Believing In Change Again

Much has been said about the coming general election. Some, however, feel nothing will change and have decided to sit things out or, worse, spoil their votes on polling day. Why bother, they say, when neither side offers no better option or proposition?

Choosing a lesser evil, as some paint the opposition, is still choosing evil. So these holdouts are prepared to grin and bear it until something better comes along.

Lucky them, because they know what better options look like. But do the rest of us know what's "better", after years of being conditioned to believe that things are already great here and can't get any better?

We know the refrain: change is bad, risky, potentially catastrophic. When we ask, "What's the worst that can happen?", the reply is "EVERYTHING." Those who display aspirations to find what's better or agitate for change tend to get taken down.

For some, this is WHY the general election is about change. We need to change the perceptions that the system is change-proof, and that changing things will always make things worse.

So before people can believe in "better", they need to believe in "change". People need to see change in action not just to believe in it but to see whether the myths cooked up about it hold up. Many do, at least in the short term.

People privileged enough to see "change" in action, to have glimpsed what "better" looks like, can never fully convey the significance of both to others. Fancy words don't help, either.

Only when people are allowed to enact change and see it happen, will they believe in it, and realise that they can modify their circumstances. Few things are more uplifting than knowing we can Make Things Happen.

Then, other myths will eventually fall.

Complacency sets in without change, along with the feeling that as long as power remains within a circle, the people in that circle can get away with whatever they want. Once that notion is eroded, they'll eventually drop certain behaviours and focus on what's really important instead.

Wishful thinking? Perhaps. Naive? Probably.

Change is always hard, particularly when dislodging long-entrenched rules, mindsets and institutions. It will involve reflection, acknowledgement and confronting the worst in us before we can work towards the best we can be.

We borked our moral compass by entrusting a few to set its direction, ultimately letting them control our minds and letting them seed into us ideas that only serve their needs. They're not giving that up without a fight.

This land, our institutions and our families will probably outlast many of us. To only work for change that guarantees good results in the near future or even within our lifetime seems a little short-sighted.

Consider GE14 a chance to break some bad habits. Yes, other things will be broken as well. Chaos might ensue. When all seems bleak, we need to believe in the positive, however remote it might seem. We need to believe our better halves will prevail in hard times.

People are donating to help others travel home and vote, regardless of political leanings? Who'd believe that would happen?

But it's happening, because a few believed it was possible to help them. And because a few believed, more and more believed too.

Believe that we can change. Believe that we can enact change for the better. Believe that things can be better.

Believe that we can be better.

Out Of Hibernation

About two months ago, Uncle had a stroke. Someone found him crawling out of the drain he fell into and brought him to the hospital. Bits of clotted blood were found in the blood vessels in his brain, but no surgery was required. Instead, they gave him blood-thinning meds.

The news shocked the family. Uncle didn't smoke, drink or pig out. The doctor attending him mentioned high cholesterol levels, but didn't the clots cause it? How much did his cholesterol levels have to do with it? The doctor couldn't say.

Two cousins and I visited him the next day in the ICU. A day later, at an aunt's suggestion, I stayed with him for a night the night he was taken to a normal ward. Though he seemed better, half his body was weak, he couldn't speak and swallow properly, and he apparently had little control over his bladder or bowels.

When I came down to the city to live more than 25 years ago, Uncle did a lot to help me set up here. Since then, he's been the go-to guy for stuff about my rented apartment, on top of the miles-long list of stuff he did for the aunt's food business, from logistics and HR to paying bills and banking. For a long time, he was the rock in the roiling chaos of my life in the city.

Seeing him like this gutted me.

Perhaps, selfishly, I thought about me. Like Uncle, I had no spouse, little money, and few means to bounce back from such an event. Would I even be as lucky as Uncle, if and when the time came?

I was told how "lucky" I was that my family didn't have a history of debilitating illnesses - not so "lucky" now. On top of my asthma, allergic rhinitis, IBS and gastric problems, my occasional insomnia and possible depression, on top of the anxiety Uncle's illness is causing, what else awaited me down the road?

That struck right to my core. I can't afford to get into any trouble. I need more money. I need more exercise. I need more sleep. I need much, much less Malaysian food. I need a life mission - or two.

(Did I declare, repeatedly, that I picked editing and writing as jobs because I won't be retiring from them? How arrogant of me. As if I'd be able to or allowed to.)

What the hell have I been doing all this time?

Thank goodness for Lok and Fong. They endured a long wait with me for a table at a full-house Omulab on a muggy Saturday night and listened to me pour my heart out (like now) and gave me an attitude adjustment, one of many they doled out over the years.

"You gotta be the rock for your uncle now. How can you, if you go all to pieces too?"

The small batch of test chocolate chip cookies I'd made earlier in the afternoon and gave them didn't suffice.

I went home bone-tired, weary, and still a little anxious. Despite not sleeping well at the hospital, I stayed up till one-plus in the morning, tucked in by fatigue.

To calm my anxieties, I'd embarked on some spring-cleaning, including two boxes left behind by a relative. I ignored the roach carapaces (one of my kryptonites) and sorted out the contents, throwing away everything that I could justifiably discard. I also vacuumed and mopped the floors, scrubbed the bathroom a bit, and washed the bed linen.

Amazing, how much one can do in an afternoon.

Throw it all off. Let it all wash away. Doubt, pride, fear, guilt, the burdens of the past. A life with no hang-ups, no baggage and nothing to hide sounds pretty good. Liberating, possibly. I don't know if it'll ever take off in a huge way, but I need to take steps.

If only I'd learnt and embraced all of this without such a high cost.

These days, Uncle's getting better. Even though his old self appears to have re-emerged, it's as if a chunk of himself is gone. Brain and nerve damage, likely. But he's still with us.

More heartwarming is the community that grew around him during his stay. Key members were his former roommate, also a stroke victim, and the roommate's mother.

Auntie has been extra supportive; she told us about an expensive but effective health supplement for stroke recovery several other patients in the ward were taking, after a thorough investigation (i.e., being an auntie). She also told me about the Tzu Chi Foundation, which helps out with equipment and such; the National Stroke Association of Malaysia (NASAM); and other stuff.

I believe they were another reason the rate of his recovery was good, apart from the acupuncture and almost-daily exercise drills by relatives. The roommate was discharged last week, so we won't be seeing Auntie and her crew at the hospital anymore. They were super helpful in keeping him company as well when we're not around, so they will be missed. I'm grateful for them.

Still, it seems I'm not done feeling sorry for myself. Looking at Uncle, his life thus far and his condition made me wonder what all the learning, skill training, trivia gathering, resume building, what all that writing and filling up newspaper columns is for, if this is what might happen. What's the point?

For a while, I turned to CDs of podcasts by Ajahn Brahm of the Buddhist Society of Western Australia for comfort. Since I found additional podcasts of his talks online, I've been tuning into them almost every night, in lieu of the YouTube videos.

Repeated listenings of his talks - recycled similies, anecdotes, bad jokes and all - nurtured a letting-go attitude, but that also meant letting go of the muse and a weakened urge to write. I think I'm developing a nightly BrahmTalk™ habit too; he's already displaced BFM Radio on my drives to work and back.

I'm not sure if that's good or bad. But it did put some perspective on an incident about three weeks ago.

One Saturday, I received summons to visit Uncle instead of the usual Sunday. I'd scheduled things a little tight, hoping to keep a dinner date with Fong and Lok after the visit. But I thought I could sneak in a wash for the car, so off to the car wash I went. I fumed as I left for the hospital because all the nearby car washes were packed.

I left the hospital around 5pm, wondering if I was going to be late for dinner. Then Lok told me through WhatsApp that Fong was napping and asked whether we could dine later. I didn't chafe at this delay, glad to have visited Uncle and glad to have a breather in between. I went back for a break and managed to get the car washed.

The hospital visit, car wash and dinner were all settled in the end, despite the hiccups in the schedule. And I felt stupid for blowing up because of my haphazard car wash scheduling - of course it would be packed on weekends.

When I returned from dinner, I found people pouring out of a neighbourhood school as I parked the car. Seems the opposition coalition had a rally there that night. Oh well, the company at dinner was better.

As a bonus, I discovered more potential stomach irritants: cheese and processed meats. Minutes after scarfing down a cheese-enhanced wrap, the gut ballooned. But there were other ingredients, so I couldn't be sure. I hope it's not (also) the basil pesto. That would suck - one less recipe I can whip up on occasion.

In spite of my worries, that Saturday turned out okay. That was when Ajahn Brahm's exhortations to not worry or be anxious about the future - "the present is where your future's being made" - made so much sense.

The podcasts wrought other changes. I've mellowed out a little more, spend less time online after hours, don't blow up so much at work or over bad manuscripts (and I'm working on a couple). I feel less judgemental and snarky, though I worry about what that might do to my book reviews.

And because of the changes to my body as well, I've shrunk my portions, I'm going to bed before midnight more often, usually after a nightcap of diluted oats and oat bran with a splash of milk. And I wake up around the same time, before dawn. Nor do I miss my frequent coffees.

Then came news of the upcoming general elections and the related shenanigans...

Good times will pass, it's been said. So will bad times. Soon, hopefully.

Farewell, 2017

I didn't want to write this, because I knew more or less what the outcome would be when I wrote this list about a year ago. Of course I wouldn't even accomplish half of it.

So I'll just list down what I got done.

Despite not being active this year, I did pick up a new habit: swimming. Although, it's more enjoyable if you're not counting laps, competing with other swimmers and fighting other people for space in the pool.

I did yoga for several months, but my instructor took time off to have a baby and I never found - or went looking for - another instructor. If I ever need to I guess I can look around.

I had reviews published in the papers this year, but I could've done better. And the to-read pile just got a little bigger.

I made chocolate chip cookies. I've always wanted to go there after success with my shortbread. But the first batch didn't quite work out the way I thought, and as each failed batch means money and ingredients down the drain, I'm being careful about when I bake my next batch.

But I made more use of the rice cooker for oat porridge and got a pasta machine to play around with, so it's been a nice year for me in the kitchen.

Overall, though, this year sucked.

I got sick. The worst I'd been in years. Either I ignored or underestimated my gastric problems, which got so bad they gave me insomnia. For two weeks I barely slept, an as a last resort I went to a psychiatrist, who was confident that I had depression. And the medical expenses I've had to foot from all that.

The shock of it all might have reset my circadian rhythms, to my relief, and I could sleep again. But as 2017 drew to a close I found myself repeating the same pattern of behaviours that might have started the health problems in the first place.

Late hours. No regular exercise. Eating all sorts, many of which were spicy, milky, creamy, greasy, or a combination of some or all of the aforementioned. Much of which includes hipster-cafe fare, of course.

I found refuge in fine food, among others, when things got too tough to handle. What would I do if that door shut completely?

Guess some of us can't enjoy certain things as we age. That is still hard for me to accept.

I don't know where I'm going with this. Maybe I just want to rant.

I won't be making any more lists. I don't see the point.

Chester Bennington (1976–2017)

...When my time comes, forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some reasons to be missed
Don't resent me, and when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory, leave out all the rest
Leave out all the rest

Forgetting all the hurt inside you've learned to hide so well
Pretending someone else can come and save me from myself
I can't be who you are
I can't be who you are...

"Leave Out All The Rest"
Minutes to Midnight (2007)
Linkin Park

Pardon My English, Part II

Although this might be an attack on Tun Mahathir, I had to throw my hands in the air and sigh, "Not again."

In Malaysia, language is so tightly tethered to cultural identity that to want to learn another is to betray one's roots, or worse. To hear of schoolchildren being teased for their attempts to study English is depressing.

I've had the benefit of private tuition and an upbringing that encouraged me to use English. Those who can't afford or access that would have to rely on school and measures such as PPSMI. Otherwise, would anyone take the initiative, against social prejudices, to gain access to a wider world?

Multinational firms have been complaining of local grads with poor communication skills at job interviews, particularly in English. Some of these companies NEED employees who can function anywhere, and English - and maybe Chinese - is widely used.

In certain situations, miscommunication can mean disaster. You want to discuss "language apartheid" with a supervisor who's had to deal with a subordinate who doesn't understand phrases such as "Caution: Do Not Open", "This Side Up" and "Danger: Radioactive"?

But no. We get things like "Pihak swasta pilih kasih", "Depa pandang rendah Bahasa Melayu", and "Apa yang hebat sangat kalau speaking?" Or "Jepun dan Korea Selatan tak guna Bahasa Inggeris pun boleh maju."

True beccause learning the language doesn't necessarily move one to adopt the related culture. Japanese and Korean work ethics and civic consciousness can be hard to pick up.

Language is not merely a marker of identity or status any more. It has become a tool - useful ones, too. Stigmatising those who want to learn another language is akin to robbing them of the keys to more opportunities.

I'm not fond of some of the things happening to BM (Why "Bajet"? Too many letters in "Belanjawan"?), and to hear others denigrate the language ticks me off. But there should be other ways of defending BM without angry, jingoistic us-versus-them arguments.

Like it or not, English has become the international language for science, maths, finance and commerce - though I've been told that for the latter, Chinese is gaining ground. In contrast, we have few reasons to use Malay beyond our borders and the language's official capacities.

Tun M has his flaws, but he had foresight in certain matters. Some parents might be getting the hint as well.

When will the rest of us start catching up?

When Wandering Hearts Hunger For Home

I cut into a scone with a knife and spread the last of the jam and clotted cream onto the halves. By themselves the scones had little taste, though the faint perfume of butter promised more. So the jam and cream were necessary, and I found myself wishing they gave out more. But I didn't have the heart to ask.

Nor did I have the heart for much else that evening.

I left work for dinner one weekday evening with my head full of mental bramble. I can't remember why I was bummed out, but I knew I didn't want to deal with it sitting in a shiny café with a sculpted plate before me. Something a little more rough-hewn and quotidian was called for.

One evening at a café months earlier, I caught up with a couple of friends and saw one of them off; she was heading to Singapore to work. I liked the salmon, but had no room for the scones, which they told me was good.

Seemed like a good idea.

I stopped ordering pasta dishes since I learnt how to prepare them, as many are simple and don't take much to make. I make exceptions for what's beyond my current skillset, but we all have lazy or sad days.

So I tucked into a spaghetti bolognaise. Some effort went into decorating the plate, but I felt the dried herbs should just go on the dish. I made a bit of a mess when I blew on the pasta to cool it, scattering the herbs onto the table.

Just as I'd expected, its workaday plainness cleared my mental haze somewhat and didn't fill me up completely.

I appreciated that they warmed up the scones, but not only was there not enough cream and jam, the scones were still kind of hard and could only be cut across. Splitting them from the top was difficult; attempts to do that made more crumbs. And without the cream and jam they had little taste and moisture.

Which is probably why it's usually "tea and scones".

Once the food was gone, so was the steel wool of tangled thoughts in my head - until a familiar gloom clawed its way in.

Heartache. Numbness. Loneliness.

From what I could notice, this café opened to some fanfare. The homely décor, welcoming and unpretentious, might have been intended to keep customers around and make them feel at ease. Some places are so done up you're afraid to leave your fingerprints on any polished surface.

And parts of it looked like a converted house. One corner was a seating area you can comfortably have tea at and not realise you are not at home. Handwritten notes and drawings hung on a series of wire racks on the walls, mementoes left behind by patrons past.

The white-tiled counter with cement-hued sides where beverages, scones and pastries were served from dominated the dining area, with cheap-looking thin steel-legged chairs with plastic backs and seats enhancing the DIY diner's vibe. The al fresco seating area outside looked inviting, and more so during daytime.

I'm not fond of crowds, but any social establishment like this was meant to be packed. Looking around, I imagined the chatter and laughter of times when this place was new, the clatter of silverware on plates, the clinking of spoons against cups, and the aroma of coffee. Oh yes, and people. Lots of people.

But I was alone this evening, and the dining room feels cold in more than one way. The motor in the chiller would intermittently kick in, raising a din as it did. Kind of old-fashioned, but I didn't mind.

My attention returned to the notes on the wire racks, which flapped from the draught from the ceiling fan. Each flutter seemed to conjure remnants of what the writers did while they were here; the results were discordant but still painted a discernible picture of this café's heydays.

At this phantom recollection, my heart felt slowly squeezed by a melancholic longing for the writers of these notes to return and, strangely, a burgeoning curiosity about them. Who are you all? How did you learn about this place? What did you have and did you like it? How do you feel about this place and its staff? How often do you come back? Will you return someday?

What would it take to make you return?

A different picture soon unfurled. An empty living room. A single grey-haired figure slumped in a chair, staring longingly on a shelf full of framed photographs. The walls replay events they've witnessed over the years, interrupted by shadows thrown by the occasional ripple of a curtain. In the air, past ghosts of conversations and banter whisper over the hum of a ceiling fan.

The chiller's motor kicked in again, bringing me back to reality. The clutching sensation withdrew from from my heart as I got up, prompting memories of other places afflicted by a similar forlornness.

The silence of a once-vibrant place can be heart-rending, as it tolls for the impending death of a dream.

I couldn't stay any longer.

I walked into the night with even more questions. For those of us who left home to pursue a better life and a place of our own, our birthplace holds a certain allure - that is, to those with more fortunate childhoods. It is where we learnt of the world and how to survive it, an education sustained by the flavours from our mothers' kitchens.

And it is this nurturing sustenance that we return to when life exhausts us, saps us of our wide-eyed wonder, optimism, confidence and courage to face it. Even the stoutest spirits longs for the healing nourishment of home.

However, as those hands age to the point where even stirring a pot is laborious and old recipes fade away from memory for a lack of heirs, we who now dwell far away from home and family resort to surrogates. We take pictures, exhange notes and wax lyrical of this and that, perhaps in a vain attempt to disguise a deeper hunger.

Food, after all, is more than flavour, presentation, and ambience. And the hands that stir the pots we often eat out of these days may not care as much for our welfare, our joy, or our troubles as they toil above their own struggles.

Yes, they fulfil a need, and some of their owners and cooks may be passionate about food and what they do. They strive to do their best against the odds. Over time, we may develop a bond with these places and their people.

But try as it might, a café, bistro or restaurant will never truly be home.

And when the flame in the familial hearth goes out for good, when the hands that fed us from birth go to their final rest, when our surrogates eventually shutter one after another, hungry hearts like mine and those of my fellow wanderers may never get to go home again.

Blueprint For 2017

I've never tried making New Years' resolutions and I'm not doing that now, even if it looks like I am.

However, a checklist of sorts would be good, just to ensure I stick to some plan and not get sidetracked by small stuff. Here goes:

• Thinking of taking some online courses from Poynter University and learn Adobe InDesign, as suggested by some friends. Also: brush up and fortify the technical aspects of my language skills.
• Don't get infuriated by bad manuscripts any more. They're no longer worth it; better to put that energy to fixing them.
• This might also be the year I start getting active again: walks in the neighbourhood, back to the stationary bike, and maybe the occasional swim. But how to lift weights with my tennis elbow?
• I might also take up yoga - the basic stuff, okay? - sometime in the later half of this year. The right arm and lower back won't the only things I'll have to watch.
• The to-read pile. G*ds, the to-read pile! To read and review one book each week - would that be too extreme?
• Maybe I should start drawing again. Oh yes, I used to when I didn't have a job - it was a hobby, and not very frequent. Then things got crazy and I couldn't raise a pen that way. I've ditched almost all of my early work, as it was part of my past I don't want to recall or return to.
• I will bake my first cake, first bread and first batch of chocolate chip cookies.
• Hoping to keep earlier hours and not hit the sack around 1am any more. Maybe the nose and throat won't give me as much trouble as it has so far.
• I want to return to Melaka and Muar again. Loved those two towns.

Of course, this is a non-exhaustive list. There might be more things that I'm not comfortable sharing or too insignificant or mundane to share. We all want to save more, lose weight, get fit, be happy, travel and such.

Here's to another year.

A Book Launch And Two Hours In A Small Town

The first time I'm in Kuala Kubu Bharu and it's for a book launch.

The late Sudirman once sang, "When in Kuala Kubu (Bharu), write
your name on the stone". Don't think there's space.

These days I don't share too much about long trips before the day I set out, lest I jinx them. Especially to places I haven't been to before. Even so, I missed several turn-offs while leaving KL and couldn't find the venue upon reaching the town, until a random turn put me on Jalan Syed Mashor, where the Galeri Sejarah KKB was.

The scene at the back of the building looked festive, with banners, crowds, and a stage (really just a mic with a stand). A canopy sheltered the spot where books were sold. There was even a mobile book truck, peddling familiar titles from Fixi and Maple Comics, among others.

I thought I was late, until a voice called people to gather around for the speeches.

Lyrical writer, master orator, passionate eco-warrior and, we
are told, a one-man model of energy efficiency.

Among the VIPs were Dato' Seri Ir. Dr Zaini Ujang, Secretary General of the Malaysian Ministry of Energy, Green Technology and Water; Datin Paduka Dr Dahlia Rosly, former Director General of the Federal Department of Town and Country Planning; YB Lee Kee Hiong, State Assemblyperson for Kuala Kubu Bharu; and Termizi Yaacob and Ridzuan Idris of Persatuan Sejarah Kuala Kubu (the Kuala Kubu Historical Society).

Jahabar Sadiq, former CEO and editor of the now-defunct online news portal The Malaysian Insider was also there, along with Aizuddin Danian, who I knew from my early blogging days. Aizuddin is also the photographer who took Rehman's author portraits.

During her speech, Datin Paduka Dr Dahlia let slip the fact that the next day, 24 October, was Rehman's birthday, so he was invited to the front so that the assembled can sing "Happy Birthday" to him.

Now you know where and when to send presents.

Although born in Taiping, the writer and former journalist seems to have been adopted by Kuala Kubu Bharu and has become a favourite son. On this Sunday, he reciprocated with Small Town, an homage to the place where he wrote his other two books, A Malaysian Journey and Peninsula.

Celebrating the launch of the book and the author's upcoming birthday.

Some of the contents of Small Town came from those two books, and also includes some artwork from artists from the town. Most of the artists were present when Rehman handed out copies of the book and what he said was their pay, in large brown envelopes.

Rehman also dedicated Small Town to the history, natural beauty and people of Kuala Kubu Bharu. In his sonorous baritone, he also shared some titbits about the town, the first planned township in Malaya. "I thought the first planned township was Taiping, but no." He spoke mostly in Malay, with a bit of English, though I think the crowd was at least bilingual.

Commonly abbreviated as KKB, it is the principal town of the district of Hulu Selangor. During the Selangor Civil War in the 1800s, Raja Mahdi forted up there. Local lore claims that the original town was destroyed in a flood after the British district officer, Sir Cecil Ranking, allegedly shot a white crocodile locals claimed was a river guardian.

The front of Galeri Sejarah KKB, where the book was launched

These days, folks at KKB are putting their town forward as a historical and pristine eco-friendly destination, and it seems Rehman is in the vanguard of this movement. Since ditching his Astro feed, the old guy's taken up cycling, rolling all over the area alone or with his buddies. G*d help you if he spots you littering or leaving your car's engine running as it idles.

Eventually, came the round of thank-yous to the VIPs, guests, those who collaborated with him on the book ... everyone. He also pitched other books being sold during the event, also related to Kuala Kubu Bharu. One of these, Golden Raub, which Rehman wished he had read when writing his paean to the town, is about the opening of Raub's gold mines.

The book was written by Victor Bibby, a descendant of British-born Australian engineer William Bibby, who opened those mines (some information can be found here). I think Bibby was at the launch, though I wasn't sure if it was him.

I did not come all this way to return empty-handed

Rehman seemed happy that others besides himself are digging up these nuggets of history and writing about them, before they are gone forever. He also thanked the weather for being nice, albeit hot. Even if it had rained, he said that "the water's pristine, you can shower with it."

Mindful of my less-than-robust gut, I only had two pastries. I was more thirsty than hungry, and the sun was relentless. Though I did spend some time in the shade, I was soon worn out.

Of course I had to pick up Small Town, right? Priced at RM39.90, copies were going at a discounted rate during the launch. Proceeds from the book sales would go to Persatuan Sejarah Kuala Kubu (PESKUBU) or the Kuala Kubu Historical Society. If that fact hadn't slipped my mind as exhaustion and the heat took over, I'd have bought two.

One more look at Galeri Sejarah KKB, along Jalan Syed Mashor,
before heading home

I almost didn't make it that day.

I had gone to bed depressed, woke up dejected and wanted to stay at home first. However, I did tell several others I'd be going, even if it was merely a distraction from my blues.

Though I had left an hour late than I'd planned, I made it on time for the speeches.

In his speech at the event, Termizi Yaacob compared history to a tree, with its branches and leaves, growing, branches spreading outwards from a single point. Later, as Rehman spoke, a leaf fell onto my arm and stayed there.

I was then reminded of an artist's "life goal" to catch a falling leaf "fresh" from a tree, and thought how similar it was to chasing dreams. With how leaves tend to fall, however, you could run yourself ragged in pursuit of that one leaf. That's okay if you're young and buzzing with energy.

A souvenir (the leaf, not the book) from my solo out-of-town venture

When you get older, you'd learn how to do it better: stay near a tree that's shedding leaves and keep an eye on the nearest ones. Don't run after them as they fall. Or, if you're feeling lucky, just stand beneath said tree and wait for a few leaves to fall on you. Some leaves, like certain things, aren't worth the chase.

Travelling sixty-plus kilometres to catch a leaf sounds extreme but at times, you have to go that far, maybe farther, when you've been under the same tree for a long time. A taste of unfamiliar air is good, too.

(I needed the distance because I haven't been writing much, either. The muse didn't just warrant a kick in the ass but a couple of hours in Christian Grey's "Red Room of Pain".)

I'll be keeping the leaf for a while to remind me of my day in this "small town" and, when one's mind, heart and feet itch for the new, to just go for it, even if the chances of catching it are slim.

"So you went to KKB," a friend WhatsApped me later that night. "I thought you went off on a random drive to nowhere."

To me, one who seldom ventures outside his tiny comfortable urban bubble, Kuala Kubu Bharu was "nowhere".

Now, it's "somewhere".

Rethinking Independence: Cooler Lumpur 2016

Cooler Lumpur 2016 was much smaller and cosier than the previous year's, and not just because the Poskod Journalism Campus, which usually happens on the Friday each festival starts, was spun off as a separate event.

The Band of Doodlers, an art collective from Singapore, drew the
independence-themed backdrop based on public input via Twitter
(#CoolerDoodlers) at Cooler Lumpur.

Not enough money-lah, basically.

Nevertheless, the show went on, and it was good. The theme for this year was "RE:Independence", where the objective this year was to "re-examine just what it means to be independent; whether we are still able to decide what to control and how much of ourselves we want to allow to be controlled – as a person, as people, and as a nation."

Naturally, the programmes revolved around the theme, and included discussions on criticism, empowerment, language, innovation and storytelling and how each can play a role in fostering independent thinking.

My tiny contribution to the festivities, which was well received by those
who had a taste. For those who didn't, well, hopefully next year.

I had by now pinned down the recipe for my shortbread, so I baked and brought some along to the festival. Not a lot, though, because the oven is tiny. The shortbread was well received. The panel curator compared it favourably to what's sold as Marks and Spencer - thank you, Uma!

Of course, I was there for the panels, especially the book-related ones. Also, one of the company's latest production, the comi- sorry, graphic novel, Eva Goes Solo, made its debut at Cooler Lumpur 2016. The author and illustrator, Evangeline Neo, was there to sign books and speak at a panel discussion with another artist, Cheeming Boey.

Panel discussion on "The 'Art' of the Biography" at Cooler Lumpur, with
graphic novelists Evangeline Neo of Evacomics (centre, making a point)
and Cheeming Boey (right), moderated by Umapagan Ampikaipakan

Moderator Uma found Boey's mind a scary place, while Neo got to show her endearing "aunty side". Of course, drawing comics for a living is tough, and the panellists shared some strategies on marketing their work. It's just as much about business as it is about the art.

One aspect was merchandising: the creation of characters that can be incorporated into merchandise: bags, smartphone covers, plushies and such. Boey's stick figures have found their way to mineral water bottles, now being sold at Shell petrol stations.

Neo admitted that her main "Eva" character, is a nicer avatar of herself. "Who'd want to wear an aunty on a T-shirt?"

Graphic novelist and illustrator Neo signing books at Cooler Lumpur.
Her new book, Eva Goes Solo, by MPH Group Publishing, debuted
at the festival. And I think she's not that "aunty" at all.

During the discussion, it was revealed that Boey started drawing his life when he moved to the States to study and, later, work. Neo started drawing hers after she left the States. Who knew they went to the same art school in San Francisco?

"Cooler Lumpur, bringing people together," Uma announced triumphantly.

Kohai (junior) Neo and senpai (senior) Boey, after their book-signing
sessions at Cooler Lumpur. Turns out Boey is a legitimate senpai.

The festival didn't just match Boey with Neo. The latter also got to meet fellow Singaporean and Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan, author of the hit novel Sarong Party Girls. More remarkable was that much of the novel was narrated in Singlish, that uniquely Singaporean patois the Singaporean government is trying - in vain, I feel - to discourage.

The subject of Singlish, Singaporean poet and literary critic Gwee Li Sui's op-ed to The New York Times extolling the dialect and the Singapore government's terse response to it would surface in another panel discussion later in the day.

I'd purchased a copy of Tan's A Tiger in the Kitchen at a Big Bad Wolf Books sale, but never did I expect her arrival so soon to these shores, so I was pretty chuffed. Cooler Lumpur also brought Scottish author and educator Nicola Morgan, another personality I had only read about online, to a hazy KL for the inaugural festival in 2013, themed "#Word".

Other notables at the festival over the years included authors Miguel Syjuco, Zen Cho and Ovidia Yu, columnist Lindy West, artist Sonny Liew, filmmaker Nadira Ilana and writer John Krich. And every year, I sit, wait and wonder, who else will be coming over?

Singapore-mari! Author Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan and Evangeline Neo at
Cooler Lumpur. Sorry, camera shutter caught Eva "sleeping".

The talk with veteran American journalist John Dinges, about how journalism should serve democracy, was delayed for about an hour because, according to the organisers, "the building thought it was on fire."

The fire suppression system, which sucked air out of the Black Box and White Box in Publika, was triggered just before the talk began, creating a huge, roaring din. Technicians couldn't solve the problem quickly enough, which led to the panel being delayed a few times.

Veteran journalist John Dinges, on the panel "RE: Journalism in
Service of Democracy"

Dinges seem to have problems hearing, so he moved around the stage during the Q&A session to where the questions were asked so he could respond. The discussion was quite fruitful. The associate professor and director of radio at Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism recounted some of his adventures as a news correspondent in Latin America.

He also had some advice for journalists when speaking to reporters from The Malay Mail Online.

Uma recommended his book, The Condor Years: How Pinochet and his Allies Brought Terrorism to Three Continents. I'll be looking out for it.

I had no photos of the discussion panel "RE: English, Singlish, Manglish" because it was late, I was beat, and the phone's battery was nearly flat. But it was a stimulating discussion that made me re-evaluate some of my positions on language and my job as an editor.

Among the topics: is patois that bad? Chuah Guat Eng doesn't think so. Relating an experience while teaching a class, Chuah found that once the "write in good English" criterion was lowered, the students produced wonderful stories despite their less-than-average command of English. I was reminded of the writing in Moira Young's YA novel, Blood Red Road.

Malaysia's first female novelist to write in English also declared herself anti-establishment (did I hear that right?) and said she isn't keen on forcing people to write in "good English", even if she spoke and wrote it herself. I didn't know she had this side to her and it's refreshing.

Cheryl Tan chipped in with regard to her use of Singlish in Sarong Party Girls. The novel caused a stir with the language and the protagonist, particularly in her country of birth. Why does the novel's heroine have such questionable morals, she was asked, and why couldn't she have cast someone who could be a good example?

Tan's reply was something to the effect of "such people - and realities - exist, whether you like it or not" and "I didn't set out to glamourise such behaviours with this novel - it's fiction". Also: "I'm sure that [Vladimir] Nabokov wasn't pro-paedophilia when he wrote Lolita."

WHAM.

Another issue was, I think, cultural appropriation, which popped up in a couple of other panels during the weekend. Tan's research involved her checking with someone who was an expert on Singlish, which meant she had to send said expert "the dirtiest e-mail" he had ever received - she brought this up twice during the weekend. Just felt I had to point that out.

---

I was late for Datuk Lat's one-on-one with Kam Raslan and missed half the conversation. I think they were discussing comics, being Malaysian then and now, and other stuff. Kam was such a fanboy and I can't blame him.

At Cooler Lumpur: "On Being Malaysian", with legendary cartoonist
Datuk Lat (at right) and Kam Raslan.

Datuk Lat hugely influenced many other artists, including Boey, and his cartoons gave many a glimpse into Malaysian life and culture at the time, even to locals. He reminisced about how he got to participate in a Sikh wedding and captured key moments of it, and how his informant was adamant that he didn't make the event look "funny" with his drawings. The informant needn't have worried, and Lat's account of the wedding was lauded.

When asked if he would revisit his kampung in a future comic book, Lat said probably not, but maybe a shorter series of strips in a magazine. His village isn't what it used to be; it has only five houses, and the river he mentioned in Kampung Boy is almost gone.

More discussions on storytelling were in store in the panel "RE: Stories for Boys and Girls, Both Big and Small", with novelist Shamini Flint, writer Hanna Alkaf (who also moderated) and educators and storytellers Jennifer and Nathaniel Whitman.

Storytellers Shamini Flint, Hanna Alkaf (also moderating) and Jennifer
and Nathaniel Whitman, talking about storytelling at Cooler Lumpur.
The quotable Flint, of course, stole the show.

Nat Whitman opined that one takes a risk when one tells a story, and Flint concurred, especially when it comes to telling a story through writing.

"It's dangerous to write a story because a reader can call you out if you contradict yourself a few pages down the line," she said. "But if you orally tell your story and someone points out that you said this, you can always deny it: 'No, I didn't.'" Before the audience could recover from the chuckles, she added, "This is why I'm a good lawyer."

Fielding a question from a member of the audience who wanted to collect stories from older people, Flint thought it was a good idea. She'd written a novel set in wartime Malaya, The Undone Years, based on input from relatives and others who lived through that period.

Can't remember what made this moment, but it made me
sorry my cameraphone wasn't any better

Flint was basically, go ahead and record their stories because "they're all going to die anyway, so get their stories before that." Sounds frivolous, but she has a point. Malaysian history is being eroded and, in some cases, rewritten (what Flint calls producing fiction), and getting the real story of what happened from the older generation is now more crucial than ever. How will we move forward without a firm understanding of our past?

Later, came the panel, "RE: Minds of the Future" (you can tell there's a theme going on with the titles), about criticism and how it shapes - yes - the minds of the future, with British journalist and theatre critic Kate Bassett; arts consultant, activist and writer, Phang Khee Teik; and academic Leyla Jagiella. Journalist Sharmilla Ganesan was the moderator for the panel.

From left: Kate Bassett, Phang Khee Teik and Leyla Jagiella, debating
the role of criticism in shaping the minds of the future, with
Sharmilla Ganesan moderating.

I felt that the panellists struggled initially with some of the question posed, but that was all I could remember. The topic might have been too big for me to handle, too.

The talk with the Director-General of the National Film Development Corporation of Malaysia (FINAS), Dato' Kamil Othman, was a little easier to digest. This was, I felt, a continuation of a discussion with Dato' Kamil a couple of years ago.

"Malaysian films, folks, are the subject of much consternation among the public at large," Uma stated, kicking off that discussion. "In fact, we love to hate them."

The forthright Director-General of FINAS, Dato' Kamil Othman, chatting
with Uma on the state of Malaysian films and film industry.

Things have improved a bit since then but, as the discussion revealed, more still needs to be done. Dato' Kamil pulled few punches, and there was the occasional swearing. He's no fan of censorship, and had suggestions for trouble-free foreign film festivals. Still, he has hope in the future of the local film industry.

Originally about women who write literature and "why women should rule the world", the topic of last panel for Cooler Lumpur, with Shamini Flint and Cheryl Tan, was changed to discuss Flint's pet peeve, "why Asian literature is so $#!+" - a more welcome and engaging topic.

The last panel discussion for Cooler Lumpur, with Cheryl Tan and Shamini
Flint. Again, Flint stole the show, but I couldn't think of a better way
to wrap things up.

Though this was an issue that's closer to my heart, I barely remember what was discussed.

Flint brought up something that she'd said before, about women marrying rich (white) men who would allow them to write - implying that writing is a luxury few can afford, and that some people's voices aren't heard because they don't have the means to write. I'm not sure if Lionel Shriver's "dangerous idea" and the backlash surfaced during this discussion.

Which led to the question of why people write about their birthplaces after spending time abroad. Again, this topic was broached before. Flint and Tan agreed that the yearning for home intensifies when one is abroad, to the point where one is compelled to write about it.

However, it seems we've all had enough of gardens shrouded in evening mists and our grandmothers' mango trees and such. And, maybe, enough of wartime novels by white people who exoticise the locales to sell more books (a couple of such books that I'd read still send me into fits of rage).

Oh, yes. Flint recalled a bunch of assorted characters who she had drinks with and remembered being entertained by their stories but then, when she read what some of them wrote, the language was, well, different. "What happened to the (interesting) people I had drinks with?" she wondered.

Again, the argument that unique voices don't have to be in crisp, impeccable English all the time (Flint was really talking about authenticity, i.e., writing like how you speak).

Then Uma pointed out how different Flint sounded in her wartime novel,
as opposed to, say, her children's books. Note Flint's expression.

"No, she's not happy with that book," Uma said, regarding said wartime novel.

Overall, the ladies did very well on this panel, which pretty much demonstrates why women should rule the world.

And that's a wrap! This year's Cooler Lumpur was smaller than the
previous year's, but cosier. And I stayed till the end.

Thus, ended another iteration of Southeast Asia's only festival of ideas - be proud, Malaysia! Cooler Lumpur is the only thing of its kind in the region.

Everybody adjourned after that for beer and pizza. I don't drink, however, but maybe we could have used, like, eight more pies? I'm sure many didn't have dinner before the last panel, and we fell upon the pizzas like a plague of locusts.

Many thanks to the crew, partners and sponsors who made Cooler Lumpur possible, and I hope to be part of this again next year.

Though I wonder: would crowdfunding help with the finance, logistics and such? That would give more people ownership of the festival, and we could get better pizza (Mikey's is just around the corner).

---

Since it began, Cooler Lumpur has been feeding my appetite for ideas and stories from all over, so I have a vested interest in its continuity and development. Some may argue that such exercises in thought are a middle-class pastime, and I tend to agree. However, I cannot deny the hunger in my mind for the good stuff, which is hard to come by.

We are all dependent in some fashion on others for our daily needs. Wouldn't it be liberating if we all could service our own cars and air conditioners, cook our own food or diagnose and cure our illnesses? Expert help can be expensive and at times unreliable.

The reason I resorted to learning how to cook pasta and bake my own shortbread was because the damn things are getting more expensive, and it's cathartic to whip butter and sugar at the end of a long day and eating the results is so satisfying.

Yet, I still crave things that only other people can provide: conversations, ideas, varying points of view and criticisms, for instance. No one can be truly independent as long as one lives.

If you want to know true independence, die. But by then you wouldn't even care - can it get more independent than that?

In a society, we rely upon some for our needs and wants, and we are relied upon by others for what we can offer. However, when one party is over-reliant on another for something, that party might end up being addicted to that assistance - and be exploited by those who feed that addiction.

Of late, it seems we've been relying too much on certain parties for direction in life and nationhood, and it seems many of us are waking up to the fact that maybe we're going the wrong way. Trust us, we've been told numerous times, we know what we're doing, we know what's best for everyone. But if even scientists can be bribed (allegedly) to say that fat is worse for the heart than sugar, who else can we trust?

Not politicians. Not religious leaders. And certainly not businessmen who also claim to be either, or both.

And from some of the behaviours of others we've been reading in the news, too many people have lost their moral bearings, their sense of right and wrong. It began, I believe, when we stopped using that internal compass and begun to rely on the wisdom of certain parties. And like a muscle that atrophies from lack of use, that compass has begun to break down.

That's why I appreciate initiatives such as Cooler Lumpur, a pasar malam for really good ideas and a mental gym where we can get those long-rusted gears moving again, and strengthen our minds so that they can repel bad ideas, break free of the undue influence of the manipulative and self-serving, and grow to generate useful ideas for others to learn from.

Perhaps that is the first step towards (live people's) independence.


23/09/2016   Podcasts of the 2016 Cooler Lumpur panel discussions are being uploaded to this channel, so I can re-live those moments, catch the punchlines and fact-check some details (g*d, my memory is shit now). Not sure why Google Play Store opens every time I open the links on the smartphone. Check out Cooler Lumpur's Facebook page for more updates.

Dealing With Disappointment

Recently, a local artist and illustrator lost sleep over a mother's e-mail. Apparently, she had been trying to arrange some time for her child to meet the artist so he can review the kid's work and give a few words of encouragement.

But after months of delays over scheduling conflicts and the artist's busy life, he recorded an apology in a video, explaining why the meeting or the review has yet to take place.

It wasn't enough for the mother, who e-mailed back with expressions of disappointment, (from the sound of it) accusing the artist of being like other presumably famous people: lacking passion, sincerity and the willingness to help, and said she'll consider looking elsewhere for more suitable candidates "her children and students can emulate".

Assuming that it's all true: I'm not sure if the artist should've shared the e-mail, if it was the exact e-mail, in sharing his predicament. Disappointments happen, after all, and personalities take that in stride. You can't please everyone all the time.

That being said, the mother's correspondence is another example of the mindset some within the fandom have. Just because you support an artist and regard him as a role model doesn't mean he's obliged to drop everything and entertain your request. He has other commitments to consider, including contractual agreements with companies and publishers to which requests of "please give my kid some words of encouragement" have to take a backseat to.

Yes, wish fulfilment might be part of the deal, but as sentient beings with morals, shouldn't members of the audience do something to make their idols' lives easier, instead of complicating them by claiming this and that out of a misplaced sense of entitlement?

An artist (or author, actor, whatever) is responsible for his work, first and foremost. If the work isn't up to par, everything else - including the audience, patrons, endorsements and offers to collaborate and conduct workshops - won't follow. It's been about five years since he first struck out on his own and he's still going strong, despite the demands of his new gig.

An artist whose survival depends on an audience will, at some point, also trade favours for his audience's continued support. Eventually, because of the novelty and euphoria from the impression that both are connecting on a level beyond work, either will forget why that connection happened in the first place: the artist's work itself.

Soon, the audience will forget about the work and demand more and more of the artist's time for other things. And if the artist's work suffers because of this and he gets dropped by his patrons, who's to blame?

We see personalities too much for their public portrayal and what they represent, and don't learn enough about what it took for them to reach that level and aim for the next. Some personalities should not be emulated, but what they sacrificed and put into their personas should, at least, be acknowledged.

If one is inspired to follow in their footsteps, one should also ask whether one is ready for the hard work and everything else that ensues, including lost sleep, the sacrifice of certain hobbies and being stretched thin from having to be in several places at once.

As to accusations of this artist not having what it takes, keeping his word or inspiring more talent, well, I haven't seen anyone work as hard this artist. He stays past allotted times during meet-and-greet sessions until the queues are clear. He makes small talk to everyone, and asks for updates from those he'd met before. Personalised doodles? No problem.

And as far as I can see, each book of his is better than the last. If there's a fifth book, it'll be harder to write. From a collection of cartoons nobody wanted to publish for over four years, he now has four books that still hop in and out of the bestseller lists, and his art is everywhere.

If the artist is someone who lacks passion, dedication and skill, would he have lasted this long? Would all this have happened? As far as I know, the artist has no army of assistants to help him keep track of things. It's all him.

If that's still not inspiring enough, then...?

Getting Precious About Publishers

A long time ago, the administrator of the Silverfish Books Facebook page published what looks like an open rejection letter and all the poets lost their minds. From the two brief anecdotes offered in that post, it seems Silverfish doesn't want poetry from lazy-ass writers or loud, pretentious perasan poseurs.

However, it's as if Silverfish meant, "Why bookstores shouldn't publish poetry."

I find it sad that after all this time, the knee-jerk response is still strong in the arts community. Many of the dissenters appear to be incensed that it came from Silverfish of all places.

Some of the reactions to that Facebook post were dismaying, and that invitation to a poetry event had that "come here and we'll prove you wrong" vibe I didn't like.

I don't think it would've been taken up.

But the Facebook protests bothered me for a long while.

---

I hesitate to trot out the term "circle jerk" because many of those involved are light years from being jerks. However, it's hard to look at the local arts scene as a whole and think otherwise.

The tragedy is that it's not intentional. Most times, it's a lot of mutual back-patting, with the hopes that the continuous encouragement, especially in the wake of bad reviews, poor sales or empty chairs at an event, will "keep their spirits up" and "move them along".

"The reviewer might have a point"? "I see how that might be bad for the work"? "Maybe there is something wrong with the presentation"? Not so much.

Prose is hard to sell. Poetry, even more so. People who buy books or attend readings want some ROI for their time and money. However, not every piece of work hits the mark.

If publishers are rejecting poetry because of their business model and their apprehension over the saleability of poetry, what does echoing that achieve, other than provide false comfort to writers and fuel the "anti-establishment" rage machine? Is it really just one party's fault?

I think people put too much stock in their annointed institutions of free speech and the arts. Silverfish has moved to Bangsar Freaking Village II where the rent's like up here and business is tough. You wanna talk to them about championing the arts?

The current venue for a regular poetry-reading event has started implementing some sort of cover charge, fed up over patrons' reluctance to "donate" or buy stuff from there. And some of these patrons are from the old crowd or cheerleaders for the performers.

Never mind the institutions. What does that say about our regard for the arts?

---

There is a scene, and it has a base and a support system. Growing that base is the challenge, I feel. Because at some point, after a degree of success, some feel satisfied to be where they are and not plan for bigger things - at least, for the moment. So things stall.

In an old article where I allegedly took a dump on a regular prose-reading event, I was also - selfishly, perhaps - trying to sort out why, after all the sessions I've attended, I still felt like an outsider - besides trying to figure out where this little movement would go from its tiny alcove in KL.

From what I can see, it still feels like an open-door private party, albeit one that travels on occasion. But has that spirit of sharing and encouragement been passed on? Any way of finding out if it has?

Maybe the organisers are content with being a regular gathering of like-minded people who inspire the art passively, without overt evangelising. Whether poetry or prose, it feels perturbingly familiar.

I wonder how the novices feel when they're being lined up with more established figures. Do they feel insecure, inadequate, nervous? Or are they even aware that their stuff might be remotely, well, not as good? How many of them consult the senpais in their midst, or do they feel too intimidated to even ask?

Deep in the collective glow of the joy in meeting up and catching up, it's hard for the stalwarts in the game to pick up on things like the apprehensive loner, the nervous wreck, the intimidated kohai. The ones with the courage to ask gets the dibs.

Opening doors is easy; the hard part is getting them to come in, stay and grow. We have a long way to go when it comes to educating people about things we like and believe in.

---

As a publisher, we never say, "You suck. Don't EVER pick up a pen again." It's usually, "You suck, according to our business model. Try again, or you can find another publisher."

Deep down, some of us DO care. It's just that we are not wagering OUR money, and those who own that money might have other priorities. When a bad bet means five-figure losses and a lot of pulped copies, many would prefer to err on the side of caution.

Picking the chaff from the grain is a tough and imprecise process. Gatekeepers do get it wrong, which is why it's the "fine sieve of time" that ultimately decides what makes something a "classic" or, at least, worthwhile.

It's not as if writers have no other avenues. Self-publishing is now easier, thanks to technology. Do you even need money or the validation of the traditional players these days? The small presses are more helpful in that regard.

So, "Go ahead and self publish your poetry. If it survives 20 years, you're a poet. If not, you're not." Hardly comforting for those who want to make their mark yesterday. But if you have so little faith in the industry, why don't you just let time - and the market - decide?

But keep at it. Even with the help of crusading independent outfits, it'll all be gone if you don't sustain the momentum.

Safest thing is to "keep your day job."

When People Thought There Was A Microsoft *Swear Word*

A Facebook post with a vulgar punchline had me chuckling and reminiscing about a linguistic faux pas years back.

In 2007, someone had published a paper on what I think was a hypothetical software tool for evaluating variables in object-oriented programming, possibly to shorten processing times.

For some reason, this fellow decided to call this software tool "Cib*i", short for "Class Invariants By *bstract Interpretation".

When the contents of this paper eventually reached Southeast Asia, the local techies and software people went wild. Because "cib*i" in the local vernacular means something else.

Naturally, few could resist the opportunity to throw a few off-colour puns. Some were puzzled - how could Microsoft, a huge multinational with a ton of resources, not be aware of this word and its significance? Wouldn't an Internet search have prevented a few red faces?

Probably not.

Anecdotes abound of word in one language meaning something else in another; long ago, it was said that the word "Malaya" raised a few eyebrows in Africa when our troops went over there for a mission - anybody else remember that?

Besides, who has the time to look for words online when immersed in lines of code and math formulae? Fiction writers probably have it worse - imagine the research to make sure their made-up words or names don't inadvertently offend people of different cultures.

One could argue that, as the world gets more interconnected, fewer excuses can be made for cib*i-like howlers that can have pandemic-like effects on business entities. At their speeds these days, bad news will find alien life in outer space before we do.

In the end, it's just not worth it. Invent your words, writers, and hope that more people will laugh rather than get angry. No offence meant, after all. And I believe people give Microsoft too much credit.

I'd already left the IT industry when news alleging Microsoft's "hottest product" of that year rippled across this region's social media sphere. The company later clarified that the author of the paper had not joined it when it was published, nor was anything of the sort being developed in its labs - at least, not with that name.

Although the word was scrubbed from Microsoft's web sites, the original paper in PDF format remains and can still be downloaded - perhaps to maintain archival integrity (this actually happened) and as a cautionary tale for others to #PlzDunCib*i.

So, if somebody asks you the meaning of a word and you know it's offensive, you don't cib*i and say it's a greeting or something congratulatory, okay?

(Yes, I wrote this as an excuse to swear. The past couple of weeks have been tough.)

Wee-vil, Wee-vill Miss You

Anybody seen Monday's copy of The Star? Did anybody notice the word play in the reports related to the cover story?

Well, even print is getting clickbait-y, I thought. That Queen
song started playing almost immediately.

As a top palm-oil producer, these pests are about as welcome as the haze or the current heatwave. Seriousness of the problem aside, I felt the writer dropped the ball after the puns. So I thought, why not go all the way and make it a poem/song thingy?

Good one. Obvious choice, but a good one, nonetheless.

With my brain burning with ideas, I barely touched my lunch until it threatened to go colder, so I went back to the office after a few bites and hammered it out. This is a tightened version of the one I put up on Facebook, which I think sums up the article(s) pretty well...


Look at all your palm trees, coconut trees
Growing tall for your annual GDP
You got mud on your face, you big disgrace
So watch us bugs put you back into your place

WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU
WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU

All those tasty palm trees, coconut trees
Gonna turn 'em all into dead trees some day
And splash mud on your face, you big disgrace
No pest control gonna put us in our place

Yessir WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU
(Damn right, we will) WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU

Bore into your palm trees, turn 'em into gone trees
Makin' lots of babies along the way
With iron jaws (CHOMP) and sharp sharp claws (STOMP)
Overrunning plantations without a pause

Singing WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU
(Aww, yiss!) WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU

All you scientists, doctors, engineers,
Swear you'll halt our advance, you say (Uh-huh?)
Ain't that egg on your face, you big disgrace?
Poor sorry excuses for the human race (Ha ha!)

WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU
WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU

One more time-

Look at all your palm trees, coconut trees
Growing tall for your annual GDP
You got mud on your face, you big disgrace
So watch us bugs put you back into your place

WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU
WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU

All those tasty palm trees, coconut trees
Gonna turn 'em all into dead trees some day
And splash mud on your face, you big disgrace
No pest control can put us back into our place

Yessir WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU
WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU (Altogether now!)

WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU
(Sing it!) WEE-VIL WEE-VIL ROCK YOU...

---

I heard later that the journalist who penned the punny reports will soon be leaving The Star. So here's to you, ma'am. Keep rocking it, wherever you go.


14/04/2016   By the way, the red palm weevil (Rhynchophorus ferrugineus) is also known as the Asian palm weevil or sago palm weevil, which means its young are, yes, those plump cream-coloured sago worms, which will grow up to be the future killers of the palm oil industry.

That's not so comforting if you think about it. You'd have to cut open the trunk of a palm tree to get to these grubs and an abundance of them means the tree might be gone. So eating them into extinction to save the oil palms (and do a bit of national service) isn't a viable solution, even if (some would say) it's tasty.

It. Is. Not. A. Cake

Last week, I'd read a news report about a new kind of cake that's making waves in the New York food scene. A bit more reading and research later, I concluded that it was essentially a failed attempt at making jelly.

The main draw of the "raindrop cake" is a HUGE drop of water that's been reinforced with a bit of agar-agar, a gelatin-like substance extracted from seaweed. It contains only enough agar-agar to maintain its appearance as a gigantic drop of water; it dissolves into a puddle after about half an hour on the plate and it is more fragile than most jellies.

Hence, my bemusement and annoyance at New Yorkers paying US$8 for what I consider the 1MDB of jellies: something that looks good but lacks substance and is not structurally sound. And it's as if Westerners haven't heard of jelly before.

♪ Raindrops keep fallin' on that plate, like the hipsters hankerin' for a
taste; gotta Instagram it, then ooh and ahh over it, raindrops keep fallin'
on that plate, keep a-fallin' ♫ (not my photo; taken from NDTV Food)

As someone helpfully pointed out a few hours after I tweeted the recipe and origins of the dessert, the so-called "raindrop cake" - a.k.a. mizu shingen mochi (水信玄餅) - came from Japan. A company in Yamanashi Prefecture in Central Honshu made this transparent interpretation of the more conventional shingen mochi, said to have been named for Shingen Takeda, a medieval Japanese warlord. It's been around since 2014, I believe, and you can find recipes for it and its variants online.

Mochi in Japanese means "cake" or "biscuit", but there's nothing in the waterdrop thingy that suggests it is a cake in any way we are familiar with; hence, perhaps, the inclusion of the roasted soya bean powder (kinako) and brown sugar syrup.

Yes, it has no calories and is ephemeral, clean-flavoured, vegan and transparent. Much Zen. So healthy. Wow. The Japs nailed this embodiment of the Zen philosophy with aplomb.

BUT.

Whichever way you look at it, it is. Not. A. Cake. Just a blob of not-very-dense jelly with soya bean powder and sugar syrup on the side.

Yes, I made one. Or something close to it. Because I wanted to see
one for real and am too frugal to pay US$8, plus the airfare to
New York and accommodation. Used a bowl instead of a mould.

So I posted a hysterical tweet about it, throwing in a veiled and possibly racist reference to Calvin Trillin's controversial Chinese-food poem in The New Yorker. Like some, I thought Trillin was making fun of New York foodies who seem to get thrown for a loop each time something emerges from the mysterious East and start writing poetry.

Kaya toast that's "implausibly tall and as porous as coral", sealed with "celadon-hued coconut jam"? Blue glutinous rice that "spent the night with a fistful of morning glories"?

And muah chee (a local mochi-esque snack) that looks like "larval nubs of hot mochi pitched in roasted ground peanuts, sesame seeds and sugar"?

Okay, whatever. After all, it's not the first time you guys found toast trendy. And it seems this fad was also imported from the East.

(By the way, the flower that "spent the night" with the glutinous rice is more likely to be the blue pea flower (Clitoria ternatea). You're welcome.)

Water, agar-agar and heat. I didn't measure exactly how much jelly
powder to use, but it's less than what you'd need for normal agar.
I panicked at first because it didn't seem to set properly. Then,
the mixture started to gel...

I suppose it struck a nerve. Westerners have been accused of cultural appropriation (curry powder and Eastern noms de plume, anyone?), or exoticising otherwise common stuff from the East. Their antics inspire a range of emotions from amusement and bewilderment to annoyance and outrage.

Granted, it may have taken a long time to get the waterdrop illusion right and importing the ingredients from Japan can add to the cost. And maybe Americans aren't used to the idea of eating something that looks like a blob of solid water or, as some have said, a silicone breast implant.

Also, we Malaysians are almost as (if not more) kiasu when it comes to chasing food crazes - remember the salted egg yolk croissants? I'm sure they're still flocking to that little Petaling Jaya bakery. Let's not mention the verbal spats we've had with Singaporeans and maybe Indonesians over who "owns" what dish.

But still...

Not a lot of agar-agar is needed, but the jelly powder did colour this
prototype a little. And I think it's still too firm. Still, go me. I
totally geeked out when it finally came together.

Agar-agar is cheap, especially in Malaysia, and this thing made out of it was sold in New York for the price of two Starbucks beverages. And, as you've already seen, the centrepiece can be replicated with a little time and effort.

But above all...

Sore wa kēkide wa arimasen.

It. Is. Not. A. Cake.

Attention, Book People: Page to Pitch (P2P) Media 360

I received a media invitation several weeks ago to an event on 4 April announcing a pitching competition for a publishing opportunity with Karangkraf and a chance for authors to adapt their works for a plethora of other media.

Since I couldn't personally attend, here's what I learnt about it from the organisers:

Perbadanan Kota Buku, Malaysia’s leading hub for publishers, authors and readers - in collaboration with Kumpulan Media Karangkraf and the National Film Development Corporation Malaysia (FINAS) - are organising "Page to Pitch (P2P) Media 360".

This publishing-to-media pitching competition will be held in conjunction with the 9th edition of the Kuala Lumpur Trade and Copyright Centre (KLTCC), concurrent with the annual KL International Book Fair from 29 April to 9 May.

The competition is divided into two categories.

The first category, Idea to Publishing, promises the winner an opportunity to publish his or her book idea with Karangkraf that's worth up to RM50,000, a RM5,000 grand prize from Kota Buku and an international marketing opportunity after publication. This category is open to entrants from all ASEAN countries.

The second category, Book to Development, aims to adapt existing publications into different digital media content such as a feature film, TV series, animation, digital comics, games, apps and more. The winner of this category will receive a green lane for their application in the FINAS development grant worth up to RM500,000, a RM5,000 grand prize from Kota Buku, and an international marketing opportunity. This category is exclusively for Malaysians.

"We are aware that there are many undiscovered talented writers out there," says Sayed Munawar Sayed Mustar, CEO of Kota Buku. "Therefore, P2P is the golden opportunity for them to shine and get the recognition for their talent. We hope the competition will encourage not just our nation’s creative writers, but ASEAN writers as well to boost their talent and strive to enrich the publishing industry as a whole."

Submission for both categories is open until 22 April 2016. Applicants can download the entry form here or find more details here.

Shortlisted entries will be invited to pitch their ideas in front of a panel of local and international industry experts from 7 to 8 May 2016 during KLTCC 2016 at Hall D, MAEPS, Serdang, Selangor.

That means you have two weeks to send in your applications. All the best.

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The Kuala Lumpur Trade Copyright Centre (KLTCC) is a rights fair held annually in Southeast Asia. It's the biggest trade and copyright fair in the region, drawing top publishers and rights agents to to network, buy, sell and research the latest trends in the market.

Perbadanan Kota Buku was established in 2011 as a part of Malaysia’s Book Policy, with a mandate to promote book development in the country. It gathers readers, writers and publishers for various book-related activities and offers various services to accomplish its mission.

I believe Kota Buku will be doing other stuff at the book fair as well on 7 and 8 May, introducing themselves to visitors and showcasing the services they offer. Might as well have a look when you're there.