2009 Resolutions v1

Resolution Number 1: Give more to charity
I've decided to contribute more to our friends who can't speak for themselves. Yes, to the hundreds of abandoned and abused dogs and cats that are cruelly persecuted by authorities in Malaysia. Enough of hoping for things to improve, and time for more affirmative action, is what I say. So yeah, I plan to send some money over every month, and provide essentials like newspapers, clothes and food. I think I'm partly inspired by watching Animal Cops South Africa, and partly by the guilt I feel for having not attended the SPCA Charity Lunch on Saturday. Mea culpa.

Stay tuned for more resolutions...and none will involve giving anything up .

single mocha male

I have this sneaky feeling that almost every female in KL is attached in one way or another to someone else. Either that, or I'm inadvertently making it a point of visiting couples-only joints. And if the latter proves to be the case, then where exactly do singletons hang out? Or have roles been reversed where couples club and singles sit at home watching TV on weekends?

Although, I must say, it could also be some reverse psychological, defence mechanism-like thingy, akin to the fox and the grapes. We will never really know if the fox was plain sore or if he indeed could predict the state of matters with such accuracy by just looking at something intently; a disgruntled furball or a visionary? Aesop never really studied the matter in-depth.

Yeah, the Rules of the Game is in my possession now, though I'm not sure if I'll even start on it before the year ends. There's nothing more deflating than false hope and baseless advice. Think about, you follow every drop of wisdom spat out by the author with religious fervour, only to discover you're not much further away than where you had started from. Imagine, even after all the changes applied to the hair, the style, the behaviour, the speech, the results are the same...I guess the consolation will be that at least you can now fail in style. I shouldn't be so negative, though, at least not before I've read it. It just seems too good to be true, though. How wonderful life would be if all we have to do to resolve issues is to read something. Then again, with falling literary interests among the general public, it may not be such a given.

I think one of my resolutions will be to refrain from unnecessary drinking. It's not only costly, it's emotionally damaging.

I've now taken sole possession of Radiohead's 'Creep'. It's my song. Live with it.

yuletide yodelling

A week to go, and I haven't decided what to do on Christmas Eve, still. I'm torn between clubbing, gathering around the Christmas tree and sipping Irish coffee, or sitting at home and vegetating in front of the TV. No doubt Hallmark will surely have some reruns of Yuletide heart-warmers, and there's always a chance that A Christmas Carol will be played. But somehow the thought of staying glued to the idiot box on a night when everyone else will be out and about doesn't quite appeal to me, now that I've put text to screen. An outing it is then.

But where o where? There's an event at Bar Savanh Too, and I'm 99% sure other spots will be having some money-making activities as well - tis the period to jack up alcohol prices and increase cover charges. So much for this being the season to give and share. Real shylocks. Back to my contemplation. The Curve would be a good alternative; the decorations there are quite impressive, though I can't say the same about the patrons. Perhaps a quiet night reading at Starbucks while watching the world pass by doesn't seem such a bad idea, does it?

I don't reckon any of my accomplices will be around during Xmas Eve; almost everyone I know has plans, or has plans to make plans, or are awaiting confirmation of pre-planned plans. It's a sign of changing times, in a way. Ten years ago (sounds better than 11 or 12 years ago) I would have had a dozen plans lined up the moment December came into existence. My, how times have evolved. The past couple of years have seen plans being made barely several hours away from the stroke of midnight. Just looking back, I haven't spent a Christmas alone as a singleton since, hmm, 1994. Fourteen years, a long time ago indeed. Back when the stomach was flatter and the face fresher. I really should write a post reminiscing the years long gone sometime in the near future.

Alright, I'm stepping away from the mists of the Christmases past.

neither here nor there

Cough. Cough. Cough.

That's all I've been doing since last Wednesday. And trying to catch hold of my running nose. The cigs haven't been helping, obviously, so I'm going on a drastic reduction programme, at least until I stop hurting my lungs with all the coughing and hacking and throat-clearing.

I have too, if I plan to enjoy the sea, sun and sand in a couple of weeks' time. And to soak in the alcohol and nicotine at a fraction of the usual price. On saying that, perhaps I should stick to a strict cig-rationing schedule when I'm there; sort of a test to gauge the feasibility and effectiveness of any potential quitting attempts. Yes, I think I'll do that. And stop adding Coke to my liquor mixtures. The things I have to do to live a couple of years longer...sigh.

On another note, I fully intent to change the layout and general feel of my (this) blog. I'm a bit bored with the aged paper, parchment appearance; I'm thinking something more contemporary, like Minima or Denim. Little less graphics, and a little more conversation. I'm also contemplating changing the blog title (not the http) to something else; something more personal and less cryptic. We'll see how it goes, it'll be work in progress for the next two weeks.

Off to a totally blond subject, I've got a new pair of shoes. It looks rather smart, and it's already affecting the way I walk - fearful of absolutely anything that may mar it's smooth surface and leathery scent. After what happened to my Hush Puppies, I think many will empathise with me on this one. There's already a stain on my other new pair, which is a source of considerable consternation. They sure as hell don't make leather shoes like they used to.

Due to the malfunctioning GSC website, I'm now the lucky holder of four reserved tickets for The Day the Earth Stood Still. For tonight. I'm torn between trumpeting the clarion for recruits, or indulging in the much scorned-upon act of solitaire movie-watching. Decisions, decisions. Then again, I'm not even sure I'm that much into science fiction to fork out close to twenty bucks tonight; have never really been a fan of X-Files, Star Trek or Matrix. Star Wars, I like, but that's because it contains high doses of fantasy in the fabric that makes up the galaxy far, far away. As does Dune.

I digress. Okie, 9 o'clock movie it is then. Just to show (albeit defiantly) that singlehood will not stop me from visiting the cinema. Onwards march!

landslides galore

The hills have eyes.

And when they don't like what they see, they just shrug off whatever that's irritating them.

Like bungalows, mansions and condominiums. Like how we dust specks of dirt off our shoulders, the hills slump forwards or shake a leg or even stretch at times to relieve themselves of the burden of having these unsightly concrete blocks that mar their skin.

Here's something to chew on: why is that every time a landslide occurs, only the rich seem to suffer? Why is it that only the aforementioned forms of accommodation are always affected, and not some terrace houses or Kondo Rakyat?

Somehow, somewhere along the way, hillside lodging became the mainstay of the rich. From Bukit Tungku to Bukit Gasing, I seriously doubt there's any piece of built-up property worth less than half a million ringgit. It's now a given that if you want to get a place anywhere near a hill, you gotta be loaded, colloquially speaking.

Which explains why various state governments (Selangor more than anyone else) are loath to do anything. It doesn't take a bloody microgenius to deduce that building card towers in windy surroundings is a fool's task; the same applies to building huge ass stacks and blocks on the slope or peak of a hill. Like they say it here, memang bodoh. A simple Act banning any form of property development on hills would suffice nicely, a quick and effective stroke that prevents any recurrence of the tragedies that have been plastered with glee all over the newspapers. With one fell swoop, the state governments could have ensured that the Highland Towers disaster remains the one and only dark episode in building disasters.

But hey, why upset the apple cart; why rock the boat? Blood-sucking property developers are milking money, parasitic government officials are getting their fat grubby hands on kickbacks, and shameless ministers not only get to build testaments to their tainted gold, but also house their respective mistresses and unwanted children. So what if dozens of people and pets die? There'll be hundreds more who will be eager to sign the deed to some fancy apartment in some bukit somewhere; there's bound to be at least one chairman or politician or businessman who will be looking forward to his 50-bedroom villa, overlooking the sprawling masses.

So who is to blame? Well the roll of honour comprises state councillors, municipal councillors, DOE officials, property developers, civil engineers and last but not least, the homeowners themselves. Yes, homeowners, perennial victims in housing tragedies, but no less accountable. I mean, did they learn nothing from the Geography lessons in school? Have they never seen pictures of landslides in newspapers and books? Based on the number of apartments and houses sprouting on hill slopes like mushrooms these days, I guess they haven't.

champagne supernova

Sigh.

The final nail in the coffin. Ladies and gentlemen, it's been confirmed, I am averse to grape-derived alcoholic beverages. The proverbial nail was the champagne on Sunday. Dammit! I've constantly maintained my lack of compatibility with wine, but I was pretty sure that it would not apply to sparkling wine, and champagne in particular. Boy, was I wrong! A couple of sips, and I could feel the 'Men At Work' sign going up in my brain, indicating some major drilling work in the pipeline. And by the fourth sip, I could feel the rumble in my sternum; one more sip, and you ascend the throne, it clearly said. Ah well, I'll stick to good ol' whiskey and rye from now on; even beer is beginning to take a toll on my digestive tract. Looks like when it comes to social beverages, I'm only into 'fine drinking'. Not such a bad thing; has Bond ever ordered a Bud? No? Point proven.

On another note, the siege mentality is up again. I know why, I'm just not going to get into it. And I think despite all the literature handed down, instinct dominates reason and theories. Walk in my shoes, then tell me how it feels. In a way, I do great injustice to the innate aptitude within me; instinct has more often than not been more prevalent than reflex when involving troubled times. And that's how it's going to be, for quite a while. Indefinitely. Until I alone decide otherwise. But yeah, the epiphany after four mugs of beer, one glass of champagne, a Kahlua and a shot of Bailey's. Realising my 'longcomings' after hearing about someone else's shortcomings has put things in perspective. Now, I delve inwards and pound sentiment into submission, shattering it beyond repair. Now I cut the Gordian knot that is the emotions which bind me in a fix. And I'm loving it, surprisingly enough. Am I deluding myself? Perhaps. Then again, do I give a flying fuck? Not really. And how am I going to go about it? Erm, by shopping?

Aahh shopping, I really need to get started on working the credit cards. Before the masses of uncivilised monkeys and apes descend upon every shopping mall in the city. The shopping list is short, but expensive. Another pair of shoes (maybe two), a wallet, a belt, couple of pairs of pants, shirts, EDT and maybe a new watch. And I haven't even started on my Christmas list yet. December is the nicest time of the year; it's also the most expensive one. Notwithstanding current microeconomic affairs, gifts are a given during the Yuletide merriment, and I do intend to be a tad more creative when it comes to choice. I've got meself the camera already, so that's a tick on my wishlist. I won't be fattening up the coffers of Times or Borders or MPH this time around; there are about 15 books on the waiting-to-be-read queue, and another two that have not been read to the fullest.

(Note to self: I really should stop munching on almonds, they're bloody addictive)

Speaking of which (blowing money), did a double header of Frangi's over the weekend. The last time I checked out the place was more than a couple of years ago, and I was pleasantly (if not mildly) surprised to discover that they play retro tunes all night long on Sundays. Not the usual rubbish that passes off as 80's hits in most joints, but a proper and diverse selection of jingles from the era of hairsprays, mousse, padded jackets and mullets. The less said about Friday nights, however, the better (wink wink). It's not as bad as Liquid used to be (is it still operating?). But overall, a friendly DJ, pleasant bartenders and yummy drinks...contentment all around. Well worth the RM 300+ spent. Also knocked back a couple of beers at the adjacent Gypsy Bar (I think); reasonably priced beer, coupled with a general aura of dodginess. Any place which has a majority of waitresses sporting Spanish accents doesn't inspire decency or style but like I said, affordable beer.

Hmm, drinking-EQ-shopping-clubbing; I seem to be hopping from topic to topic quicker than a Malaysian 'frog'. I should refrain from that, don't think it makes for smooth reading. Or does it break the droning monotony of the same issue? No feedback required, cause I don't really give a damn, dearies. What does stir up emotions, however, is this - how does one mess up so badly that one does not elicit any form of sentiment? I'm taken aback, to the point of incredulity. Honestly.

how do you do? i'm a curser.

So there's this song, you see. And it goes a little something like this, f*#k this and f*#k that and ya-dee-f*#^*^g-daa.

Yeah, you guessed it. Tupac and the song which probably got him killed. You want to know what anger's all about, give the song your ear. Quite a danceable number, surprisingly; most rap crap don't cater for sweet moves. But this isn't about rap, or Tupac or even the song. It's about people who feel the need to add a f*#k to every sentence they script on their blogs.

A remarkable word that has been flogged to death, both here and in the afterlife. It's eyebrow-raising, and rather juvenile, and that's being kind. It's akin to a young child who has just learnt his/her first word.

Somewhere along the way, certain literary and silverscreen icons influenced a generation of writers to use f*#k in their 'masterpieces' with wild abandon. It now appears that blogland is inundated with Irvine Welsh wannabes; I'm assuming this is a phenomenon that has long been a feature of blogspot and blogdrive and wordpress, to name some popular sites. It's now a' la mode to be some cigarette-puffing, liquor-guzzling, la petite mort-seeking blog writer, who's against various forms of commercialisation and conformity; an individual who loathes uniformity and same-sameness; a person who's too cool for many things. In short, a figure who's under the misguided impression that he or she is some sort of suffering Bohemian artist.

Big f*#^%@g yawn.

This whole me-against-the world jazz (yet another Tupac hit) is so bloody overplayed. It's as though some souls actually want circumstances to conspire against them so that they can bitch about how the world has f*^#@d them twice over. Look closely, and you'll see the 'L' right smack on top of the third eye. I reckon it's snobbishness evolved. Those days it was merely bluebloods turning their noses when faced with rednecks; now it's troubled individuals trying to look down on people without issues.

How twisted we have become, to view happiness with contempt, to embrace misery like a long-lost lover.

Oh, what's that you say, freedom of speech? Damn, you got me there. Sigh, I guess this is nothing more than a rant, since people should be allowed to write whatever they want on their blogs, no matter how boring or pretentious their posts are. Pretentious; that's the word I was looking for. My advice? Cut the melodramatics and smell the fresh air (cigarette smoke and all).

N'est-ce pas?

do they know it's christmas...

December is, without a doubt, the most exciting month of the year.

The most costly one too, I'll concede.

Most people tend to be more light-hearted and laidback (barring the Grinches and Scrooges) this time of the year, and almost everyone has a getaway planned. Whether Bali or Phuket or Langkawi, beaches usually top the poll of most visited places in December. What was used to be a Western ritual of flocking to the various islands around the world is now fervously practised by many an Asian. Personally, there's nothing more satisfying than lying on the beach and whiling the last vestiges of the year away.

And even if you can't escape from the concrete jungle, one word: parties. Every club in town is busy decking the halls with boughs of holly, and barrels of beer for good measure. No doubt, the price of alcohol will be exorbitantly high during the Christmas and New Year's Eve nights, but what the heck, "it's my party, and I'll drink if I want to."

But yeah, back to December. I don't know about you, but I'm inundated with warmth and feelings of goodwill towards Man whenever I loiter in the various shopping malls in KL during this festive month. Brings back memories of all those yearly trips to Singapore during my younger years (ages 8 to 12); we (meaning my family and I) never failed to head down to Orchard Road in December. However, I can say that KL is now almost on par with Singapore in terms of Yuletide festivities and the commercialisation of Christmas, in general. Perhaps there's no Orchard Road here, but we can't have the cake and eat it, right?We may not have chestnuts roasting by the fireplace, but we do have roasted chestnuts in Jusco and Tesco and Giant. And Jack Frost may not nip at your nose, but Jack Daniels definitely will.

All of which explains why I'm rarely agro this time of the year. Don't get me wrong; I still face idiots and morons by the dozens every single day (they never take a break), but revelling in Christmas carols, I tend to blot them out of existence. Because I'm walking in a winter wonderland. Alright, that was cheesy, but message relayed.

And because I'm feeling cordial towards Mankind, I'll even ignore the inconsiderate fools who clog up the walkways in MidValley and Curve and KLCC snapping pictures of Christmas trees and decorations; some even take their annual family portraits, nestled among the pine leaves and gaudy decorations.

So yeah, December is finally upon us (I was supposed to have put up this post on 1 Dec), and the Yuletide cheer and New Year resolutions are fast closing in; for some, they're already here. Dust off those leaves and tree stands, polish the gold and red and white balls, and test the many tiny bulbs. It's time to practise those ho-ho-hos and songs that go on and on about snow, goodwill and food, delicious food. And don't forget the wine and whiskey and port and sherry; after all, 'tis a time to be gay and merry.

a tale of two cities

Mumbai - bloodied and bruised

The home of Bollywood is still reeling from gun battles at several major buildings; the death toll rising every hour. All thanks to a bunch of despicable pariahs. A group of snivelling cowards who have caused despair and grief in one of the most densely-populated cities in the world; sick individuals who mouth off holy verses yet hide behind women and children.

All of which makes one wonder if there really is a higher being after all. One can't help but feel sick in the stomach knowing such deplorable men were created by God. One shudders with disgust knowing that these scum were, at one time of their respective lives, conceived in the womb of a mother.

Hopefully, just hopefully, the Indian government wipes them off the face of the planet; not just them, but each and every single person associated with them. To hell with justice and the courts, I reckon; each scoundrel should be tied up with explosives and blown up. Oh, and for good measure, televise it throughout the world, YouTube included; that should send a message to all the other terrorists prowling around Asia and the Middle East.

Bangkok - chaotic and paralysed

Closer to home, the gridlock that is Thai politics shows no signs of abating, in fact, it seems to be heading to a potentially blood-spilling showdown. The antagonists, pro and and anti-government forces, appear to be gearing up for one last Cup final; just who comes out as the winner is anybody's guess.

The joker in the pack remains the Army. Whoever garners military support has one hand on the cup. However, events over the past few weeks look to have wavered the generals' stance. Where once they leaned towards the anti-government rabble, now they appear non-too happy about the massive disruptions the Thaksin-haters have brought upon Bangkok.

And in a time when economies are looking around desperately to salvage any semblance of normalcy, our neighbours have contrived to shoot themselves in the foot, and not for the first time. December has always been the busiest period for tourism; Bangkok now looks set to suffer the ignominy of having half-filled hotels and a mere trickle of hardcore tourists visiting it. I don't know the exact figures in terms of potential losses from a drop in tourism, but they are sure to be in the billions.

The only glimmer of light is the fact that Phuket has remained relatively trouble free throughout this latest conflict, as have the other main tourist spots like Krabi, Koh Samui and Chiang Mai. When an eventual solution to this mess is realised, the repercussions of this battle of wills between two recalcitrant parties might be even more long-lasting than the 2004 tsunami.

game, set and match?

The Rules of the Game has come into my possession. [Insert megalomaniacal laughter here]

The book that trumps all other self-help books.

The book that gives the reader insight into the secret art of picking-up people.

The book that promises to turn even the dullest of country bumpkins into a suave, smooth-talking ladies' man.

I'm more than skeptical, I might even say incredulous. Yet, I'm also curious. There's this nagging itch at the back of my mind nudging me towards the first page. I lay the blame on first-hand testimonials and an intriguing book cover. At first glance, The Rules of the Game comes across as another one of those mumbo-jumbo dating aids that start off being best sellers, and end up in the bargain bin some six months later. And it appears its predecessor, The Game, was highly successful, or so Amazon tells me. Then again, almost every book on Amazon seems to be a best seller.

So am I going to get started on The Rules? Perhaps. It should make an, erm, interesting read. Something to while my time away at the cafe or Starbucks. Though I will probably have to spread my palm over the front cover; I reckon one of the Rules will be to not be seen in public reading a book on the rules of dating. If it isn't, then it ought to be inserted the later editions.

Prejudices aside, I have a strong feeling that this book is going to be just another Who Moved My Cheese - boring and self-indulgent.

Or it could just be the next best thing after the Dummies series.

I wait with anticipation.

what's next; aerobics?

While the world waddles forth, Malaysia skips backwards. In a tumultuous economic climate, where companies are winding up by the dozens, we shamefacedly pronounce that things are as rosy as ever here. And to show that Malaysia is really immune from the plague spreading terror among the world markets, certain 'people' have decided to focus their precious time and effort on more pressing matters that affect national security and the well-being of a huge slice of society - the scourge of tomboys and yoga.

Question: Can people get any stupider?
Answer: Apparently they can.

The only good thing that I can see coming out of this is a huge drop in electricity tariffs. Why? Cause we're firmly set on reliving the Dark Ages.

Hilarious, but sadly true.

laugh, cry, then laugh again

We're often told that laughter is the best medicine.

While not always the cure, laughter does go a long way to make one forget about one's despair, even if for an iota of time.

So, seeing as the weather is gloomy at best today, here's you dose.

KOTA BARU: Kelantan Umno liaison chairman Tan Sri Annuar Musa has urged Malaysians not to get carried away with Barrack Obama, as “we have our own leaders to admire and our issues to resolve. I also prefer if people could wear T-shirts bearing Datuk Seri Najib Tun Razak, soon to be our next Prime Minister and Umno president,” he said

To get a full version of this side splitter, hop over to The Star.

'Laugh, and the world laughs with you. Cry, and we'll hand you tissue.'

how the mighty fall

Oh, what a wonderful time to be a consumer in Malaysia.

Prices just seem to be dropping all around us, from clothes to FMCGs to plane tickets. All thanks to the economic recession plaguing the US. It's quite gratifying, truth be told, to read about corporation after corporation winding up due their insatiable gluttony for profit, profit and more profit. I doubt many average Joes will shed even a tear for the dearly departed in Wall Street, which includes Lehmann Brothers, AIG and Bear Stearns. More will follow, for sure, all victims of of their own financial gluttony.

And what's even more satisfying is the perpetual fall of oil prices. What had, at one time been US$140 per barrel is now below US$59. And there's no sight of the bottom. Will oil eventually cost US$1 per barrel in the near future? Definitely rubs mud in the faces of analysts who predicted US$200 as the magical figure come 2009.

One can only salute Air Asia for scrapping the immensely unpopular fuel surcharge from the price of tickets. A much appreciated move, even if it's more due to pragmatic economics rather than sincere goodwill. Once again, MAS is on the backfoot. Maintain the surcharge, and lose business. Remove it, and profits drop. They deserve nothing more, I reckon.

And then we have the cutthroat mamak restaurateurs who have been maintaining their inflated prices even in the wake of the collapse of oil prices. As it were, they spouted a myriad of excuses when raising their prices (too expensive to transport milk, flour, their families etc); now they're singing about why they can't lower prices.

I, for one, am not going to buy into that mumbo-jumbo about how they're dropping prices by up to 20 or 30 sen. Technically, the prices should be way lower than even before the price of petrol rose, sometime last year. Raising the price of Milo Ais by 50 sen, then reducing it by 10 sen still sees a net increment of 40 sen. So is the new price of Milo Ais really reflective of current market forces, or just another piece of wool pulled over the public's eyes?

It's always mamak restaurants who are quick to increase food prices, and even quicker to justify them. While I do appreciate mamak sessions, I think it's high time we stopped putting up with their crap. I'm loath to use the word 'boycott', but yeah, something of the kind. Start small, and avoid the mamak chains; this includes the Pelitas, the Nasi Kandar Kayus and the Tanjungs. The roadside dudes are okay, they rarely, if ever, raise prices and still sell roti canai, for example, at well below a ringgit.

Let these greedy bastards really feel the pinch of having empty restaurants, and then we'll see how they price their ware.

To paraphrase Jackie Chan, "when the buying stops, the prices drop".

Quantum of Solace, or so it seems

Martini, shaken not stirred.

No, you're not going to hear that line in the latest Bond flick, Quantum of Solace. Though I now know how his poison is concocted, thanks to an eager beaver bartender.

That, and the fact that 007's suits have improved tremendously since he first blazed his way across the silver screen. And I have to admit, Daniel Craig does do justice to his character's extensive wardrobe. Look out for the shoes especially.

The movie, now that I've stopped veering off, is so-so. In my opinion, that is. But that's more due to the fact that as I age (gracefully), I'm more attracted to movies where the hero actually gets beaten up once in a while. Realism is what I'm talking about. I think anyone still worshipping Bond's playboy-esque mannerism and sexual conquests has really got to take a look at the calendar once in a while. Gone are the days of Bond comes, Bond screws, Bond kills. And yeah, not a single bullet wound? Lucky lucky.

The action is good, though too fast-paced even for rapid-eye-movement abilities. Luckily the pace slows down with Olga Stillcantspellhername. Here, you look forward to John Woo's slow-mo effect, drinking in every sweet detail. Don't bank on her acting skills though, I think Ursula Andress was the last Bond girl to actually offer glimpses of acting.

On the other hand, credit must be given to Daniel Craig. He's managed to mould Bond to suit his persona. Connery was macho, Moore humourous, Dalton broody, and Brosnan suave. Lazenby was, well, Lazenby. Craig, as in Casino Royale, is all raw and psychotic. Which is a change from the usual 007 fare. Good or bad, time will tell. Evidence is, CR was a hit, and QoS looks to follow suit.

And the villains are finally 3-dimensional, thankfully. Anyone who professes Blofeld had substance should look the word up in the Oxford D. I find the villain to be more important than the hero in action movies, what with the glut in comic superheroes around town. Robert Carlyle was fabulous in The World is Not Enough, as was Sean 'Boromir ' Bean in Goldeneye. Craziest of all was undoubtedly Christopher Walken. Pure psycho power.

If you do watch Quantum of Solace in a cinema in Malaysia, look out for the translation of the movie title. 'Dunia Tenang dalam Kesengsaraan'??

Messrs Ti and Thum, please stand up.

hurrah for Obama

If there is one thing we can infer from the just-concluded Presidential Election in the US, it's that Malaysia has regressed further backwards in terms of politics and governance. It further strengthens the common notion that the ruling politicians are nothing more redneck, moonshine-drinking bigots whose brains are divided into two distinct lobes; one that only recognises the word 'race' and the other that is fixated on 'religion'. I think, more so there than anywhere else, the American elections have highlighted once and for all the rotten hypocrisy that prevails here.

America, a country which gave birth to infamous groups like the KKK and various dubious cults, has shown the world that race and religion is not a prerequisite for any individual with the lofty aim of becoming President. Not anymore, at least. Unfortunately, it's a whole different ballgame here. The core of Malaysian politics is entwined tightly around creed and faith. And judging by the way things are going, there's not much light at the end of the tunnel. All that interests the governing parties is staying in power and hoarding masses of wealth; everything else is secondary. And the only way they're able to continue their wicked ways peacefully is by harping on...yes, you guessed it.

It takes one to be incredibly well-endowed with bountiful layers of epidermis to boastfully spew out the 'Truly Asia' misnomer.

Just an example: only in Malaysia can changing a road sign become a racial issue. Seriously. Only here can a multilingual road sign be construed as a threat to the national language. Yet these same idiots were oddly quiet when the equally-idiotic city hall officials were going around erecting road signs in both the national language AND Arabic; they claimed it was for tourists. Right.

Why on God's given Earth would a bunch of Arab tourists be doing in the middle of a residential area? Looking for homemade kebab perhaps? Only the KL City Hall can provide an insight to this blatant waste of public funds.

If they aren't on one of their notoriously long lunch breaks, that is.

what's pricier than petrol?

Imagine this, you walk into a pub with a couple of friends, park yourself at a table, and order a bottle of Jack Daniel's or Chivas Regal. The usual Q&A about mixers, and you're soon downing the first shot of the day. The waiter comes up with the bill, and your eyes nearly pop out; they would have popped out had your blood vessels not expanded due to the alcohol. Two hundred and fifty bloody ringgit for a bloody bottle of whiskey at a bloody small pub. A blatant case of how things are inflated, if the price is anything to go by.

Personally, I don't think any pub should price their liquor bottles above RM 200. Even that's a tad extravagant; RM 180 is a more comfortable maximum point. But we'll take petrol prices into consideration (Malaysia's No. 1 excuse for exorbitantly-priced goods) and add twenty to the ceiling price. And if we're talking about clubs, a cap of RM 350 is painful, but bearable.

All things considered, it amazes me how the smaller pubs in Klang Valley charge with impunity bottled liquor; some have even been known to bill customers up to RM 280 for a cheap ass Black Label. Now, I'm sure many will nod rather hesitantly when I say "If you can't afford it, don't bloody drink". Yet, at the same time, I can understand one's need to get a bottle and sip peacefully at the whiskey coke or vodka lime without having to wave your arms furiously after every empty glass. More so in a packed joint; waiters are at a premium, for some strange reason. It's almost as though they're skilled in blending in with the patrons, to the point of onlookers being unable to differentiate between a drunk and a person serving a drunk.

I tend to lean towards the school of thought that bottles should only be opened in clubs and not mere pubs and bars. I find it rather pretentious when a person arranges a bottles of Jim Beam, four cans of Coke, the ice bucket and one glass in front of himself in some obscure joint in the corner of some equally obscure neighbourhood. It's a bit hard to decide if it's sad, or it's pathetic.

Sadly pathetic, perhaps?

Haunting Halloween

Menacing Jack-o'-Lanterns, screeching witches, haunted houses and blood-sucking vampires.

Yes folks, it's Halloween today. Shortened from All Hallow's Evening, this holiday has its origins deeply rooted in Celtic culture. The Celts originally celebrated the day by lighting bonfires and sacrificing livestock. Halloween was celebrated on the eve of All Hallow's Day, now known as All Saints' Day. These days, however, it's more known for trick-or-treating, costume parties and horror movies.

Like Valentine's, Halloween is heavily influenced by Western practices, and has now found a niche in this part of Asia. While we are most unlikely to see children doing their rounds seeking candy alms, there will be many parties throughout the clubbing circles, as each outlet looks to maximise profits on a day catered more towards costume-dressers and horror buffs.

Seeing as not everyone here is familiar with what a pumpkin looks like, or what exactly ghouls and witches and zombies are, I've decided to shortlist some local 'celebrities' who are equally as menacing, if not more. I emphasise 'shortlist'; there are dozens of creepy creatures wandering about in the still of the night, some of them prominent, while others maintain a low profile in the public eye. Those that I mention below are the more common apparitions, often playing the part of the antagonist in most horror stories and true account renditions.

Toyol: Malaysia's enfant terible. The toyol looks like a child, with red eyes and sharp claws. It has only one purpose - to steal and give the loot to its master. A supernatural Oliver Twist, if you will. With a twist, of course. It must be fed blood, or it'll start turning against its master and the unfortunate individual's family. Occasionally it fancies a pet or two for a snack. One of the reasons why women are strongly discouraged from disposing soiled sanitary pads indiscriminately in toilets is due to this little dude's tendency to view it as a delicacy. There's nothing more heart-wrenching, literally, than sitting on your throne, accompanied by a toyol happily munching on a used pad.

Pontianak: Every guy's wet dream, literally. One night with this hot sexy babe will leave you soaking wet, in your own blood. The pontianak appears as a comely, coy chick, swaying her hips as the whiff of frangipani announces her arrival. Her attractiveness masks a malevolent spirit, a woman who died while giving birth. Seeking vengeance, she scours almost every known part of civilisation, seeking her unsuspecting victims. The only way to stop this femme fatale is to hammer a nail into her head. Once properly nailed, she remains in her foxy lady persona until the nail is removed. Her favourite hangout joint is the banana tree, and many claim to have snared a pontianak by tying red thread around the tree.

Orang Minyak: A real smooth criminal. Covered from head to toe in oil, this despicable villain sneaks into houses and deflowers virgins. Or at least, that's how the legend goes. Having made a pact with the Devil, the Orang Minyak (which literally means Oil Man) uses his oilyness to rob, rape and escape. He can only be stopped when he's forcefully wrapped in batik, followed by some courageous soul biting off the slickster's finger. Due to the drastic drop in oil prices, incidents involving the Orang Minyak have increased tenfold.

Penanggalan: Now this is one freaky woman. She gives head, and I mean, some serious blood-curdling head. A penanggalan is a midwife who's signed a deal with, yes you guessed it, the capital D. When she's in action, her head detaches and flies around, with her entrails in tow. Having broken one of the conditions in her pact, she is doomed to roam around, seeking vengeance for her predicament. She is especially known to haunt homes where childbirth is taking place, sending out her long tongue to suck the blood from the mother or child. She also has a fine eye for the placenta. When a person's blood is consumed by the penanggalan, the victim suffers a wasting disease and more often than not, dies. As with most foul creatures, she clocks in after dark; her comatose body is often stored in a big jar of vinegar in order to preserve it. Hence, during the day, she can be identified by a strong body odour, no prizes for guessing how it smells like. Some say a penanggalan midwife can also be identified by the way she relishes the sight of blood during labour. Many houses in remote villages tend to have strands of thorns lining the windows and doors, which trap the entails of any penanggalan making an illegal entry. Other preventive measures include finding and hiding the creature's body, or filling the insides with crushed glass. Ouch!

Jenglot: Think Puppet-Master. This doll-like abomination with a constantly bad hair day is one mean customer. Yet another blood sucking spirit, this vicious little creature can be fond almost anywhere, which doesn't exactly us corporeal beings feel safe at night. More often than not, it it bound to a master, who uses it to do his or her bidding. Salary comes in the form of blood, though the jenglot doesn't have to physically drink from a victim. These creatures are quite famous in museums which exhibit supernatural stuff, and some owners even rake in money taking their 'pets' on tour.

Langsuir: A close relation of the pontianak, the langsuir is bad news. Hideous when in action, this creature which appears during the day as a beautiful woman (surprise surprise) sucks the life force of a victim from the inside. Once in, it only leaves when the host is dead. Its vengeful nature is said to have stemmed from the fact that at one time, the langsuir-to be suffered the loss of its child during labour, and went through a long period of sickness itself. A parasite of sorts, this banshee is one probably the most feared villain of the piece.

Hantu Kum-Kum: A victim of vanity, the hantu kum-kum can only find peace once it has drained the blood of a certain number of virgins. Legend has it that the hantu kum-kum was once a fair maiden who harboured ambitions of being the fairest in the land. A dark being gave her what she sought, on the condition that she not so much as glance at a mirror for ten days (period varies from one society to another). And yes, she decided to look at her newfound beauty on the last day of her 'probation' period. The mirror cracked, and all she saw was a hideously, deformed face staring right back at her. She ran to the nearest shaman, who told her the only cure lay in the blood of nubile virgins. And thus the bloodthirsy hantu kum-kum began her rounds. The term 'kum-kum' apparently refers to her greeting when she's at the victim's doorsteps. Reported to be wearing a hijab or tudung, she must be first welcomed in the house in order to feast on her unfortunate quarry. Upon entry, she'd lift her hijab/ tudung and lo and behold, one less virgin in the world.

Hantu tetek: Dolly Parton mammaries, on Elizabeth Taylor. Get the picture? This big-chested spirit, in the guise of an old lady, hunts down children at night, targetting those playing outside their houses or on the lanes and paths in both towns and villages. She is known to grab her victims, before hiding them in the vast expanses of her bosom. And that's the last you'd hear of the unfortunate kids. Rumours of a hantu tetek in any given neighbourhood tend to spread like wildfire, and for several weeks, there'd be no sight of young ones in the playgrounds and gardens as dusk approaches.

Pelesit: These devious spirits are used by womenfolk as a form of protection and malice. These dark women use pelesits not only to protect themselves, but to also harm rivals or enemies. These spirits are more than willing to do their mistresses' bidding, provided they get their daily 'meals' and the chance to wreak havoc. At the same time, the mistress is also required to provide some of her own blood to sate the cravings of her 'bodyguard'. It is known to take the form of a grasshopper, especially when out on it's owner's bidding. Hence in some villages, whenever a grasshopper is trapped, its head is snapped off in order to send it back to the perpetrator.The pelesit must be continuously be taken care of by its owner, and therein lies the danger. It has to be passed down through the generations; sometimes the subsequent owner is unaware that she is privy to the services of this creature. If there is a break in the chain of inheritance, the pelesit not only takes revenge on its owner, but also on the owner' family.

So there you have it, folks. Our very own local celebrities, each infamous in its own right. I mentioned earlier that there are many other foul fiends that deserve honourable mention and these include the harimau jadian, poncong, hantu raya, puaka and bunian. I'm no Peter Vincent, and I don't intend to be one. So if you're interested in any of the creatures I've written about, or would like to know more about those that I haven't, one word: Google. Plenty of information out there, especially for those of you not familiar with Malaysian supernatural stars. And you might even get to see some images of them; I know for sure there's a website with a picture of an allegedly trapped jenglot.

Happy Halloween, mwahahahahahahaha...(sinister laugh fades into the background).

liberation, at a price

I had an epiphany last night.

I accepted the fact that I've been burying latent emotions beneath layer upon layer of delusion, suppression, regret and guilt; for many years, at that. It's like a plug in a hole; remove the former and everything comes pouring out, a trickle at first, followed closely by a gush of pent-up feelings. On saying that, it was almost matter-of-factly, how I stripped the festering layers that bandaged my psyche; coupled with the occasional thousand yard stare. My emotional priorities have changed, overnight, and I'm mildly taken aback that it's taken me this long to see things more clearly, and perhaps more rationally as well.

It's not so much as being emo but rather, it's understanding why the emotions linger. Above all, I don't feel the need to justify them any more. That's the way it is, live with it, and if you don't like it, then there's the nearest exit. The devil may care; I care even less. If I'm happy, then I will laugh; I don't need a reason to be happy. And if I'm distraught, then I will despair till I can despair no more, for only then can I say I've addressed what I feel.

I'm being rather disjointed, admittedly. But emotions themselves are swirling colours that spiral in and out of the heart, and such cannot be penned as easily as, say, a book review.

So how does this self-proclaimed enlightenment allow sight of the path ahead? For starters, I've learnt to accept. Acceptance of the loneliness within. Loneliness is categorised by three types - situational, developmental dan internal; I'm strongly contending all three categories. And this has been a constant membranous layer enveloping my mind and heart for more than twenty years. Many a time I've felt lonely in a group, more so in a crowd. But it's never been permanent, for I've continuously wrestled it into submission with companionship, conversations and a circle of friends. Yet it always returns to rear its head, at the slightest given opportunity. In my current vulnerability, it has gained a foothold.

And thus, yet another battle begins.

top of the singles' chart

So do I really want to stay single for ages?

That question distinctly implies that I have choice, doesn't it? "Yeah okay, I don't want to be single, whoop, here's my woman." I'm still tip-toeing around this forlorn, lonely planet called Singledom. It is a bleak kingdom, one without colour, ruled by the harsh King Loneliness. A land painted grey, devoid of life. Oops, slid into DM mode there.

Very well, I'll dispense with the theatrics. But the gist, the essence of my lamentation remains. Being single is so bloody boring. With a capital B; boring, that is. Why is that? Why do many people rejoice in breaking the chains of couplehood? They revel in their newfound freedom, released from the shackles that bound them to the monotony of monogamy.

(shudder) This is without doubt the longest stretch of singleness that I've endured in the past 15 years. Damn, now that piece of statistic amazes even me. Have I become so accustomed to having someone that I've absolutely no inkling on how being single works? I think so. Uh-oh, waves of palpitations are building up; i sense a bombardment of my recently-improved psyche. Breathe, fool, breathe. Repeat this: I will not be single for more than six months, I will not be single for more than six months. Dammit, six months is but a month away, give or take a week. Hope springs eternal, yet there's a rocky road and couple of chasms between hope and reality. And throw in a forest or two for good measure. Really need to have a D&D session soon.

Actually, it's not that I'm desperate or anything. Woe betide anyone who dares imply otherwise. It's more like, I can't stand loneliness. Sigh, okay, I've admitted it. So there, once in a blue moon and all that. Being lonely has always been foreign to me; now it's like close kin. And loneliness has brought a host of other unwanted imps with it, namely boredom, listlessness, tepidity.

"At first I was afraid, I was petrified."

Sometimes I feel there's a supernatural malevolent cat stalking me; it almost always launches itself at my tongue when I try to strike up a conversation with a quarry of interest. And mangles it beyond recognition. As things are, it takes me just over a decade to even approach a woman; the period is usually halved if there's sufficient alcohol flowing through my much-narrowed veins. Think Darcy, bereft of Victorian-esque charms. An awkward hello, a mundane piece of vocal contribution, a tense silence, a quick fiddle of the handphone, and it's Houston, we've lost contact. To a tee.

Then there are days when I walk on sunshine. Confidence is sky high, charm out of this world. A swirl of the glass, a flick of the cigarette, and an eye on proceedings. The end result tends to be the same, but yeah, like I said, confidence is sky high. You can't take that away from me.

But all in all, singlehood isn't exactly how I envisioned it would pan out to be. When attached, suddenly there's a party every weekend, you get plenty of flirtatious talktime, and life's generally a blast everywhere except in your relationship. You go solo, and everything disappears into thin air, compatriots who vowed to paint the town red with you have all of a sudden taken vows with someone else, and you're more often than not the proverbial third wheel in nearly all outings. You're consigned to the 'singles' tables at dinners and weddings, and asked constantly about plans to tinker the wedding bells. Right, I plan to get married, that's why I'm sitting with all the other singletons. Idiot alert.

Pre-New Year Resolution # 7: By hook or by crook, I'm bringing a date for the next function/ dinner/ reception/ wedding I attend. Even if it's some random stranger.

Yeah.

festival of lights, marlboro and all.

I just realised my previous post was a full week ago. Have I been that busy? Or is it further proof that time flies?

Either way, I'm quite surprised I haven't posted at least one rant in the past seven days. Maybe I'm more forgiving eh?

The Festival of Lights has come and gone, leaving me poorer financially and richer cholesterol-wise. My word, it was just one meal after another, all in front of the TV. From spicy chicken curry to sweet milk kovas, it was one sinful indulgence after another. And now it's payback, big time. It's going to be one long, arduous workout routine, this week and the next.

Went to Sanctuary on Deepavali eve, after a very long time. Good to see nothing has changed, much. Except the Ice Bar, don't recall it being that cold. I think the situation wasn't helped by the fact that I (and some amigos) entered the Arctic zone dripping with sweat after some age-defying moves on the dance floor (i.e. around our table area). I felt the sweat down my back freeze, literally. Still wondering if the two test tubes of Bailey's which I downed were a big help in warming up my insides, or merely overpriced shots. I must say, Sanctuary is quite a decent joint; it'd be a better place if the crowd were more heterogeneous and the damn janitors more mannered. Seriously.

But yeah, recreation-wise, it was a good weekend. Friday's stint in Bistro 7, Saturday's feast in Jarrod's and Sunday's feet-tapping fare in the Curve somehow revitalised the youth in me. And most importantly, I didn't spend any of the three nights puffing away at some mamak. Well, I did yesterday, but that just served to wind down the weekend's festivities. Can I just say Darussalam Mamak in SS 15 is quite happening, especially the first floor? Nice decor, nicer patrons, if you get my drift. Watching who comes up the stairs can be quite, well, engaging.

Let me end this post by wishing all readers a belated Happy Deepavali (since everybody celebrates everything in Malaysia) and enjoy the curries and sweets, or what's left of them.

Max Payne - somewhere in the lower regions

I'm still trying to figure if I liked Max Payne or not. The movie, that is.

Before I proceed, no, I'm not a failed film student.

And no, I'm not a film director wannabe.

So I don't have this malicious tendency prevalent among movie reviewers to show how silver screen-savvy I am, a tendency to savage anything that's isn't Tarantino or Kubrick or Allen-like. A staid bunch of verbal wankers, none more so than the pompous poof who writes for Star.

Okay, back to Max Payne. I've never played the computer game, so I couldn't care less if it stays religiously close to its origins. I mean, how many times have criticisms about the movie not staying true to the book/ game/ comic been flung around viciously as self-proclaimed aficionados sate the egotist in each and every one of them?

Yet again I digress. Well, there are two things that save this movie, one of them being the female protagonists. If this movie is anything to go by, Quantum of Solace is going to have to be renamed Quantum of Solust. Olga Whatshername is pretty damn awesome, while la chica from That 70's Show is more than delectable, albeit in some pseudo Gothic-Russian mafia-vampire-esque way. Think Kate Beckinsale in Underworld meets Kate Beckinsale in Van Helsing.

The other saving grace, I won't reveal. I don't want to spoil anyone's fun, so watch the movie and you'll definitely know what I'm talking about.

So that's that.

Personally, I categorise cinematic movies into three categories. I've yet to properly name these three categories, but when I do, it'll be on this blog. So yet another good excuse to visit me eh? Okay, like I was saying, three categories. Firstly, movies I feel were a bloody waste of my money. There are several of them, most noteworthy include Deep Blue Sea, Spice Girls The Movie, Portret Mistik and Mimpi Moon. Atrocious fares, with wooden acting and woodier scenes. After watching any movie in this category, you'd want to strangle the scoundrel who dared to suggest watching that particular movie.

Then there are movies I don't mind watching repeatedly, in the cinema. Two off the top of my head are Transformers and 300. For various reasons, watching these movies more than once is/was a pleasure. I can honestly say there have been many movies that have compelled me to watched them at least twice, and sometimes it can be due to something as simple as witty dialogue.

And finally, movies that I simply have to watch on DVD. One word: censorship. 30 Days of Night was one of them, as was Perfume. My loathing of any form of censorship is well known and well documented. There's nothing more irritating than watching a half-butchered movie. TG for the friendly neighbourhood pirate, I say. A film in its entirety, that's what you get every time you fork out the RM 9 or 10 for a pirated version. Seamless viewing, minus the botched attempts at bleeping out a 'fuck' or a boob.

So if one were to link the first half of this post with the latter half, I'd have to say I would prefer to get the pirated DVD of Max Payne.

Sorry, Max.

weekend whitewash

Sometimes, even the best laid plans get, well, laid. Deja vu. What seemed like a promising weekend petered out into boredom, disappointment and loneliness. It was a downhill slalom from Friday night onwards, and only came to a grinding halt sometime last night.

Quattro's launch was one big disappointing can of sardine. Literally. It seemed like the organisers went out of their way to ensure guests were thrown every possible inconvenience conceivable. From having to line up to enter, to having to line up for drinks, this was without the doubt the worst launch I had ever attended. The lines outside the club were akin to the IC department, with queues broken up according to names in alphabetical order. Question: why ask people to pre-register or RSVP when half the names do not appear on the guest list on the day of the function? I was literally rubbing shoulders with the patrons, that's how fucking packed it was.

Getting in was mildly annoying, getting a drink was downright pissing off. It took 25 bloody minutes just to get one drink, having had to stand in queue for the entire duration. If that weren't enough, some microgenius in the bar decided to split the drinks line into beer and whiskey. I was about five people away from the bar when suddenly one of the bartenders smugly announced they had run out of drinks, and those still thirsty could try the other line across the bar. Several minutes later, it was the official end of the free flow. I was so bloody tipsy, on one bloody beer!

Even then, the organisers didn't let up. Obviously being rude was one of the requirements to join the cleaning service in Quattro, and that's exactly how the waiters and janitors were. Barging into people, shoving patrons aside, pushing through the masses - they were at their element. Not a single excuse me, or sorry to be heard.

Okay, but there must have been something nice right, you ask optimistically. Well, the radio 4 DJ's were fabulous, that's it. Sorry folks, no silver lining. Bad air circulation, too much sound interference in the Summer/ Spring sections, a long flight of stairs to Winter, and concealed restrooms. To be fair, though, give it another three months, and then it will probably be quite a decent joint. At this moment, too many posers adorning the furniture there, eager to be seen and maybe heard there.

Which brings me to a sub-post - posers. My word, they're so stereotypical. Typically, a group of both genders. Must-have accessories include black dresses, a multitude of bottles and loud voices. The boys (somehow 'men' does not fit) try to act cool; the girls go for 'cooler'. There's a distinct paradigm shift as the hours pass by and the bottles lose their contents. Voices become louder, and actions more uncivilised. Then the puking starts, and whatever class they think they have just goes down the toilet bowl. That's if you're lucky; more often than not it's sprayed across the floor or sofas. Which is why, sometimes the clothes (and bottles) do not make the man. Money is fleeting, class eternal.

Yeah, so that was Friday. Thanks to a series of unfortunate events, I was home alone on Saturday night. Even the prospect of watching Everton play could not keep me hooked to the tube. Which led to a solitary beer at Savanh Too. Sad, but true. Quite a decent crowd, though, and the music was quite the happening. However the prospect of drinking and driving alone didn't appeal to me, though, and I was back home within an hour.

Like I said, a real tear-jerker.

faces on books

What's with rainy weather and sleepiness? It's almost impossible to experience a rainy day without the eyelids growing heavier and heavier with each dropping raindrop. Especially when it's all dark outside and the aircond remote control display show 20 degrees C. Show me the bed, and I'll give you sleep.

Is there anyone you can't find on Facebook? I think not. Not unless they're still in the Stone Ages (relatively speaking). I reckon FB's like a hundred times better than Friendster, and no, I'm not doing a review. Not anytime soon. Although the kinks that still bug the applications can be quite hair-tearing, especially if you're trying to send that all-important flirt line you took hours to compose; or if you're trying to recruit your final zombie/ vampire/ mobster and ascend to the pinnacle of Facebook superemacy. But yeah, TG for Facebook.

What I don't understand, though, is those people who post non-related pictures in their profile. I mean, the whole idea of joining FB is to network and find old friends. So what exactly does putting a picture of a dog/ cat/ clown/ car/ comic character/ actor/ actress etc on your profile achieve? Unless one doesn't want to be discovered by his/ her friends/ parents/ colleagues/ employers/ ah longs/ government etc. Or one could be horribly unphotogenic, in which case, use as many animal pictures as you want. Or a burqa perhaps?

Or, even cooler, wear a mask. An iron one preferably.

around the gym in eighty kilos

I need new shoes.

I need new shirts.

I probably need a new wardrobe altogether. And a brand new fashion sense to follow.

Since I'm on a roll, why not a decent house somewhere in Subang, PJ, Bangsar or Damansara Heights? So I could keep furry four-legged creatures in my compound, even when I'm incredibly old and close to death. Magnificent mutts they'd be; rolling about in the mud. Altogether I won't complain terribly if I had a house and a condo.

All I ask is for the chance to prove that money can't buy happiness - Spike Milligan

Aiya (sigh). I'm in bit of a mental muddle currently, hence the disjointed flow. I think. Adolescent exuberance has been tempered by adult pragmatism.

Signs. Can you trust them to guide you? Can you disregard them at your expense? Don't read too much into signs, many say, but how much is too much? There's a continuous stream of what if-s and could be-s; any of which can sustain a conversation deep into the night. Then again, we are but players in this foolish game, searching, probing, anticipating. With reciprocation comes elation, pleasure, bliss. Rejection brings disappointment, despair, loneliness. But then again, there is no joy without pain, no happiness without its twin, sadness. As such, can reciprocation be truly treasured if there were no brush with rejection?

What on earth are you rambling on about, I chastise myself. I've no bloody idea, to be honest.

Okay, let's focus on something substantial, something more tangible.

Well, the end of the month gets closer; another two weeks or so to go. I must say, this year has just flown by like an arrow whizzing past. Guess the Euros and Olympics helped the months move along; the middle of the year is often the 'slowest moving'. However, there's still November and December, so might there be any unexpected event on the horizon that brings a sting to the tale of 2008?

Watch this, uhm, calendar?

three's a company, of crooks

Politics in this part of SE Asia is turning out to be a quite a spectacle. The three neighbours; Thailand, Malaysia and Singapore; all profess to be democratic in governance, yet reality offers a different opinion. And it's bemusing when one looks at the going-ons in these three historically-linked nations.

Here in Malaysia, people are fighting against the debilitating corruption and draconian ISA laws that continue to hold the country back. Some say the highly-oppressive Internal Security Act is akin to kidnapping, and not many will disagree, barring the perpetrators of course. Corruption is so ingrained that it's been sexed up and rebranded as money politics, which is widely embraced in certain ruling parties.

A two hour flight up north, and we find ourselves in Krungthep, the most happening capital city in Asia. It's so happening that it's seen one street party after another, since December last year. Alcohol, party revellers, tanks, guns, soldiers, barricades, protesters and pickets. The Government House is probably the most preferred choice of accommodation, with capacity reaching the thousands. While people in other developing and semi-developed countries continue their quest for greater democracy and freedom, here in the land of the Wats, a minority clamours for greatly reduced representation of elected MPs in the Parliament. They steadfastly believe the poor rural hillbillies are incapable to voting for the 'correct' party and as such, should not be given the responsibility of determining their nation's future. Only in Thailand, mind you, can this happen.

A quick drive to Suvarnabhumi, and we're off to that tiny speck down south where free speech is raucously silent. Mention politics, and you'd hear a pin drop. In terms of political activism, welcome to the land of the Ostriches. Speak, and be sued. That's the name of the game here. So forget mouthing off political ideals, and just immerse yourself in shopping, sightseeing and gambling. There's a reason why the blissfully ignorant go far in life.

Yeah, three countries, three approaches, one issue - democracy. No pun intended when I say this has Greek tragedy written all over it. A tragedy for the poor, a tragedy for integrity and a tragedy for the mind.

Myanmar, anyone?

here comes the bull

Stock market, share market.

Is there a difference? Apparently not. What are derivatives? What are commodities? And how many stock options are there? Is a broker also known as a remisier? Will I reap my riches by the time I'm 40? Too many questions, whichever way I look at it. So best just do it first, and learn as I go.

What do I know about playing with shares? Little, based on the sheer number of terms that have me looking at them blankly. But everyone has to start somewhere, and I'm starting at the end of the month.

So which ignorant fool actually wants to enter a world that is fast crashing? A world thrown into turmoil by greed and deceit. Well, I'm basing my investments on the fact that 'what goes down, will surely come up'. Sound principle right? Why spend hours poring over graphs and text when the only outcome is either buy or sell? So yeah, that'll be my personal motto as I wheel and deal with hundreds at first, and thousands not much later.

Think of it this way. The MBA-armed, Italian-suited, money-laden executives of Wall Street have nicely landed the world economy in a pleasant mess, to put it mildly; they who speak in a language native to financial centres, they whose Bible is surely the Wall Street Journal, they who worship Bloomberg, they who have power lunches and even bigger power trips. So why not go against the grain, so to speak, and buy when everyone says to run? Besides, I doubt I'll be pumping in wads of cash, perhaps a couple of hundreds tops. I'll just add to the amount sporadically, and who knows in 20 years' time.

It seems the first thing I need to do is open a CDS (Central Depository System) account with a broker. Submit some documents, and I'll be standing on the rooftop shouting out "Baby, I'm ready to go!" Still unsure about the finer points (and most of the big ones too), but I'm not going to let some trivialities get in the way of my riches. But those interested in dabbling in the share market, head on to Bursa Malaysia's website - it teaches greenhorns about market terminology, and pretty much everything else. There's also a list of brokers and an online risk calculator.

So move over Gordon Gecko, the Barbarian is waiting impatiently at your gate.

funny little thing called dating

Dammit!

Really beginning to feel like a loser these days, with capital L. Awkward, graceless with a constant foot in my mouth. Doesn't help that I also feel like something of a cross between a wallflower and Chandler. Multiplied by a factor greater than infinity. Yes, that bad. Though I probably exaggerate; I hope. I think the biggest drawback, the greatest drag is the all-pervading self-consciousness that envelopes me like an impregnable layer of mucus. Sometimes I get a strange suspicion I'm socially inept when it comes to dating. I should be more honest; I'm socially inept when it comes to getting a date. There, one less white lie. Truth be told, since honesty seems to be the order of the day, I'm quite annoyed and irritated, not to mention demoralised and lacking in self confidence. It's just one of those days, I guess. Or weeks. Perhaps months?

I think that everyone has one paralysing, all consuming, brain freezing, mouth drying, tongue twisting fear when it comes to dating. It could be anything under the sun, from something embarrassing like bad skin and speech impediment to something incredibly trivial such as horrible shoes. Mine is rejection. There's no human response more devastating than rejection. I blame it on my astrological constellations. Rejection is an anathema to Leos. Being proud creatures and all (some might say vain), we cannot live with the fact that we're not wanted. Maybe I overdramatise. I wouldn't say 'cannot live', but I will say 'cannot accept'. There's a reason for the phrase 'a pride of lions', you know. Proud beasts, we are. Okay, perhaps slightly overfed and more than used to the comforts of life, but underneath that all is a lean, mean machine. Add thick, flowing hair for effect.

You may ask - how can one get rejected without having made an attempt? (Long drawn) True, but therein lies the cosmic mystery of the chicken and egg. In order to get rejected, I must try. If I try, I face rejection. Oh, the Greek tragedy of it all (hands flung across forehead). I'm being a woos-like character, aren't I? Yeah yeah, I know the drill; win, not whine. No, it's not from the Love Guru. What's even more tragic is that I'm not even in a situation to contemplate organising a date; there's a small issue of finding someone to ask out.

O what a tangled web we weave, even more so as there is no web.

On to something more uplifting. I think. Attended a wedding reception on Saturday, an impressive one at that, with classical dancers and performances. Oh, and plenty of booze. And yes, instead of metamorphosising into a social butterfly and fluttering among the many flowers, I contorted into a Norm and parked myself at the bar, whiskey and cigarettes and all. Shaken and completely unstirred. A real microgenius. A late visit to Waikiti Too failed to boost flagging spirits, worsened by less than satisfactory beer. And thus the weekend just flew by, leaving me trailing in its wake. I'm still trying to figure out how come it's Monday already.

Oo, are you questioning your size? Is there a tumour in humour, are there bags under you eyes?

Currently on my mental playlist are Love Supreme and Brass in Pocket, on repeat. At times, they're digitally remixed, one song melting into the other. Hopefully, just hopefully, they send me sailing through the week. Then maybe I'll get out of it.

I think.

the sun never sets on the Empire

So, I was like having a conversation with The Don some time back when the topic of drinking reared its delicate head. No, not the art of drinking or the many palatable offerings available in KL. Neither was it a case of who-drank-what-and-how-much. It was more insightful than that. We cracked our heads together (figuratively, mind you), trying to list down all the 'old school' joints around. By old school I don't mean the pub next to the church along Jalan Gasing. I'm referring to the decor, the ambience, the setting - colonial-era pubs, in a nutshell.

What exactly are colonial-era pubs, one may ask? Well, they don't necessarily have to have been built during the British Empire, though almost 90% of them were. They have, however, to have the feel, most importantly. By feel I mean the red-and-white chequered table cloth, a good plate of chicken chops, brass bars and ornaments, proper cutlery and crockery, and most importantly, fresh alcohol. Yes, fresh. In chilled mugs. And whiskey Cokes with bubbles in the liquid. Having decent English-speaking waiters and bartenders wouldn't hurt either, though that's some sort of a rarity these days.

Anyways, back to the story. There is more than a handful of such establishments in the Klang Valley, and even more in Ipoh and Penang. For those of us too lazy to make a two to four drive just to guzzle down two mugs of beer, the options closer to home are none the worse, I assure you. There is (drum roll, please) the Coliseum Cafe, the much chronicled joint on Jalan Tengku Abdul Rahman (popularly known as Jalan TAR or Batu Road). A legend in its own right, Coliseum was built sometime in the 1920's, if I'm not mistaken. Excellent drinks, delicious steaks (yes, I had my one and only steak here), and the caramel custard is to die for, either from heavenly delight or diabetes. The cuisine is more Asian-oriented these days, so those seeking local dishes will also find fried noodles and such.

Then there's Jaguar Supper Club in PJ State (PJ Newtown to some). Commonly just called Supper Club, it's on Jalan Yong Shook Lin; you can't miss it. Or if you do, it's directly opposite the CIMB, give or take several lots. Hearty meals and heartier drinks. It even has a low ceiling, so you really get that closed up, boxed in feeling. It's definitely a place you'd want to order Famous Grouse or Teacher's at; either neat or on the rocks. Old school stuff, I tell you.

Then we head back to KL. To what, in my opinion, is one of the most elegant railway stations in the world. Here you'll find Charlie's Restaurant & Bar. Another blast to the past, the early 20th century. Cheap, elegant and classy; that's what you get here. One can only imagine how the outlet was during the heydays of the rail, back in the 20's right up to the 50's. On saying that, I'm not exactly sure when Charlie's was established, but I do know their interior decorations are an amalgamation of new furniture and materials from a century ago.

Now this next joint, I'm not sure if it's still operational. Bistro 1919, near Jalan Pudu Lama. A colonial bungalow converted into a restaurant, fine dining all the way. I chanced upon the place several months after it had opened its doors, and was thoroughly impressed. Admittedly, the chi-chi factor was raised several notches higher than it should have, but one can't fault the make-up and aesthetics of the place. Very much reminiscent of Le Coq d'Or in Jalan Ampang. Hopefully 1919 hasn't shared the same fate.

Another place that comes to mind is Long Bar, situated in one of the remaining vestiges of British colonialism, The Royal Selangor Club. Most likely to have been established by some Victorian gentleman or clergyman, as there is a strict Men Only admission rule. Even today, in 2008! I guess some traditions need to be maintained at all cost, eh? Sit at the bar, sip your rum and peruse the ancient photos and portraits that deck the walls. Definitely worth a visit during lunch time. And no, there aren't any ladies to be picked up there. Think satay fest.

I'm pretty sure there are more, but my mind's a blank. Writing about frothy beer and tasty morsels has sent the grey matter into hibernation mode, at least until about 6ish this evening. However, the author (that's me) welcomes any venues he has left out (I kinda like writing in the third person). More or less.

it's kinda like a love song

Why a list, you ask? Well, a certain lovesick wine dealer kept harping on the fact that almost all the songs in my collection were lagu jiwang (that's love ballads). I put it down to audio delusions - when one is drowning in the sea of love, every song is a love song. Speaking from experience? Perhaps.

So yeah, what constitutes a good ol' love song? One that lifts your spirits, sending them soaring into the heavens? Or one that puts you in the mood for some 'hot stuff'? Or could it be one that makes you want to end life by jumping off a ship? To each lovestruck Romeo, his own. To every Juliet, there's always one that caresses her heart strings. I reckon a decent love song is one that makes you want to go out and find someone. Or, if attached, to drag him/her close and stoke the fires. Waxing lyrical, in more ways than one.

Here's a list, like the ones found in Girls'/Boys' Night Out/ In novels. I'd like to think the publishers of the series will one day ask for my list. Till then, remember, you read it here first.

Always on My Mind; Willie Nelson
A priceless lesson to be learnt here - always tell your partner in crime how much you love him/her/it. Don't wait till it's too late. You can just feel the regret old man Nelson is suffering from, the desire and wish to have spoken tender words of love long before they became meaningless. This song goes very well with a drink by the bar, preferably in a slumped over posture.

LOVE; Nat King Cole
If anyone asks you what love is, just sing this song. You'll either be celebrated as a sage, or never be asked the question again. Either way, a chirpy love song that espouses the elegant and bubbly 50's. Okay, maybe not in terms of society and world peace, but in terms of love and romance.

Loving You; Shanice
I find this a very innocent love song. La-la-la-la and all that. The original even has birds chirping in the background. And yes, loving someone is easy. It's just a matter of sustaining that love. This melody never fails to ferry me to the plains of nostalgia.

Faithfully; Journey
Powerful stuff. At one time, the most popular wedding song around. Vows of eternal love and loyalty, that's what you find in this song.

Truly; Lionel Richie
One of the best love songs to date. A huge karaoke favourite, though I've yet to meet a karaoker who's done the song justice. Simple, yet overwhelming. If I recall correctly, I performed a rendition, which was met by a standing ovation and glowing reviews during one of my company's do's. Truly.

Te Amo Corazon; Prince
Sensual Latin flavour accompanies Prince's lyrics in this song which is about the first encounter. I was never into Prince, but when I heard this song sometime in the 2000's, I had to have it on my playlist. Think salsa, sangria and sex. And a beach thrown in for good effect.

The Look of Love; Dianna Krall
Always preferred the cover to the original. The husky voice is complemented with the sultry beat. And the instrument which makes the chi-chi-chi sound, simply awesome. "Don't ever go, don't ever go...I love you so."

You Are So Beautiful; Joe Cocker
The song only comprises several lines, but what bloody good lines they are. All this crooner is saying is that his woman is beautiful to him. You can feel the love flowing through those simple words as he repeats them throughout the song. For added effect, watch Carlito's Way. You will be moved, I tell you. I'd also recommend this song for beauty hypnosis.

Sugar Pie Honey Bunch; The Four Tops
Bouncy, infectious and eternally exuberant. I just want to get up and do a jig every time I hear this song; which is quite often enough since I have it as a ringtone. The moment the notes from the piano start emanating, you just want to move your shoulders and snap your fingers. Yep, can't help myself.

The Power of Love; Frankie Goes to Hollywood
Dark, Gothic and melancholic, and it's a love song. Think Buffy meets Highlander. The melody just lifts your spirit, making you want to protect your lover from the dark forces of vampires and werewolves. Okay, a tad bit melodramatic. Seriously though, this is probably the only love song that I know of which fits perfectly in the original genre of Romanticism.

Beautiful Maria of My Soul; Antonio Banderas
The Spanish version. Hot, passionate, dangerously destructive. Especially if you've seen Armand Assante doing the scarf dance in the movie. Belts apparently don't work the same. But the horns and trumpets; blow, amigo, blow. Really listen to the song, and you can even detect the underlying tone of jealousy, as is the norm in every Latin lover, it would seem.

In the near future, out-of-love songs.