Durian: A Fruitless Pursuit.

Name the King of Fruit there is only one that comes to our mind – fruitcakes. Okay, I am kidding, the King of Fruit in Malaysia is definitely Durian.

Mention Durian, the mental picture that comes to my mind is a roadside makeshift stall, with Durian piled up from ground, often segregated into grades and with serious looking people smelling the spiky fruit and shaking it with intense look on the face no different than from nuclear scientist during a demo session.

These are connoisseurs who sneer at fans of apple, jeer fans of orange, and offer a very audible chuckle when you say you like Rambutan the best. These Durianites know which the better quality durian is by just staring at the damned thing as if they got X-ray vision. In short, they will kill me for that one thing that sets me apart from many Malaysians – I can’t eat durian.

In fact, I remember an ex-colleague of mine, Saravanan, giving me that strange look and proclaiming, “you don’t know what you are missing!” in the same tone one use when he tells his friends that the last boat from that marooned island has left. Well, apart from few tooth, I do know what I am missing.

The trouble is this: I can’t take the smell. Not that I keep using the work “can’t”, as opposed to “don’t”, or “won’t” or doodley-doo. It means, this is not a voluntary decision. I was forced to. In the words of Sivaji the Boss, “I was helpless, I was cornered”.

Why, well it all happened long time ago, when I was a kid when we had to walk to school for thirteen miles when there was no electricity when dad hunted woolly mammoth for lunch and when iPods were made of stone

That would roughly be about 18 years ago I would say. We were in the plantation, and it will irk some of you city folks out there (especially the rat maze township called USJ) that we used to get Durians for free! That’s right, and sacks of them.

In fact, there used to be a thing called Durian season. It was basically a season when the Durian tree decides, “alrighty, this f****** (they are rude apparently) fruit is getting heavy and I can’t take it any longer” and drops the spiky fruit right on top of a poor farmer’s head. Once the body is taken away, the fruit would be picked up for eating. Yeah, it’s the tree, not the materialistic, selfish, brutal, sadomasochistic mankind who invented nasal hair remover, who decides when the let the fruit go away.

That was then. These days, you can have durian anytime you want. It’s durian season all year long. Especially true in Singapore, as I found out during my five years stay in Singapore. I found out many other things I can share about that island, but I will have to kill you after that.

It’s also fascinating to know that the durian has been known and consumed in south-eastern Asia since prehistoric times or so says the wikipedia. It has known to the western world for about 600 years, about the time when the Dark ages started, I think. It further added that, “the earliest known European reference to the durian is the record of Niccolò Da Conti, who travelled to south-eastern Asia in the 15th century.” Along the report, he must have made this comment, “Holi Al Cappuccino! This shit stinks!”

Anyway, during one of those freebie durian periods, our house was teeming with relatives. Not sure why they were there, but I suspect the durian season must have something to do with it.

Well, I wanted an afternoon nap and found out that the rooms were all overtaken by some visiting uncles and aunties. It would have been lovely to drop the durian on them at that time, but except for torturing domestic lizards, I was anti-violence even then. And so, I ended up sleeping in the spare/store room where a sack of durian was kept. I slept for an hour.

When I woke up, I had fever and a terrible headache. Worst, the sticky smell of durian was in me, formed an aura outside of me, and made me a lot sicker. Till then, I was a regular Malaysian who loved durian, but the one hour spent breathing in and out the smell that is seen as foul by Westerners, had broken me. From then on, its smell troubled me. I would walk away, run away, like it is some sort of Kryptonite.

And so, it still haunts me to this day. Whenever there is Durian in my hometown or at my brother’s place when I am there visiting, I feel like a fruit pariah, not included in these special Durian eating session. Sometimes one of them would forget and offer me, and when I tell them the truth, they’d feel embarrassed, as if they’ve offered barbecued pork ribs to Buddhist monks.

And so I shall continue to move on in my life. What is life without Durian you say? Well, give me those damn barbecued pork ribs then.

Sivaji Ganesan: A Force to be Reckoned With

Today marks the eight year since the passing of a brilliant stage and film actor named Sivaji Ganesan. A showman par excellence and screen performer whose fierce energy sometimes tears right out of the screen, big or small, and catches you by the throat, Sivaji Ganesan is not your average by the number hack actor looking to cash their paycheque or ply the trade for pride and glory.

No. Sivaji as he is known (real name V.P Chinnaiyahpillai Ganesan) was a born actor. Born to be the king of onscreen performances, at least in India. His towering talent was so great that it overshadowed many good, decent performers of his time and our time. He left such a mark that his works are still talked about in the mainstream media and forums; online websites, including blogs and forums. In a forum I regularly participate in, Forumhub.mayyam.com, the thread on him is one of the most popular, currently on fifth part (one part equals to hundred pages) and the fifth part alone is at 42^nd page and has so far garnered 47,963 visitors! Bear in mind that most of the visitors of this forum are generation Xers and Yers, mostly who were born when Sivaji went into semi-retirement.

His films are eagerly snapped up in video stores and are still played on almost regular basis in the Malaysian satellite TV stations. His fandom has grown judging from the participation in that particular forum, where real film pundits who would sneer at Stallone and revere the likes of Goddard and Kurosawa would put aside their notion of what screen acting should be (underplaying mostly) and bow to the power that was and will forever be Sivaji Ganesan.

As a matter of fact, I would say that he had not been this popular, say, in the nineties, where they know him just as Kamal’s dad in Devar Magan, and the popular films that used by apologists to counter the often-criticised “over-acting” namely Muthal Mariyathai, and earlier classics like Veerapandiya Kattabomman, Karnan or Gauvravam.

I believe after his passing, there were an avalanche of “who is Sivaji Ganesan actually” curiosity, especially when one finds luminaries like actors Rajinikanth and Kamal Haasan keep mentioning his name as a major influence. In fact, Rajinikanth has never failed to credit Sivaji as his inspiration. Once he said, “If I am king of style, Sivaji is the emperor of style”. Not only Rajini agreed to star in Sivaji Productions' Chandramukhi, there is an extended tribute scene in the film and he named the next mega project as Sivaji.

It may be coincidence, but it is certainly not something one should deny, of the emergence of two major powerhouse performers in Hollywood and the Tamizh film industries, namely Marlon Brando and Sivaji Ganesan. Both titans broke the conventional cinematic acting style and brought in raw energy, ruthless determination to inhabit the character they are playing and basically drawing awe from the co-actors, film crew and the audiences alike.

While Brando later squandered away his career life doing roles that ill-fitted his tremendous talents, and succumbed to discipline problem and ultimately losing interest in the craft, Sivaji went on to make one spectacular films after another, stumbling only occasionally when the script and the direction begs for quality. In that case, his body of work resemble the more prolific and professional actor who stands shoulder to shoulder to Brando, Paul Newman.

Like Newman, and more than Newman ever did, Sivaji attempted and succeeded at varying degree to play a grand array of characters actors these days can only dream of achieving…day dream, I mean. I need not repeat here the films and the characters he has done, it has to be seen to be believed. And trust me, being a huge fan, I must have only seen 70% of these “miracles”.

July 21, 2001 was one of the saddest days in my life. But every July 21^st after that has been a day of pondering, rather than mourning; a day to revisit the miracles, rather than a day to lay wreath; a day to remember and acknowledge that the force that is Sivaji Ganesan was proven to be unstoppable, and even his death has never put a brake on it.

Malaysian Tourism: Extreme Version

Looks like reading paper is the best way to annoy you. I was especially miffed when I read that tourism minister Dr Ng Yen Yen saying that more money is needed to promote Malaysia. Haven’t they spent enough already? Also, it’s ironic because her name has Japanese currency in it, and that too twice.

I say this: change your strategy. The tagline “Malaysia Truly Asia” is corny, cheesy and Nasi Lemaki if you ask me. I mean, you don’t see the Great Britain going "Britain Truly Europe". No, it is more likely to be “Britain: Our National Dish is Chicken Tikka Masala”.

Now, I’d say, let’s look at the other side. Let’s look at the extreme side, now that extreme sports, extreme TV reality show and extreme politicking are “in”. I’d promote Malaysia this way: Malaysia, For Your Extreme Experience.

Hee are some of the activities and events the tourist can participate:

Extreme Snatch Thief

Here, we encourage the tourists, especially the female ones, to walk around in the city with handbags and expensive Jewellery. Enough to attract snatch thieves, the tourists can play tug o’ war with the criminal, and win if he or she managed to bring the snatch thief down. The prize will be in form of watching the crowd pummel the thief senselessly. On a good day, we can have a casualty or two, from either team. There won’t be police intervention, because they are busy with…

Extreme Snap Polls

I lost the number of snap polls we have been having since the last general election. People’s representatives are keep dying or quitting or both. Looking at the tension both ruling party and the opposition are having, no thanks to their hatred for each other no matter what one does, it is liable that one after another representatives would die of stress or quit altogether, causing many more snap polls to come. Snap poll election campaigning would be perfect tourism event for foreign tourists. They can witness the spectacle of hate speeches, the merry satiric singing and dancing, and on lucky days, breakout of riots or if the timing is right, experience the tear gas and water cannon, courtesy of ever obliging Federal Reserve Unit. Don’t worry about the police; they are too busy taking down police reports from both parties and independent candidates, all of whom are not unfamiliar with…

Extreme Cholesterol Ingesting

This is a Malaysian past time, we need to tell them. Drinking the tarik with extremely sweet milk, and fatty Roti Chanai, or Santan drenched Nasi Lemak is no longer a threat to Malaysians, considering that we have other threats like road accidents, dengue, and snakes or politicians or lawyers or these entire tree combined. Okay, the latter was cruel on my part, and I assure you some of my best friends are snakes. Get the tourists to go on The Tarik/Roti Chanai rampage; or Kopi-O manis/Nasi Lemak Bungkus odyssey and see who gets to knock the heaven’s door first. Don’t worry about the police; they are busy taking down politicians’ police reports. The survivors are the winners and therefore are invited to

Extreme Mat Rempit

Actually, “Extreme” & “Mat Rempit” are redundant. This will have to be planned carefully, and if possible should be combined with Extreme Snatch Thief event. If lack of budget for this, talk to UMNO Youth and rekindle their once upon a time romance with the Mat Rempits, and this time it’s not for the youth, but the whole country’s tourism, even if involves crashing some Malaysian made motorbikes. I need not say what activities likely to take place, but the likeliest thing is, there might be no surviving tourists after this. As for the cops, yeah, the same damn politician police reports again, so they’ll be late for dinner.

Now, ain’t that fun and shouldn’t that be how we promote our tourism. If you say it’s too violent, than I suppose you have not been to a “conventional” tourism event like the Thaipusam in Batu Caves.

Cyclist in Dave's Blog.

Remember the article I wrote about the cyclist in diapers? Well, I sent the news to Dave Barry, the funniest writer I have read as he highlights stupid thing in his blog. He featured it here And he finds my name funny too. Good man.

Transformers: Revenge of The Fallen

It was when driving back after watching the latest Transformers, when it struck me that they cribbed the plot from the Bible. Yeah, I am that slow. But then, tell me which part of the Bible did not become source for story telling in Hollywood. If not God, Satan has helped to make Tinseltown’s cash registers to ring.

It’s all there. The bad guy is The Fallen, who was a Prime (yes, they have races/caste amongst them too) who became bad and went to the dark side. Yes, there’s Star Wars for you. He becomes The Fallen (angel, Lucifer, get it? That’s Michael Bay, the director & his writers attempting something more intelligent than makeshift toys). And then, you get the main character, Optimus Prime dead and then resurrected to beat the ultimate bad guy. In fact, three characters get to come out of from being dead.

If you have seen the first one, then I shall not bother to go on the details. You have the same Autobots (led by the sagely Optimus Prime) and the Decepticon (led by Megatron who look like he was sculpted with razor blades). Then you have shitloads of bots. All kind. There is definitely going to be Transformers 3 and if Bay is going to one-up the number of robots here, he might as well do a film in a planet filled with bots and do away with human.

Shia LeBeouf returns as Sam whatsisname and he tags a long with Autobot again to fight the Decepticon, and he did well. Seems to be good actor, this chap. I was impressed with him here, amidst the bang bang boom boom, Shia delivered good performance.

Then you have Megan Fox who is there for obvious reasons and John Torturro who is there for same obvious reasons (comedy, former unintentional, and sex, as we get to see the latter’s butt).

Okay, first thing I notice was the violence. Granted there were no blood, thousands die in this film, no thanks to the gigantic robots rampaging like Ultraman’s enemies. You see bodies flying, floating, and one being stomped, stuck on a bot’s feet and is dislodged as the Bot lifts its feet. And about 30% of the audience are kids! They were supposed to be part of the target audiences.

As for the bots themselves, if you have seen the original, then there is nothing new. There was one about a bot, begetting a bot, begetting thousands. It gave me a headache. Also, I am still wondering why it takes them, especially Optimus, long to transform. In the cartoon, I recall, it was a matter of seconds. Here it takes longer than a girl dolling up for candlelight dinner. I know, it’s basically to show off the CGI splendour, but frankly I didn’t give a damn.

Frankly, too, I didn’t give a damn during the action sequences. It was a blur. I can’t tell who is pummelling whom, all the bots look alike. Hell, they may even be violently making out, for all I know. I yawned and yawned during those scenes. Particularly the climactic battle, that went on and on and on like that freaking Duracell rabbit. Reminded me of Ridley Scott’s Black Hawk Down, where the entire film is about one ground combat; also a “based on true story” film so detailed that they missed out a crucial rescue effort by Malaysian soldiers. Hollywood.

So, there you. A CGI fest based on some toys they made back in the 80s, given some biblical back story, and with script tied around the so called major battle scenes. The last time I was really impressed with CGI was back in 1993 when Spielberg unleashed some dinosaurs onto poor unsuspecting us. So, the bots didn’t do much to me. The action scenes bored me. The comedy did tickle me. But come on, I was not even interested in those extensive long slow-mo shots of Megan Fox’s bouncing boobs in a lowcut blouse with explosions in the background. Did I say 30% of the audience were kids?

(Another) Day The Music Died.

The career of being a pop or rockstar can be rewarding, but it is also one that is susceptible to short life expectancy. As you know, Michael Jackson died today (our time, Thursday their time) at the age of 50, a young age for these times.

This man, the icon of those who grew up in the 70s and 80s, is perhaps the most influential person in the pop/lifestyle/entertainment scenario. His popularity back in the 80s here in Malaysia was immense. People who usually do not listen to Western/English pop song were suddenly listening to him.

I remember well, that it was the day my grandmother passed away. While the adults were in mourning, we kids were outside discussing the new Thriller album. That’s how big he was at that time.

True, fascination for his music slowly turned into fascination of his personal life, but no matter what crazy thing he does, no matter which court he had to appear, no matter which woman he decided to marry that week, we know that this man gave us, if not more than, three of the most important albums ever, and inspired the entire generation of kids worldwide to, if not picking up, but to gawk at those cool dance moves that were his trademark.

His music videos became the prototype for future artistes to tell story while hawking their music-wares. They were big budgeted affair with elaborate script and extended moments and were mostly very, very entertaining. In fact, it was so important that Jackson roped in one of the greatest film directors in US, Martin Scorsese to direct the single, Bad, from the album of same name.

More than anything his stage shows were stuff that legends are made of, except that they were real. True, rockers, in particular the likes of Led Zeppelin, Queen, Pink Floyd and Kiss (among others) took stadium performance into one step higher in terms of sheer spectacle, but Michael, just one man, one star, rather than a band, took it further. To have been to his concert is to have witnessed miracle too difficult to be detailed. I was unfortunate to have not been any single one. But watching them on TV, I can feel, perhaps, 10% of what it’s like over there.

As for the albums, Dangerous, released in 1991, took a tumble in quality and sales as well. There were few good tracks. Then 2001’s invincible triggered the question: Is the King of Pop now a burnout case? Not the right moment to answer that.

As saddened I was to hear of his death, I was not that shocked. He has been in and out of the hospital several times and he already looked like he was staring at the grim reapers face. The clock was ticking. As I said, the higher you are in the stardom pedestal, the possibilities of shorter lifespan abounds. You know what happened to all those great stars in the past.

He was going to do a series of concert, mainly to pay back the mounting debt he had amassed over the years. Ironically, now, it is his death, with ongoing surge of album sales, future compilations that the recording company would milk dry, and royalties from other merchandises that will help to settle the debt and take care of his kids.

As a forum member (mi6.co.uk) said, Michael the human being is gone, Michael Jackson the artist will rock on. Goodbye Michael. We will miss you.

Attention Please

When I saw this headline in The News Straits Times Newspaper today, I didn’t know whether I should giggle, cry, shout in rage or stab myself for living in the same world like the moron in the subject. Here’s the headline:

Cycling in diaper to set a record

And the lead (opening para):

By tomorrow, a personal instructor wearing a diaper could become the first person in Malaysia to cycle nonstop on a gym bike for 48 hours.

I am thinking about the process the reporter would have to go through writing that. Did he (say he is a dude) struggle to find an angle? Did he had problem writing the lead trying to put too many information into one sentence as I used to ponder on during my newspaper days? Or did he just slit his wrists for getting shit assignment like this.

Moving on, here’s more delightful stuff:

Wong Wai Hoong, 31, is only allowed a 15-minute break every three hours. Therefore, he requires the added support of a diaper in case he needs to relieve himself during his attempt to cycle into the Malaysia Book of Records.

So why not the record read first person in Malaysia to cycle nonstop and pee on a gym bike for 48 hours. Why can’t he relieve himself during the 15 minute break? What is he drinking, beer? Plus if you calculate, he gets about 240 minutes of free time, that’s like four hours, meaning he is only riding the bike 44 hours. Shouldn’t that be the right record, you ding dong!

Here comes the part where I bet the journalist wiped his tear before typing:

The freelancer is eager to prove his mettle to inspire Malaysian youth.

"They must pursue their dreams," he said before starting on his feat at the SynarGym at Kuala Lumpur Sentral at 10am yesterday.

I take it that Wong’s dream, I mean, all he wanted to do in his life, even it takes tremendous amount of humiliation, extreme effort and hard work, was to cycle for 48 hours in diaper.

Interesting dream. What a way to inspire Malaysian youth, which is currently exchanging ringtones, comparing iPhone features or sharing tips on the latest thing on their Xbox. Come to think of it, they can do all that in a diaper.

Moving on, if you read the report, you will understand why. Here’s the catch:

The event is organised by SynarGym Sdn Bhd, a subsidiary of Malaysian Resources Corporation Berhad.

The entire thing is a promotional exercise by the company to promote its product, which I suppose is the use of the gym, its equipments and possibly SynarGym Diapers (Slogan: It Leaves You High and Dry).

If you think the social networking culture online is basically folks crying attention to themselves, then this is a big budgeted cry to seek attention and this is not new. That is if you are not aware of the imbecilic publication called The Malaysian Book of Record.

I know it well, because I worked for them briefly as a scriptwriter. In the entire six months time I was covering events like the longest sausage, the biggest dodol and the Biggest Pineapple Rice was the final straw. It was built in UE3 shopping complex, right in the middle. They stuck lots of pineapple onto a wire mesh built to shape like a pineapple. By evening the whole place stunk of rotten pineapple. I think I got sick

For the next job, in my resume, I added this as reason for leaving that place: “If those are records, then my dying grandfather is Ricky Martin”. It actually got me the next job.

Oh, let me add final para of that report:

Deputy Youth and Sports Minister Datuk Razali Ibrahim, who flagged off the cyclist, urged the media to cover positive aspects of Malaysian sports like Wong's trail-blazing attempt.

I leave it to you to make up your cynical remark for that.

Cha’ah In USJ.

It finally happened. In fact, it was 20 years in the making. Sprinkling of schoolmates (only a fragment, unfortunately) from the high school my brothers and I went to, Sekolah Menengah Kebangsaan Cha’ah, finally got together last weekend.

First and foremost, for the benefit of non-Cha’ahrians (as we call ourself for now) Cha’ah is a tiny town, which if you are travelling from Yong Peng to Segamat on trunk road, you can see only if you are driving at around 30kmph. Yeah, it’s one of those sleepy blink and you miss town. Here’s more detail. Don’t know who loaded it, and I didn’t know Cha’ah is well known for frog dish.

Thanks to online social portal Facebook, suddenly folks I have not met for twenty years appeared; most of who are puzzled that I no longer looked like a nerd that I used to look (just the look, intellectually I was still the dimwit I am today).

Getting there

Anyway, my brother and I planned to go together, in his car, discuss through email about the time to leave from our homes, etc, and then came an email from him that send chill down my spine, “Do you know how to get there?”

You see, the meetup was to take place in a place called Country Barn Pub & Grill in an area, and my fingers are shaking as I type this, called USJ (UEP Subang Jaya as I learned later).  

The township of USJ - and I strongly believe in this - is most likely has been designed by disgruntled ex-NASA engineers. The place is so complex that getting lost there is as frequent and regular as sunrise and sunset. The areas are arranged in such manner, that you can find USJ 2/19 next to USJ300/0.44. And while you are peering at the signboard, you might even find a lost Bigfoot whimpering by the junction.

We took meagre direction from the pal organising the event, Jeremy De Silva, who only highlighted the Majlis Perbandaran Subang Jaya (MPSJ) building and how to go to the pub from there.

Never mind, I thought, it’s a challenge we have to face. But the trouble is, good sense of road direction is never our forte. My brother, Balan, is a brilliant man, an intelligent conversationalist, a provocative blogger, and is successful as the Head of Operations in a leading bank, but when it comes to direction, let me put it kindly, his 7 year old daughter is better than him.

I used to travel around with Balan and his family, and two of the favourite words to come out of him would be, “How now?” which is a translation from “I am lost, how do we get there?” His wife, Nisha, would be the guide who would always get us to our destinations with very little hassle. She’s so good in direction that I strongly recommend her services to the search and rescue missions as resident orang asli guide.

I have been to USJ Summit, a shopping complex, quite a bit so we managed to get there within 15 times from Selayang (where both of us live). Then, the adventure began. We took the first turn in the right and assured ourselves that we are still in USJ and all we have to do is look out for the road sign.

About ten minutes later, we sighted our first major landmark, the unmistakably magnificent Stadium Shah Alam. Balan made a very helpful comment, “Yeah, we are in Shah Alam”. I don’t how, but throughout the journey, while I was frantic and cursing myself for even poorer sense of direction, he was as cool as cucumber slices in a dish of fiery Nasi Lemak.

So, we had to turn back, and I made the first distress call to a pal. “Bro, I can direct you to USJ, but not USJ 11 (where the pub is),” he said. At least he brought us to Subang Jaya, a good start.

Then, I remembered and called another friend who lives in the main part of Subang Jaya, Subendran Dali (not related to Salvador, but is just as goofy). His immediate response was “Dey, USJ is a (very bad word) maze-lah, dey”. It was disturbing that a man born, bred, fed, studied, played, loved and probably killed (kidding) in Subang should use “dey” twice in the same sentence.

I immediately asked him about the MPSJ building, and after sighing in relief (he probably wanted to disembowel himself, rather than trying to explain USJ roads), he managed to direct us towards the building.

Then, as expected, we got lost there. We were going round and round, and amidst getting lost, Balan was even trying to figure out shortcuts, that’s how innovative he is on the road.  I had to make third distress call, to one of my classmates and relative, Premanand (Prem), who was there already. He managed to direct us to the damned pub. Phew!

The reunion

Right at the entrance we were greeted by Jeremy De Silva, senior, Godfrey Adrian Lazarro, a junior. Gosh it has been years. Inside, there were more folks. Peter Johnson, his brother, Xavier, Annan Nair, Gunalaraj, Steven, Godfrey’s brother Ian, and later joined by Christina Vanathas and her brother, Chris followed by Yvonne Gomez and her husband.  These are the people I have not seen for two decades!

That excludes Prem, as we’ve been in touch regularly. A few words about this him, who also happens to my distant cousin. Prem was L'enfant terrible of Cha’ah, the bad boy who broke rules and regulations and did things that only adult would. You can hear laments about how he thought this feller to do that bad thing, and that feller this bad thing, which is not necessarily the truth because some are pricks anyway. He was so notorious that parents of other students feared him, teachers shook at the sight of him (not really, they were mostly pissed) and the principal knows him on the first name basis simply because their frequent meetings for wrong reasons.

Prem has no problem taking the blame for all the bad things the others picked up. So, if your spouse suddenly found out that you consume particles from your nose, blame it on Prem. Brother Prem, seeing that I am getting married soon, your services will be appreciated.

And so, there we were, not many of us, but was enough for that venue. Oh, a word about that place. It looks like any other pub, except that the band (guys who are related to Jeremy, so bro don’t take offence on the following remarks) played mostly country…a music genre that Balan, Prem and I loathed. I know, we classic rock fans can be real anal and snobbish when it comes to musical taste, but we also know that there are quarters who thinks that rock music has similar artistic quality and ambiguity of a dog poop.

Music was not an issue, as we are there to catch up. But later, Prem pointed out the major grouse he had that he never frequented the place for ten years. The dancing patrons. I was not aware of them, in midst of mingling. Collectively, the patrons are about same age as Planet Earth, and they were doing that folk dancing thiny! And there was even a seemingly organised line dancing! The only consolation is that with them around, we (all in thirties, the oldest being 39) felt relatively young.

The best part about the meet is the memory of some of these people; they seemed to know more about you than you care to know. Ian, for example, asked me if I am still a James Bond fan. I was surprised that he remembered, as he was in primary school then, and me, high school, when we palled in the school bus. I expressed my surprise. “Oh, you used to frequently bring James Bond newspaper clippings to the bus,” he said, with hint of childhood trauma in his voice.

We all exchanged information about what we are doing and how many wives and kids we had. I mean, whether we are married and have kids, phew, sorry guys. Of that group Godfrey is the only one who is single, though it took almost police-like interrogation to get the truth out of him. And of course, I was curious as to who had the biggest belly and least head of hair. Okay, there are contenders for the paunch, but am afraid am still the baldest guy, though Prem is seeking second opinion, pointing out his own little bald patch. Boy, we are getting old.

Alas, the day was coming to an end. After drinking enough beer to induce us to be intimate with inanimate objects like bar stool, and consuming enough chicken wings to start developing a pair ourselves, we decided to call it a day.

Prem volunteered to save us again and said he will lead us straight to NKVE (highway) that will take us faster back to Selayang. So, we followed him, reassured that we will get it right this time. What a guy. A fitfull ending to a terrific time we had. Thanks everyone, we had a fabulous time there, and really looking forward for the next reunion that promises to be bigger like Transformer sequels.

Oh, by the way, on the way back, we missed the NKVE.

Idol Whine

I bet that you guys hate it when a writer starts a sentence like this:

“Normally/usually, I don’t watch/listen/eat/etc ____, but…”

The writer is basically trying to put himself above the readers by saying that, look I got class, but I can compromise on my taste too. What an arrogant prick!

Okay, having had that off my chest, let me state for the record that I normally don’t watch American Idol….Okay, okay, I know what you are thinking, slam me all  you want in the comment later.

Truth is, I still had no intention to watch it this year, my complain being that the show always end up producing generic talents. They all sound like others that you get in the market. It’s like right after you paid for a kg of red snapper in the market, the fishmonger comes running to you, “hey, we just got a fresh one, it just sighed its last breath. Wanna buy?”. No thank you, I’ll take the one I paid for and curse you afterwards.

Okay, I know you are disagreeing saying that they are unique and all. Even, my fiancé, a regular fan since day one (eight seasons now), denied vehemently that the talents are not original. I say that because I’d always wanted to use the word “vehemently”. Nice word.

Anyway, this time around, I sat with her as they were showing the marathon compilation of the auditioning which was good sick sadistic fun as we see folks who are in serious denial about their talent getting trashed by the Idol judges, especially the delightfully frank Simon Cowell.

Then, he appeared. Complete with eyeliners, glam/punk-ish hairdo belting out Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody like nobody before. I liked Adam Lambert there and then, as I did with few more other talents. Then, the competition rounds came and that man blew me away.

It was like seeing reincarnation of Elvis Presley and Freddie Mercury. His vocal range is outrageous, and I mean it in good way. He is like a frickin Humvee or something that can scale a mountain and can still scour your neighbourhood.  Whether he is hitting high note or low, his emotional response was to the song, not to the strain of having to hit those notes, as the other competitors did. Plus I’d never heard a voice like this before, such was the originality.

Add that to the sense of theatricality, Lamberts costume and make up changes each week, whether it’s the leatherworks for belting out a rock number or cool suit and tie crooning a Rat Pack tune. Cowell complained about his final performance rendition of Tears For Fears’ Mad World, as “over theatrical”, and I thought that was what Lambert was all about. He is supposed to be theatrical as we saw week after week.

On top of that, he was oozing with charisma and strong presence. When was the last time we saw a talent like this. The last time I was excited about a talent was probably in the mid-90s when Russell Crowe snarled and broke a chair and I was, like, going, “Brando’s alive!” (he was then, just that Brando the actor was dead long time ago).

His talent was so huge that the largely conservative US (yes they are, look at how they are handling the gay marriage thing) did not vote for him in the final and voted for mildly talented, generic vocalist Kris Allen.

Immediately all sorts of conspiracy theory abounded. Some say that his sexuality (possibly gay. So what? So was Freddie) frightened them. Some say, it’s because most voters come from Red (read red-necks) state. It could be because he is Jew. Then, New York Times revealed that the Telco, AT&T, could be behind it having had provided free text messaging services at parties held by Kris Allen fans. And soon, I will not be surprised to read that the Aliens from Planet 9 are behind it. That’s enough stuff for the next Dan Brown novel.

Anyway, my point is, finally we got ourselves a genuine, original talent. There are already excitements in the air about what his debut album is going to be like. Or whether, as us fanboys fantasised, he would tour with Queen. Yup, Brian May, that genius guitarist, did say that he and the drummer, Roger Taylor, wants to have a “meaningful conversation” with Lambert, which is not surprising seeing that the band had to put up with dull (in comparison with the colourful flamboyant Freddie, I mean) Paul Rodgers. It’s time Queen put glamour back to the band.

Whatever Lambert is planning to do, I’d be among the millions waiting to buy his album. Admit it; he is the Scaramouche who can do the Fandango. 

A Coffee A Day

A coffee a day.

I have not been well of late. First, about a month ago, the doctor told me that I had high blood pressure.

I was experiencing headache, dizziness, nausea, heart palpitation for few months by then. It could be anything, work related stress, early middle-age crisis or, I feel this is more accurate, too much of Cartoon Network, especially too much of Tom & Jerry, and especially when I find myself relating to Tom all the time.

So, I got up my courage, fear of needle or not, to meet my doctor who is constantly suggesting that I have a minor surgery on my posterior, even when I go there for flu and fever.

"I have to put you under tranquiliser," he said, with a glint on his eye, smirk on his lips and hair around his ears.

Immediately, I had a mental picture of him chasing me in the deep recess of tropical jungle with a tranquiliser gun and gunning me down. Of course, what he meant was, he’d be giving some sort of relaxant and sleeping pills, as the culprit could be my decade old insomnia problem.

So, that night I was sleeping like a baby on cough syrup (ask you baby sitters, they know what I mean). I got up next day wanting to sleep some more, but that will cost me my job.

Next day, my pressure went back to normal. One night of good sleep and it went back normal, can you believe it? If I had known that, I would have gotten special permission to sleep during office hours long ago. All those days trying to ward off sleep using various methods including asking someone to punch me when I feel dozy headed. Oh boy, did it work.

Aside: Dagwood Bumstead will never get high blood pressure. Sore ass, yes, but not high blood pressure. End of aside.

So, that got me thinking. Sleep is important, and what is causing this insomnia? All those nights awake thinking this and that and why Eastwood didn’t do one last Dirty Harry movie.

Then, it occurred to me that it was simple: Years of caffeine abuse!

You see, even before the journalism days, I was basically living off coffee. I’d do nothing less than 6 mugs a day, or go on to 8 mugs. I maintained that, and sometimes exceeded during the journalism days.  When working on some magazines, I had to work overnight, and, boy, you wouldn’t want to know how much coffee I had. That amount could send an elephant to clear the entire Amazon jungle!

Alright buddy, I told myself, even though I am sometimes my worst foe, it’s time to stop. Stop, I tell ya! Enough of the abuse.

So, I stopped. Just like that. No more. There was probably hiccup on first few days, a coffee here, and there, and then I completely stopped. Even during weekends, waking up to the usual hangover, I didn’t drink coffee at all. I had English tea…ewww.

And it was around that time when this nasty headache started. Like scheduled services, it starts around 12 in the afternoon, hits the peak around 3 something and subsides. Massive pain around the forehead and the back of the head. It’s like the Ghost of Headache possessed me at that period, and had different shift after six in the evening.

I tried Panadol. Nope, it doesn’t work. Then, I switched to Aspiring, the stuff I keep hearing in Hollywood, where the victim would be lying on the ground with amputated leg and severed neck and someone would helpfully suggest, “here, take an aspirin, you’ll be alright in a couple of seconds”.

Guess what? The Aspirin didn’t work too! Damn Yanks!

Alright, time for doctor, but not the same guy who wanted my rear probed and have me tranquilised. Time for second opinion too, so I went to this clinic I’d go if I really am to lazy to drive to the original doctor.

This time, a lady, had ample of time to chat with me and I told her about the blood pressure in the past (she checked and found it to be normal), and what is happening and what had caused me the high blood pressure (I left out Tom & Jerry part). We were both figuring out what caused this damned headache till it was revealed that I had stopped coffee.

“That could be the reason,” she said, “It could be caffeine withdrawal syndrome.”

I was, like, what? “Is there such thing?” I asked. She said yes, and she went through it herself. Never question one who also suffered.

So, it could be it. The abrupt stop of caffeine supply in my body. It’s as if there was a creature in it, living off caffeine and after the delivery stopped, it rebelled by giving me a splitting headache.

She gave me painkillers, asked me to also get my eyesight checked, and drink lots of water. They say that all the time, don’t they? Drink lots of water. You go there to get them to help with your receding hairline*, they’ll tell you to drink lots of water.

I was also told to drink coffee irregularly, to ease down that monster’s quest for caffeine. Once in two days perhaps. Great, that’s how you get started in the first place.

If things do not improve, I may have to get my head scanned. Probably my friends were right when they told me to get my head examined.

*of course, not your hairline, you lucky people!

 

Naan Kadavul

With still half an hour to enter the cinema hall, I sat in a little restaurant nearby with a drink, a book, but with wandering thoughts.  I was going to watch Naan Kadavul, and I saw cinema patrons, Indians, and many of them women and children.

Whoa! Because I heard from many that this film is not suitable for children and the soft hearted. Alright, I thought, you people asked for it.

Of course, idiot that I am, these folks are there for the special Valentine’s Day’s screening of Varanam Ayiram. There were hardly more than 10 people for the 9pm screening of Nan Kadavul that I attended on Friday the 13^th, 2009. I hope this will not be the case with the screening of this film in other cinema halls.

Nan Kadavul.

This is director Bala’s fourth film in almost ten years, and I have not fully seen Sethu or Nandha. I liked Pithamagan, but was not impressed with Vikram’s Zombie-esque stunts. Of course, who gives a shit on what I think, since Vikram won National Award for best actor. The award committees are sucker for those kind of stunts and gimmicks; they gave Kamal best actor award for a performance that can hardly be seen, blocked by layers of latex. In their entire history the Indian film National Award committee (then known as Bharath award) it never awarded Sivaji Ganesan for best acting performance. Yeah, the award committee is goofy that way.

Anyway, the film opens with a middle aged guy and his daughters trek in the wilderness of spiritual Kasi in search of his son whom he had given away to an Ashram due to astrological reason (“there were many deaths and my business flopped”, he said, which apparently happens to anyone, me thinks).

Soon, he, and we, find out that the song, Rudhran has joined a band of hardcore, fist-in-your face band of swami’s, the Aghoris, doing headstand yoga, meditation, prayers and being basically mean, irreverent, and smoking grass. I have no knowledge of the Aghoris, and the film does a bit of explanation of who these people are. At the end they are basically folks who think that they are the special, chosen one, with the ability to grant Moksha (freedom from rebirth) and even to take away life. Of course, that is a simplistic understanding, there is more to that, as I would discover later in my quick research on Aghoris.

Rudhran is later convinced to follow his dad back home to meet his mom, but he remains who he is, never missing the meditation, the headstand yoga and the drugs. While he is there worrying his mom, mystifying the neighbours, pissing off a local cop, and basically got us in awe (Arya is awesome), we get to see another rag-tag band of folks which will make you sink in your chair out of emotional disturbance.

Yes, these are group of beggars under the payroll of a local mafia, Thandavam, who runs the outfit without remorse, regret or any show of humanity. The beggars are all disabled people. Mind you, they are not actors trying to be disabled, these are real people with physical deformities and the film does no shy away from showing them the way they are. And that they were treated like commodities in the first scene will really knock your souls out. Very, very disturbing. It will make you angry, sad, and question your own moral standing.

Right after the patronising Pitchai Pathiram song which shows them making livelihood being exploited by Thandavam, we are immediately thrown into their world and that is where the fun begins.

You heard me right – fun. Bala did the right thing by showing how much these people have adapted the life and learned to have fun with it. They are colourful, witty, funny, and knows how to appreciate life better than, say, the miserable keyboard tapping, internet lurking, freedom speech giving, armchair anti-establishmentarians like some of us.

The camaraderie among them is wonderfully brought to the screen by director Bala. These are truly talented actors, and I am sure Bala took the pain to screen thousands of physically disabled people to bring the best in front of the camera. And it works. I especially adored the midget who has the best lines in the whole movie. His cackling laugh still rings in my mind.

Their scenes together are the best in this film, so much so that you want it to go on. Of course it won’t, because Pooja enters.

She plays a blind orphan, part of a cinema mimicry troupe, and she does the singing part. Made to look ordinary, dark skinned and with white lenses for her iris, Pooja is Bala in the background here. She is the main subject of this film as we discover later, and that is where I began to lose interest.

I mean, if it was about one of the real disabled people in the film I would have been rooting, roaring out loud and literally squirming my seat.  But blind damsel in distress, who is clearly physically more beautiful than any of her cast members here,  is part of cinematic cliché of past. Pooja is the Fay Wray or Tanya Roberts of a likewise honest, fun, down to earth, serious film. She takes away the fun in funny, and removes the iron in irony…if this makes sense to you.

Plight of beggars traded like an ordinary business transaction and the one man who can sort things out makes Nan Kadavul a bit of a superhero film. But mind you, Arya’s Rudhran is neither a typical superhero, nor is he a reluctant hero. He is a creature that has existed in many myths all around the world ( Joseph Campbell) – a man sent to save mankind, a man send clean us all of our sins, a man sent to rid of evil in this world. Rudhran can see evil and if he sees that in you , you better have a getaway car ready, coz he’s gonna make a meatball out of you.

Rudhran, in short, is an extended version of Deus Ex Machina with a back story. He appears conveniently in what the director wants to be the most needful moment in the film (when the other disabled folks gets snatched, nobody gives a shit, but when Pooja crawls over to him for help, well). He brushes with the law but loophole and his own displaced attitude get him scott free from the crime he committed, and I say “crime” by common law definition – your moral stand is at your own discretion.

My grouses aside, this film is an intellect’s dream. And imagine how much it aches a semi-intellect amateur critic like  me. My brain was whirring and clicking (it’s still analogue, you see) throughout the film. You have issues dealing with parenthood, religion, spirituality, stand on rationale thinking, the morality on trades of any kind, modern day slavery, human trafficking and euthanasia, among others.

It’s a hard film to watch, if you have no grouses like I did with Pooja’s character. It’s a difficult film to digest, if you are emotionally disturbed with the disabled folks in it. It’s a complex film to dissect if you look at the amount of issues that cropped up with a story like that. In short, this is not the kind of film you are going to see that often in Tamizh film industry.

Most of the credit goes to Bala. This is certainly a better film than Pithamagan. It has well timed humour, balanced pathos, conscience triggering moments and, from artistic point of view, a well rounded performance for all worked in front of and behind the camera.

The cinematography is apt, Ilayaraja did not disappoint with his soul stirring background score, and the actors are great. They are such a find. All of them. A surprise was a comedian who appears as one of the group in many Vadiveloo comedy sketches, Krishnamoorthy, who gave a sterling performance as sympathetic caretaker of the beggars. I wish there were more scenes of him and his beggars, they really stole the show.

Pooja will definitely get lots of awards, that’s for sure. But she did not bring anything additional to the role. Arya, of course, is stunning. He has great presence, wonderful body language that defines his character (he speaks very, very little) and is a hope as far as upcoming great actors are concerned.

Add this one to the Tamil film industry’s cinematic milestone. Nan Kadavul is here to stay with us for a long time.