noise. We are trying to get to call us mom and dad in Malayalam, “Accha” and “Amma” (according to my family’s tradition; wife’s folks are referred to as Daddy and Mommy, which I feel is a tad too overused in American sit-coms). Unfortunately, “Accha” through his mouth becomes “Attta” a local Indian Muslim version of “bro” and  his version of “Amma” sounded like “Hanna” a possibly name of a Malay girl.

We confronted him and he never revealed the reasons for those pronunciations, especially the Malay girl part (I have a Malay colleague by the name of Hanna who actually has a cute baby girl….but that’s a different matter).

Anyway, not much progress o report here. He just crawls around, terrorising the living room, bedrooms, store room and….kitchen.

Kitchen is becoming important to him. If one of us are in it, he doesn’t want to miss the moment, especially Accha ruining another dish. And if Amma is having her meal, he has to have it no matter how baby unfriendly the dish is.

Right now, we are already thinking of his future, of what he should be one day.  Like most mommys and daddys with failed aspiration, we really love for him to become a musician or a singer.  One of  the relatives, during Christmas got him a tiny piano-toy, shaped like elephant.

He started plonking it and joy we felt. Will he be the next Ilayaraja? Or Danny Elfman? Or Jimmy Page? Well, it was not until second day when he started to beat the shit out of it on the floor and ruined it. Looks like he’d be the next Pete Townshend.

But damn, he’s one year old now. Every morning I wake up to see an extremely tiny man sleeping next to my wife and I ask, “Whoa, how did that happen?”

And how he changed our life.

Everything is now centred around him, or behind him when he does his extreme poo-poo. One years passed by and looking forward to many more years, especially when I don’t have to buy diaper anymore.

Happy birthday Nevin Shankaran Kumar, accha and amma love you so much.

Nevin, when he is in good term with the toy piano.

Chronicles of Nevin: Rise of the crawler

Nevin making earnest promise to be nice to the bolster.

Continuing occasional documenting of Nevin Shankaran Kumar’s passage of time, or how he abuses his Accha (dad) and Amma (mom).

Well, here’s a great news about Nevin (to long suffering Accha and Amma), the drool phase is sort of over (re: previous instalment on this series). That’s about the only good news. The thing is, Nevin can now sit on his ass on his own without tumbling over like an empty whiskey bottle next to a drunk.

And he has started crawling! Aaaarrrrgh! You can control a house pet, including your alcoholic uncle, but one thing you can never be fully in charge of is a crawling baby (and the terrifying sequel, The Walking Baby [unrated]).

One moment he’d be down there at your feet where you are blocking him from something (the lower rack of your bookcase for example) and you scratch your bum, distracted slightly, and voila! He’s halfway to the kitchen to wreak havoc there.

Nine month’s old last week, Nevin is now increasingly showing the traits of an animal in survival mode – bite anything that you can grab on with your hands. There’d be bits stuff on the floor, but his rule is, if you can’t grab it with your hands, you don’t put it in your mouth.

You see, one of our rooms in the apartment has faulty parquet flooring, you know, those wooden bars held together. One day, again I was distracted by something, maybe hunger while waiting for wife to have the meal first, there he was, found a loose parquet wooden bar and looking at it lustily like we would to a Hershey chocolate bar. Luckily, dad was in time to remove it from his hand, and he revealed another in the other hand!

Yes, that damned teething again. The cannibalistic gnawing mentioned previously has not stopped. Unposted criminal records showed that he had once attempted to gnaw on Amma’s leg, her shoulder, and Accha’s ear, in particular displaying his insatiable greed for the earlobes. Once sitting down with him on the floor, and distracted for a moment, as usual, I suddenly felt something damp on my goddam heel!!! You know what that is.

Standing him up on my lap would be the biggest mistake I would ever commit: he’d immediately reach for the last few strands of hair on my head and try to lead them to freedom! And I’d do it again and again. Yes, when you are a father to an infant, your IQ goes right down the drain and into the sewerage and join many other dad’s runaway IQs.

Speaking of which, in the name of grooming him to become a macho man, I’d engage him in a fight. Yes, a real fight, only we do it like they do in cinema, not really hitting each other. Mano-o-baby. I’d grab hold of him (on the floor), and rabbit-punch his bum (fully protected by disposable napkin) and emit the fight sounds they use back in the 80s in Tamizh and Hindi films.

Aside: There are differences in those sounds. For example, in the 80sTamizh films, if the guy is blocking or just smacking, the sound would be “tub”, “tub” and full-on ass-kicking, “toobuhait!”, a departure from pre-80s “dishyum!”  as Tamizh films were embracing Jackie Fu at that time. For Hindi effect, I use the full-throated male-voiced “Bishyumbhhh”. No, seriously, checkout the Hindi films of that time. End of aside.

Of course, with my vigorous fake punch-throwing, blocking and voice-overs, he’d just try to crawl his way out as if nothing is happening. And I am the one who gets tired. Why can’t he accept this as serious sport, jeez man!

As for feeding, he’s started eating rice cereals with chicken bits or anchovies. Occasionally he gets yummy chocolate rusks, which he really loves, as does his chin and nose. Meal or milk is never an issue with him, unless its ads time on TV.

Yes, you moms and dads know this. They just get hypnotised when the ads are on. He’d be as interested as a cow over medium rare steak when other shows are going on, but when the advertisements are on, he’s hooked. I even tried to take advantage of this situation, the ads segment would be on, and I’d go:

Me: Nevin will stay put for the next twenty minutes while Acha and Amma finally have our dinner.

Nevin:

Me: Correction, Nevin will stay put for the next half an hour because Acha might go for second helping.

Nevin:

Yes! Total hypnosis. When the ad ends and the regular programs begin, he’d be at that room attempting to gnaw the loose parquet piece. 

Chef Jacob – Cook-in-peace.

What a devastating day yesterday was. I was at home, on medical leave due to excessive eating of spicy chicken Varuval that I cooked on Sunday that literally backfired in the early morning, when I was informed that the one of the most important persons who was influential in my cooking, Chef Jacob, had passed away. And he was only 38.

Saturday 1.30 pm is the best time of the week for us, as Sun TV (channel 211 here)  airs Aha Enna Rusi, a cooking show hosted by this maverick chef who specialises in Southern Indian cuisine, especially the traditional ones. It is divided into three sections. The first section is his, called Jacob’s Kitchen and that’s a joke, the title.

We are not invited to his kitchen, but rather the various outdoor locations where he sets up his little stove and does the cooking there and then. He’d be by the waterfall, in the middle of a plantation, in a boat cruising by a river, and in one episode, I kid you not, right in the middle of a famous railway track!! Nonchalantly talking to us, giving tips, while we viewers nervously lookout for the goddam train to come.

Second segment takes us, again not in his kitchen, but to various family homes, where a member, sometimes two (husband wife/ mother daughter/etc) show us their home specialties, followed by our beloved chef tasting and appraising the dishes.

Third segment sees Chef Jacob with a bunch of kids, where he teaches them basic dish (usually involving bread), and get some other kids to judge the dish and awards the winner with prizes and crown. Rather than this, my wife and I enjoy the outtakes at the end of the show, of this segment, where Chef Jacob has fun with the kids.

The main highlight of his first segment is that it commemorates all those Hindu, Muslim and Christian special events. He’d be there, at those temples, churches or mosques, explaining the history behind the event, background of the holy place, and cooking suitable dish for that event.

Like  most South Indian Christian/Catholics that I know, and generally in India, I believe, he’s never shy from participating in Hindu rituals, praying, and, in fact, cooking special offering for the Hindu gods and goddesses (do note, that Hindu gods and goddesses all have their preferences, and he obliges with something extra). Likewise, excited enough to cook Briyani in front a famous mosque for the muslim brethrens (recent Haj festival), and that too, confessing that he has always been fascinated with Muslim cooking.

Its ritual for us, to be there at 1.30pm and watching the show. In fact, that would be the time sometimes we’d have our lunch in front of the TV, just to get more flavour in my poor cooking, I guess. If we had to go out at that time, we’d wonder, “What Chef Jacob up to now, and where (not what) the heck is he cooking?”

Last eight months or so, my wife started teaching part time on Saturdays. I continued our ritual watching the good chef with my son, Nevin. And when she comes back from work, one of the first things she’d ask would be, “What Chef Jacob is up to today?’

His dishes range from the very normal to very traditional, and I always look forward to the complex traditional types of dishes. In the show last week, he made a nifty fish curry by not using a fish but banana flower – fantastic for someone like me might be full vegetarian one day but still misses fish curry.

Alas, all that ends (they might have one more episode next week with him, but I don’t think I can hold back my tears watching it). The show might move on with another chef, who could be good, but memories of watching Jacob would remain entrenched that we may no longer want to follow the show.

The TVland is full of celebrity chefs now. Some are genial, good natured guys and gals, and then there are some bastards who think that being rude means they are in command. Fuck them; there will be, and are better chefs than these attention seeking sons of bitches (so far the gals are fine).

But Chef Jacob’s warm personality (as my wife puts it aptly), his keen interest in the history of the dish he is preparing, his generous sharing of the information and history of the location that he’s in (still baffled why he’d want to talk about the railway track and cook in the goddam middle of it), his easy chemistry as an elder brother to the kids, is something that can never been seen again.

Good bye, brother. We all love you. No matter where you are now, talk to those in charge and find the most weirdest location for you to cook for those fellers. And now, away from human beings, the pollutions, the erosion of great manners (in your profession), and all those nastiness that will remain and grow in this mortal world, I trust you are now cooking in peace. Thank you for everything.

If Grouch can cook, for heaven’s sake, so can you.

I borrowed the above catchphrase from celebrity chef Martin “The Highlander” Yan, who ends all of his TV shows saying, “If Yan can cook, so can you”. But he was being modest, while I am being terribly honest because if I can, by all means you can be better than me.

Aside: I gave Yan’s that middle name because he never goddam ages. I’ve been watching his shows since I was like nine years old (with my mom, both big fan), but look at him today!!! End of aside.

So, I am hoping to make this into a series so not only I get to share my bad cooking, but I keep track of various versions of tofu dish I make for my wife. Each time I come up with a new way of cooking it, only to forget it the next time when wife says, “remember that time when you made it…umm….”

Brief history of tofu in my life.

We never had any, except when forced onto us kids by mom, till I met my wife. She lives on it. During our courting days (when we broke up about 29 times, though tofu is not involved, or so it’s press secretary claimed), I’d send her back to her home after work, and she’d drop by the grocers to buy tofu. History of seeing her eating other sort of food is sketchy, but she bleeds tofu. Her mom, when my parents met hers, declared that considering her eating habit, she is “low maintenance”.

So, when I married her, I married tofu as well, and the last three years I’d been cooking so many types I didn’t keep track. The Tofu community should have awarded me Nobel Peace Prize for Tofu Massacre.

The thing is I don’t what so great about it. It taste of….okay, here’s what I want you to do. Stick your tongue out and don’t touch your lips, or do some intimate things with it. Now, leave it sticking out. Can you taste that? That’s what tofu taste like.

I suppose I was myself trying to make it interesting by trying new things with it each time.

Anyway, here we go, Grouch style cooking show and note that I’d include recipes for other stuff I kinda cooked up myself. Hah “cooked up”. You are lame, Grouch.

--

Simple Tofu Sambal.

Ingredient.

Tofu (duh!) – Maybe 2, but if you are my wife, 4 pieces.

Dry Red Chilli Paste – Two table spoons, or more if you literally hate your ass.

Garlic – minced, pounded, I don’t care as long it’s there. How much? Well, about five clove if you are Asian, or about 367 if you are Italian.

Onion – one medium sized. Feggedaboutit if you are a Hindu/Bhuddist monk

Tomato – One (if large), two (if medium) more (if cherry tomato, in which case you might as well don’t bloody cook).

Cooking technique

So, what’s the first thing you do, kids. Yes, the tofu. Cut them into small sizes of your preference, you can use your old geometrical instrument if you want. You can fry them first, but today I am lazy.

Cut the onion to, erm, whatchamacallit… thin slices. After that, wipe your tears and if your wife appears say that you were thinking of your dead uncle, though the bastard probably ran away with his maid and faked his death.

Oh, the garlic, mince, pound, whatever.

The tomato, you gotta dice them. How? You cut the shit out of it, that’s how. You must have seen some cooking shows on how they slice every goddam way and voila! Dices. Have a band-aid standbye

Now, heat a bit of oil in your pan or pot, whichever your wife might not use as assault weapon if your cooking sucks. How much of oil? Well, how old are you? How suicidal?

When it heats up, it will splutter like shit because you forgot to heat up the pan to dry the water droplets, in which case some of the oil hit you on your face giving you permanent scare, throw the onion in.

Wait till it becomes golden brown. Don’t get excited, that’s not real gold. Or at least for colour blinds like me.

Throw in the garlic and stir them for awhile until you realise that smell is not your son’s poo, but garlic burning.

So, scoop two (or more) tablespoons of chili paste and fry them till you hear your wife and son sneezing their lungs away.

Add in the tomato, and make sure you didn’t include the fingertip you accidentally sliced just now.

Now, you got to keep stirring till the tomato melts away, add bit of water if you want. If you don’t, I didn’t force you. That’s a disclaimer for you.

When they are about watery, add in the cut tofu. Now, here’s a tip. Instead of using spatula or any other appliances, I suggest you use a spoon and turn the tofu gently so that you don’t break them. There’s a tip for you, now take the tontee five rupees.

Cheating part

I use fish sauce, mwahahahahaha!!!! If you are vegetarian, you can use vege stock because these are the one that’s going to give taste, not the tofu.

Climax

Now, wait till it dries up. And wait. Turn the tofu. Wait. Scratch your bum. Turn the tofu. Wait. Turn the tofu. Wait. And finally when it is done, call for pizza delivery.

James Bond OO7 into 50th year (the movie bugger I mean): Some thoughts.

Ian Fleiming's impression of how James Bond should look. Your guess is not as good as mine.

It’s one of the most successful film franchises ever(take that Star Trek!). It has some of the most iconic movie moments, dialogues, glamourous, beautiful, sexy girls (take that Star Trek), great exotic locations (take that National Geographic), great action sequences (take that Die Hard),great villains and henchmen (take that Take That) and a bunch of actors playing the same character heroically, with the first one actually getting away in six (seven) films with a wig. And he’s the best.

You know the name, and you know the number, but you can never figure out how the heck did the James Bond film series reached 50 years with billions of revenue, millions of fan, thousands of rip-offs, hundreds of wannabes, ten of those who haven’t watched any of them and all that would not have happened if not for one man that created James Bond.

Well, two, if you consider the fact that the character James Bond was named after an author of a book on West Indies Birds, because Ian Fleming wanted a dull name for his hero for that espionage thriller story he was going to write.

You see. Fleming was trying to recover from the shock that he was suddenly married at the age of forty with someone (else’s wife first, who later divorced her hubby) when he was a happy go lucky, ex-Navy commander, journalist, car enthusiast, chain-smoking alcoholic trying to carve a name for himself and try to overcome his jealousy of that goddam brother of his, Peter, who was a lot more famous figure in the literature circle as awesome travel writer of that time.

Aside: Two, owing to the fact that the owner of that dull name had mom and dad, remember? You got to give credit where it’s due. For the benefit of twitter readers: James Bond nmd aftr some birdguy.Fleming mst thx his parents. Lol: N-of-asside.

It would be difficult for the present day folks, those who are, well, not even born in 1953, much less those who were born couple years later, to understand the phenomena of James Bond books. Okay, considering that most of the readers of this blog are Asians, I think it would be safe to say that it was not until somewhere in the later part of 1960s onwards when Bond started permeating Asia. And I don’t mean it in dirty way.

As usual, Japan was one of the first to catch up…so much so that in 1967 the producers decided that You Only Live Twice should be shot in Japan because the Novel it is based on is based in Japan. Hah! Fabulous decision, eh?

Well, Fleming fans knows this. And we say it in most sincere manner, “Fuck you, producers…"wait, where are all those asterisks. Okay, “F*** you producers, You Only Live Twice novel takes place after On Her Majesties’ Secret Service novel where Bond’s wife dies????”. I exaggerated. Back in 60s they used fewer exclamation marks. It hurts the typewriter (they existed as a job function)’s little finger.

Anyway, it was so phenomenal that we Asians actually managed to, with some difficulty, to spell, “Phenomenal”. The 70s upped the ante with more action oriented, humour laced Bond films that so much so, in Asia, any action films were labelled “James Bond styled action films” unless martial arts were involved (India and Turkey especially will understand what I am talking about).  

This writer is confused as to remembering which was the first Bond film he saw. Was it Octopussy bootleg video he watched in a relatives house during a festive season. Or was it You Only Live Twice open air screening we (he, his brothers and dad) watched in their plantation (we had to sit on straw mat, till dad has to force us to walk back to our home to bed, I, 8 or 9 years old, cried).

It was after this that I (this writer, who were you thinking) started to wonder who the heck James Bond was. I believe many of the non-European and American kids were figuring out too at that time. And in 1986, they decided to get another guy as Bond and that was the time when the name Ian Fleming was bandied about broadly.

This, is because the actor who was chosen at that time insisted that the character should go back to the book. I was intrigued. I borrowed books of the author from the school library. In fact, I stole three of them.

I kept up with the paper clippings at that time. The new guy is serious following Ian Fleming’s work. This was the time when reboot means you kick your brother again with your boot. And the producers and this actor just did that, brought back Bond to what Fleming was thinking about.

Also, at that time, they started screening the older Bond movies on TV and I was hooked as fanatic Bond fan for life, unitl 1995, of course, where I declared that I am an ex-Bond fan.

The point is. At some point in someone’s life, James Bond OO7 (not 007) has impacted some or other useless buggers’ life, including mine. Even if I hated the 1995-2002 version, and feel the 2006-present version got the right guy and everything else wrong; I still wait in bated breath for the next installation. 50 fucking years, I mean, 50  f****** years. That’s one badass achievement. Tonight, wife requested for us to start indoctrinating my son. Dr. No, here we come.