Paul Newman.

The death of Paul Newman was not shocking. We all knew that he was dying of cancer when reports came out months ago. It was just a matter of time, and that time came last weekend.

There will be talk about what a great man, finest human being, etc about him. But how many would rate him as one of the best screen actor ever in Hollywood? I mean, right up there with Marlon Brando and Spencer Tracy.

Newman performance was a bridge between the classic “get out and do it” classic acting and “breath and live the character” method acting. He also belongs to the class of actors who “appear to be doing nothing but exuding everything”.

The other day I was watching Harper, a nice little private eye movie. Nothing to shout about. It was the first screenplay to be produced for my scriptwriting guru, William Goldman. It could have easily been a bad TV private eye episode, but Newman made something entirely priceless out of it merely through his performance.

That he can bring more to the table is the quality that is sorely missed in most of the performance these days. He does not indulge in heavy make up, get up or severe alterations to his body language. He would just be Paul Newman and those many characters he help to create with the directors and screenwriters he worked with.

How would that be possible? Only Newman knows. It is a magic, a secret that he will carry to the great big screen beyond.

I have nothing more to add. I don’t want to mourn. I want to celebrate his work by continuing to appreciate and spread words about this great screen performer and philanthroper .

And for that I, being one of the millions of fans around the world, would like to thank you, Mr. Newman. For your works, Mr. Newman, did not had failure in communicating with us.

Batam pt 3: Revenge of the African Cheesecake.

Recap from my previous blog, Batam Pt2: The cabbie speaketh.

Planet 9 From Outer Space… Agent ZOR985XZ2…Bermuda Triangle…Urine…Perfume…missing Ewok.

Aside: This part may contain materials, facts and information that may deem offensive to certain quarters, namely lovers of dogs (or freaks) or supporters of Jerry the mouse. And it has nothing to do whatsoever to African cheesecake, which till today remains a mysterious entity, like Bigfoot. Its use as title is purely coincidental and meant to sensationalise the otherwise dull blog entry. End of aside.

And there we were, waiting for the ferry. I was feeling sleepy and still managed to strike conversation with Zeff and the Star reporter. Soon, we were to board the ferry and no untoward accident like falling off the platform occurred.

Why I said that? Well, the last time I boarded a ferry, a large number of us would have been in the water. And me, being of cat nature, is afraid of water. I shower twice a day and drink shitload of coffee and that’s as far as the intimate involvement with water goes. Otherwise, I hate to be in the sea or swimming pool.

This bad ferry moment happened when the family decided to visit Pulau Ketam (off Port Klang) recently. The platform was bare cement with splashed mud and trash, and there was nothing between the ferry and platform. And most Malaysians being kind, considerate and ever patient, lined up in a long queue and helped each other to board the ferry.

Haha! I was kidding of course. When the ferry was ready to be boarded, I found myself desperately trying to make sure that my mother did not slip when boarding, and she was she was making sure that a little grandnephew of hers did not get trapped between the ferry and the platform and find his way to the sea. It was chaotic.

But here, the boarding process was smooth like boarding a plane. And we found a nice corner to seat and soon we were off to Batam. As soon as I sat, I slept like a baby. Okay, babies nowadays are poor sleepers themselves, so I slept like a log. Hang on, do logs sleep. I mean, when they are cut they are, like, dead right? So, I slept like a cat…which does an awful lot of sleeping and napping. In fact the term cat-napping came….

Okay, okay, I’ll get on with the story.

We reached Batam after an hour an a half, roughly, and found ourselves in the immigration centre that is about as big as my old school cafeteria. One of the immigration officer suddenly made noise about visa, and the matter was quickly resolved when the guard on watch overpowered and handcuffed him, before bringing him to an interrogation room and beat him up with a rubber hose and Indonesian phone book.

Haha, just a little violence scene to wake you up. No, nothing like that happen. As I learned from previous trips to Jakarta, Indonesians are generally very friendly people, and somewhat very genuine. I can’t say the same about Malaysian immigration, because we use autopass for our passport when they are usually nowhere to be seen at the “Nothing to declare” exit.

A feeder van to Holliday Villa waited for us, and we were in the hotel in five minutes. We got ourselves rooms, and mine was at the ninth floor. We had about three and a half hours to kill before the dinner, planned at 6.30 pm (7.30pm our time). We were away from the town, and it was a long walk to the beach, so I thought of the best thing to do at times like this – sleep.

The hotel room was big. You can have a family living there comfortably. Of course, you will be paying through your nose or any other convenient orifice for that. The bed is perfect for a cabinet minister to have his nocturnal romp and the architecture is not complex enough for CCTV cameras.

I did my TV channel flipping and napped a bit and showered and got ready for dinner. At the lobby Zeff and the star Reporter waited for us. The girls were nowhere to be seen. Zeff offered several options for dinner and we settled for the best - dinner in the hotel and then we go out.

Apparently the most famous shopping spot in Batam is called Nagoya. Considering Singapore’s influence there, shouldn’t it be called something like New Changi or San Woodlands? Nagoya….hmmm…what awaits us there? But first, our first meal in Batam….(to be continued)

Watch out for Batam Ahoy Pt 4: I Never Planned For Part Four.

P.S. I swear, this just keep getting bigger and bigger and one day I am going to look at an empty Word file and my brain will quietly make its descent through my ears and find its way to the lavatory. Ah, the pressure and stress a writer endures.

Batam Ahoy pt 2: The Cabbie Speaketh.

Recap of the last blog:

Pua Chu Kang….Batam…Jar-Jar Binks…piles…Led Zeppelin…cheeseburger (double)…cabbie.

As mentioned, the cab driver was a polite guy. Here is the thing about the cab drivers in Singapore: They are as polite as heck. Can you believe it?

In Malaysia, you have to tell them where you are going first and chances are they are not going there. Name any place, including Planet 9 From Outer Space and chances are he’d say, “Nolah, not going that direction”, unless you offer him a bigger fare, your savings accounts and three cows.

I am generalising of course. There are many friendly cab drivers in Malaysia, and I have a neighbour who is one, and who has been useful in my days of no personal transportation. Plus he already owns three cows. Kidding.

Anyway, the point is, Singaporean cab drivers are very polite. All of them speak English and they are more than willing to talk about the country, and if you are Malaysian, say that “hey, I have been to Malaysia. I go to JB every month,”. That’s the sad truth, quite a number of Singaporeans have made it only up to Johore Bahru.

Or so, I thought until I saw the number of Singaporean cars zooming past me in the north south Highway, in no less than 150kmph .

Coming back to my story, the cab driver, let’s call him Ismail (real name Agent ZOR985XZ2) asked if we were going to Batam, and I said yes and asked if he had been there.

“If pakcik (referring to himself, not his uncle) go there, makcik will not like it. In fact, I will not be seeing makcik again,” he said.

Of course, he does not mean that Batam island is some kind of Bermuda Triangle-like place, though there is some points in that “disappearing” acts some Singaporeans perform from time to time.

What he meant, and what I understood having lived there for five years, is that the place is where many Singaporean men see as haven. Yes, in Batam you get good food, finally.

Okay, it’s more than that. In Batam, you get women. Both for personal or professional use. I mean, prostitutes services to pay for or gals to marry. What Ismail talked about was a growing social concern in Singapore when I moved to Malaysia back in year 2000.

There has been dissatisfaction amongst Singaporean women that men are frequenting Batam for two main reasons: sex for pleasure and sex for lifetime of ball and chain. Men were marrying Batam gals and were buying houses there to settle down once they are able to retire (In Singapore such thing is possible: retirement I mean). That this issue has any relation with growing number of single women in singapore is purely coincidental, I must say. Right?

Ismail also added that Batam is what Singapore is not. It is not the place where you work your ass off. It is not the place where women are as complex as the jigsaw puzzle you never get to finish.

Indeed, it is a place where restaurants with great seafood means the priest read the last rites to the fishes only minutes ago.

Yes, they say seafood in Batam is fresh as vegetable is in Cameron Highland as Malaysians know. In fact, that was the main attraction for me to accept this difficult challenging, life threatening media trip of visiting oil rig.

Ismail’s point is this: If a number of Singaporeans, especially men, are still healthy and not dropping like flies for stress induced diseases, its because places like Batam (and JB, I think).

Of course, the conversation continued to Malaysian and onwards (and whoa this is sooo shocking!) to Malaysian politics. There are stuff discussed and since bloggers get prosecuted and middle finger is shown to freedom of expressing your opinion in the blogsphere, I shall write it down with invisible ink (urine) and feed it to my cat.

Chances are the cat will spit it back at me. Come to think of it, I don’t have a cat. Phew!

In less than half an hour (any which way in Singapore you take less than half an hour if traffic is good. There is joke about driving in Singapore - “you don’t have to use the fourth gear”) we were in Harbour Front, a shopping complex/ ferry station/ immigration for ferry passengers/ free toilet service centre.

The place was as busy as any new shopping mall would be, and it has everything a mall has, including shoppers, aimlessly wandering loiterers and sales assistant who’d jump out of nowhere and offer to spray you with perfume. What cruelty!

One elevator ride up and we were at the counters selling ferry tickets. Tickets arrangement was done by Zeff (remember Zeff? You don’t? What’s the matter with you? How can you? Zeff is the Jedi master sent to assist Anakin to rescue a missing Ewok who last seen trying to kill George Lucas for not reviving them on big screen).

Soon, we were in the business of waiting for the ferry. So, we waited, and waited, and waited……(to be continued).

Watch out for Batam Ahoy Pt3: (working title) Revenge of the African Cheesecake.

Batam Ahoy pt 1.

Long, long time ago, in a galaxy, like, across the causeway, I was involved in a brief but insightful course on TV scriptwriting, with emphasis on situation comedy, which is usually referred to as TV sitcom, or, force-audience-to-laugh-with-canned-laughter-gag-series.

It was the late nineties and the land was the Island of the Republic of Singapore. Times were different then. The country’s prime minister was Goh Chok Tong, though the real man behind the scene was still Harry Lee Kuan Yew, the then senior minister. Of course, things have changed now, the prime minister is Lee’s son, Lee Hsien Loong, and the man behind the scene is….err, never mind.

The assignment given to us trainees at the end of the course was to write a Pua Chu Kang Pte Ltd script. The still popular Singapore made sitcom is known to all of us, having been popular in Malaysia as well, and at that time it was probably in its peak. And one of the lead character, Pua Chu Kang (played brilliantly by Gurmit Singh) has this memorable used-till-death line, “Best in Singapore, JB, and some say, Batam”.

That , dear blog visitors, today’s subject is Batam

Blog visitors: and it took you three paragraph to get to that, you piece of cat booger. And you have to bring us back to the nineties for that! Why, we are now having memories of short lived boy bands, that stupid Tarzan and Jane song, Spice Girls, Baggio’s missed penalty, Jar-Jar Binks, Hello Kitty, noooooooooooooo!!!!

Okay, take it easy. The point is this: Batam was popular amongst Singaporean. I did not have many friends then, so I knew little about Batam Island, except that it belongs to Indonesia and most Singaporean behave as if it is theirs.

Well, moving on, I returned to Malaysia, and grew up to be a full fledged healthy journalist with sinusitis, light asthma, gastritis, occasional knee problem, piles and expanding forehead that should soon rival Phil Collins in due time.

And I had the opportunity to go to Batam this Monday. And I thought, hey, let’s find out what Pua Chu Kang does there.

I did hear a few things, but as usual realiable information came in form of a cabbie. Yes, those wonderful talkative taxi drivers. Go to any country, and even when you and the cabbie can’t find a common language to speak to, they will somehow, even maybe through telepathy, reveal to you that “THE GOVERNMENT SUCKS!”

Anyway, it was a assignment to cover a contract signing between UMW Toyota and some company (hey, I did the reporting for our paper, go and read it) one some jerk o_, I mean, jack up oil rig. But, it was nice of them to bring few journalists there, a dude from The Star, and three gals from Bernama, Utusam Malaysia and The Edge (our rival) respectively.

Oh, for those who don’t know, I work for a business daily called. The Malaysian Reserve. And yes, we get lots of “reserve” puns and bad jokes from the CEOs, CFOs, CIOs, and any other C_Os, you can think off.

“Hey, I thought you have enough…Reserves…from the Q&A just now, hahahaha!”

“Wah! You from Malaysian Reserve ah? Hey, you got enough reserve for the country ah? Hahahaha!”

“Where you from? [I give response] What Reserve? [My clarification] You with government ah? [My clarification, sheesh] But why Malaysian? [My explanations, while hiding my lack of patience] Reserve huh? But you say its business paper? (I fake a heart attack and rushed to hospital).”

Anyway, we had a guide, a PR guy (not girl, unfortunately) Zeff, who is one of the most unpretentious, totally politically incorrect PR person I had ever seen. Good! I told him that I don’t trust extremely polite and terribly PC PR person, and he can cut the mustard any time. He sighed in relief. But we couldn’t find any mustard to cut.

Another good thing about Zeff: He is a rocker! He recommended a place where he says, they play stuff in case you like bands like Led Zeppelin. Are you kidding, I am crazy about Led Zeppelin. Finally a rocker PR dude.

Back to our main story.

Flight to Singapore was on Monday morning (August 11, 2008) and we reached Singapore in an hours time. We had some time before ferry ride, but not too much Zeff suggested that we have fast food or something. Nobody voted for “or something” so we walked to the nearest McDonald outlet once we were out of the immigration.

After the healthy, wholesome double cheeseburger safely sent to my stomach, we got on two cabs to Harbour Front, where the ferries to Batam island are.

And that was when we had time to talk to the cabbie. The driver, a polite Malay guy in his late fifties, was more than happy to talk to me in Malay. Yes, most non-Malay Singaporeans of my generation (thirty somethings) do not speak Malay.

Like many knowledgeable, wiki-pedia rivalling cab drivers, he talked about Singaporeans and Batam….(to be continued )

Batam Ahoy Pt 2 will be written and posted as and when I am not lazy. If I am too lazy, I might drop it and write about the mysterious African Cheese cake. Bye.

The Dark Knight: Best Hollywood Film This Year?

I have long since stopped writing film reviews. But prompted by my fiance, I think I scribble a few words about the new Batman film we saw over the weekend The Dark Knight (TDK).

Two words: F***ing Awesome.

To me, this is the best Batman flick since 1992's Batman Returns. Comparison is inevitable, but it was done at different time by different gifted directors, both in the process of reinventing a potential franchise.

Aside: Interesting trivia: Batman Returns was to be called The Dark Knight then. Tim Burton, who directed Batman (1989) and Batman Returns, and later produced Batman Forever, was inspired by the graphic novel, The Dark Knight, when idea on a Batman film was bounced to him. Plans for a Batman movie started after the success of Superman (1978). End of aside.

Coming back to TDK. What I found most compelling in this film is the script. While Burton's take mixed gothic fantasy, Christoper Nolan (Director and co-scriptwriter of TDK) chose to spin the superhero tale in a gripping crime drama scenario with aroma of the best of Shakespearean tragedy.

There are good guys, villains, human beings and freaks. You get confused sometimes. The line on morality is thin here. Who is good? Who is bad? Who's ugly? That is the question that is frequently posed in this movie, so much so, that half way you are not even sure whatever you are doing is morally right (paying for this movie is good, trust me).

The story may be complex, but the emotion it stirs from you is enough to put you right in it. You don't care much for the story, you care a lot for all the characters in this film. That is very rare in the Hollywood films that came out from 90s onwards.

The one character that was and will be talked about is The Joker. The late Heath Ledger did an excellent job, given that he had an excellent script to work with. It's an actor proof role and you must be really bad to ruin it. Ledger did not disappoint.

Christian Bale is as good as he was in the first film. And we see him as both Batman and Wayne in either alter ego.

But I was most impressed with Gary Oldman. Playing soon to be Commissioner Gordon, he was the only straight forward good guy in this film. And playing it amidst the chaos that was going on is very tough. His role has been beefed up from the first one, and he shines here. I really enjoyed his performance in this film.

As I mentioned to someone, this film contains many soul stirring moment. All the conventions in a superhero movie is thrown out of the window, in favour of gripping Noir-ish uncertain moments, often very disturbing.

Batman have been my favourite superhero. Both Batman Returns and the campy Batman The Movie (1966) are my favourites, for different reason. And this film will challenge the contendors in my list of favourite superhero films.

One gripe: Having so used to Danny Elfman's score in the Burton films, I still have issues with the score in this and Batman Begins. But they are not a hindrance to the story telling a wonderful motion picture that is The Dark Knight.

Wheels Of Fury Part 1:

Or Guide to Driving in Malaysia and be just as bad as everyone else.

I wanted this to be published in some expat magazine, giving our visitors bit of guide in driving the Malaysian way. But trouble is, I might be put under ISA for inciting dangerous driving that may result in them driving into pedestrians, dogs, frogs, cattles or Mallika Sherawat (love to). So, the blogsphere is a safer place (or so I think). Oh, the title looked like an abandoned Bruce Lee/car race movie project, so I hope you don’t mind the sub-heading. It's part one, because I may add more to it later. Or just let it be a sequel-less thingy, like Mel Brooks History of the World Part 1.

Yes, we are going to talk about driving in Malaysia here, particularly in Kuala Lumpur. So, this might be useful especially for expatriates, and those who have moved in to Malaysia’s city-of-too-many-energy-consuming-but-beautiful-lights.

As with many important articles, let me start with an important quote. Karl Marx, in summarizing the need for humanity to survive, to outlive the shortcomings, and to address the neverending quest for perfection said, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” Or was it Groucho Marx?

Whoever said it, the maxim applies neatly to driving in Malaysia. As you may have noticed, while Malaysians are generally friendly, hospitable and eat too many Nasi Lemak and Roti Chanai, they are aggressive, terribly selfish, emotional and, at times, self destructive when it comes to driving.

Being a Malaysian who was born, bred and forced to drive with fellow Malaysians, I would like to offer my insight on…HOW TO DRIVE LIKE MALAYSIANS (cue superhero music).

Use of lanes:

In Malaysia right lane is for overtaking, and, for a three lane road, you are supposed to use the middle unless you are overtaking. Don’t buy that. Right lane is for speeding. Shoot your way to your desired speed level and honk the guy in front of you out!

And the left lane, as you know it, is for either slow driving, mainly to lead to the next exit. Haha! Whose leg are they pulling. Left lane can be used for overtaking too. Hell, give us five lane and we will use them all for overtaking.

Its all about speed. Often, in a 80 kilometer per hour (kph) roads or highway, you can always find cars zooming at easily 130-140 kph. Never mind the fact that inflation, prices of fuel and food are going up, these people are willing to fork out their hard earned money to pay the summons. How they do it is their own business of course.

The thing is this: if they can do it, so can you!

Use of lanes: to exit

Let’s talk about the left lane. As mentioned, generally, you use it when you are slowing down, to make an exit, or when you just want to drive slowly. Essentially it is the lane to switch to so that you can make a comfortable exit.

Or so it would seem those days! Left lane are for wimps, for those lame beaten up cars and heavy vehicle that looked like they were assembled from recycle-steel factories. When you reach your exit, cut through from the middle lane straight to the exit, never mind that the slow-laners would honk at you, show fists, etc. That’s all they can do from their pathetic vehicles.

Just cut in and pretend that nothing happens. What the heck, everyone does that. In Malaysia, one our favourite moto is “If others can do, so can I-mah!”.

Parking

Parking space is becoming rare, like those animals the animal rights people are endlessly lobbying for. Unfortunately, parking space is not as hot and sexy like, say, Bengal Tiger. So, its you, your car and that valuable space.

In order to address this issue, most Malaysians resort to the dirty tactic of double parking. The poor driver in the proper parking space has to wait for the double parker to move his or her vehicle before he can move. What does it say? Double parkers are the kings.

But guess what? It’s n o longer so. No, I don’t mean to say that enforcement has gotten tighter. Not that. It is just that double parking is so yesterday, passé.

People triple park! Hah! You never thought Malaysia would go that advanced, did you? Now, triple parkers are the kings, as now you have two drivers at their mercy. All hail new kings!

Let’s face it. Malaysian’s are very optimistic and positive minded people when situation arises for them not to have to walk to their destination. The motto is: “If there is a will, there is a parking space”.

There are more, and I'd love comments and suggestions and help poor clueless foreigners to DRIVE LIKE MALAYSIANS!!! (Cue superhero music).

Nepotism Shnepotism!

Being a journalist, and a brother to a politically knowledgeable intelligent person, I am, more than a regular guy (defined as those who wear regular pair of jeans, as opposed to boot cut), tend to be exposed to discussions on local political scenario.

During weekends, I hear my brother present his own, rather liberal, views on what is happening. During press events I talk to some senior journalist. Of course, my own colleagues are super-knowledgeable to what had happened or is happening, that I sometimes wonder if they were in it too. They are that convincing!

Recently, during a press event, involving the PM, I had the opportunity to talk to some senior journalists about the current government and the political state. More often than not, the words nepotism and cronyism kept creeping in the conversation. So much so, that a thought struck me: Did I leave the cloth iron on at home?

As disturbing as the thought was, responding to the conversation I felt a slight pang of guilt. To accuse some people of that, people of power of nepotism and cronyism I felt like a hypocrite. Let’s face it; we practice those despicable acts too!

Let’s look at what the Oxford dictionary has to say about the two words:

a) Nepotism - favouritism shown to relatives in conferring offices or privileges.

b) Crony - a close friend or companion

In a simpler word, it simply means sharing with your friends and family, whom you trust. Doesn’t that happen on day-to-day business, to you, sometimes practised by you?

Let’s take business, for example. You will never hear, at the grass root level at least, a grocery shop owner saying, “When he grows up, I want my son to be a poet and let some talented, educated, degree holding dude run my shop”.

Or let’s zoom to the past. The cavemen, for example. I am sure the cave dwelling early homo sapiens would want their sons to be skilful in the art of wielding weapon in shielding the clan from dangerous animals like the sabre-toothed tiger or kill a brontosaurus for meal. It’s nepotism when it involves the head of that clan, especially when the son takes over the territory peeing chores.

Aside: I know, I know. Brontosauruses was long extinct before first human-like being came abroad the vessel called mother earth. You know and I know, but the cavemen didn’t know that. End of aside.

Here’s a more personal scenario: When you have two chocolate cakes in your hand that you can have only one, you might immediately offer it to your best buddy, because you know, deep in your heart, the next time you screw up his project and he screams at you, at least you can say, “Hey, watch your gratitude buddy boy, remember that chocolate cake?”

You don’t give the cake to, say, the best candidate in appreciating the art of eating chocolate cakes. For all you know, he might find way to get more cakes through his own enthusiasm and deprive you of all those delicious things.

What about people in power, you may say. This involving governing the whole nations and with billions of Ringgit at your disposal for proper usage.

If I were a PM, I’d appoint my brother as the minister in PM, because I trust his brain. I think he is one of the most intelligent person I had ever met, knowing the ways of the world and, especially, of Malaysia.

But guess what, there could always be someone smarter and wiser than he is. But would I want to appoint him? No way, what if during meeting breaks I want to talk about Tamizh movies? Who better than my brother. Besides, we do that Tamizh movie bitching every weekend and I am too used to it to let it go.

Speaking of blood ties, my mom’s brother is actually an associate professor teaching political science and international relations. He used to work in a think tank organisation and still runs classes for some military officers. Would I invite want him to lead, say, the defence ministry? I can, but I will get hell from my mom who was once insulted by him during a family function.

So, in any political scenario, blood rules, especially mommy.

Let’s look outside of Malaysia. The most successful democracy in the world, the US, had two Bushes and almost two Clintons within two decades! How did that happen? Think about many political and financial scandals there…it reeks of cronyism. How about Singapore? Think of its prime ministers. And who’s controlling some of the biggest entities in that little Island? Pua Chu Kang and his family?

Okay, I am still naïve when it comes to the subject of politics, Let me turn to a subject I know a bit more- religion. I mean, the power that controls religions is the most powerful, right? But then, why are there brothers, sons, wives, mothers, friends, and consigliore, nephews involved in sharing of power?

I am no authority in religion, but if there is one religion that I know a little of, it is the religion I grew into – Hinduism. Now, we have Siva, his wife, Shakti, his son, Ganapathi, and his second son (accepted in Southern India, not so in Norhtern India) Murugan. Then, there is Shakti’s brother, Vishnu, his wife Letchumi. Many of Vihsnu’s reincarnations are powerful, Rama and Krishan to name to the most influential. If this is not nepotism, then I eat my shoe and the buckles!

So, is there nepotism there? I don’t want to judge. It’s too confusing. There is practise of nepotism and cronyism in every government in the world. People are crying blood in many countries because of that. Hell, people are spilling blood because of that. Before I blame the current government, or the opposition parties (which also has this father-son thingy going on). I don’t want to be judgemental, as I would judge myself to be a hypocrite. You do the judging.

Right now, I got to think who to give this door gift I just got from a press function – a fine Parker pen. Should I give it to someone I like and trust, or someone I think is qualified, educated, intelligent, smart and apparently a stranger to me?

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’