One Big Fish

I hate it when my throat is sore, because it deprives me of a host of delights and sensations. Like the "new" KFC Alaska Fish Burger, the centrepiece of which is claimed to have thirty-percent more content than McD's Filet-o-Fish patty. Against conventional wisdom, I paid the nearest KFC outlet a visit to have a go at this new offering (before the doctor's visit yesterday, and the ensuing days of pseudo-sadhu hell I'll be going through). I had no high hopes.

Yes, it only looks big on paper.

There was a bit of information on the fish I was eating on the tray liner. No exaggerated comparisons to shark and whale size (like that other KFC fish burger), or testimonials made by fake Mexicans. They actually researched the Latin name for the Alaskan pollack, and provided a list of seafood along with their Omega-3 content, which combined, effectively spelled, "Alaskan pollack from the Bering Sea, the same place where suicidal fishermen hunt crab, is rich in essential oils that are good for you. Healthy munchies for the discerning diner!"

Only sounds good on paper? Bingo.

Pollack (or pollock) is a widely-caught fish, along with the half-dozen kinds of fish listed (including cod, salmon, sea bass and Alaskan king crab), making it vulnerable to over-fishing. Everybody likes it, and is the choice fish of every fast food joint. Now you know there's nothing distinctive about that "100% Alaskan pollock" shtick.

What made the pollock stick in my memory was a snippet that I read (but forgot exactly where) that mentioned a "war" between Canadian fishermen and seals over fish - a great source of motivation during the annual Canadian seal cull.

It's not a bad idea for businesses like KFC to branch out, but if the pollock is going the way of the cod (European authorities have recently raised alarms about rapidly-declining stocks), we won't be seeing any Alaskan fish burgers by 2020.

But by golly, I hope they don't go extinct before my throat heals.

Soggy Friday Bites

1:16pm   Things are not so good at home, you see. It's showing here.

If you've read the news, you'd know that half the country is looking like New Orleans after nature's bitches, Katrina and Rita, threw their hissy-fits. And like those awful days, many of the politicians (even from the affected home states) seemed to have other concerns - no surprise there. The media isn't helping, I think, by suggesting things like minimum donation amounts and adopt-a-village schemes. I've already sent a cheque, thank you.

While my feet are still high and dry here, I feel emotionally swamped as the first few weeks of new things at work overwhelm me. I can't find anyone else to depend on. The weekend brings no relief - I've also been working Saturdays.

The Mongols are not happy with how we are dragging our feet over the murder and body disposal of one of their own. Some of us are glad that Genghis Khan is long dead; others worry about a similar fate, as is the wont of citizens in Third World countries.

There's also this post service blues-thingy, which is really old news made fresh.

Can things get worse? Sure they can - and I'm optimistic about that.


8:20pm   Can you get a plate of rice at a mamak restaurant for RM1.50? I just did. Of course, it was just a small plate, and I'm a regular. The uncertainty caused my CynicSense™ to go haywire, making me count my change twice.


10:25pm   The Templer roundabout and the stretch of Old Klang Road under the NPE were unusually congested. Turns out there was a police roadblock; the men in blue were also calling it a day. Driving past, the side of my car bumped onto some police equipment. I panicked, stopped and wound down my car window. My first brush with the law turned out to be an anti-climax as an officer waved me off, while the drivers behind me reached their boiling point. I gratefully sped of - within the speed limit, of course.


10:40pm   It's drizzling, and I'm standing under the canopy of the local burger stall. The fantastic smell sharpened my hunger pangs. I told you the plate of rice was small.

"...and to you all out there on this Friday night," the radio DJ chirped in Malay, "yes, you the late night workers, those of you driving home late, and the brother at the burger stand..."

Whoa.

"...ah yes, the brother at the burger stand, grillin' them patties for the hungry. Coming up, we have Gwen Stefani and her hot little number, 'Wind It Up', just for you, right here on Hot FM."

I turned to the brother at the burger stand and asked, "Someone you know?"

"No way, man," he replies. He looks just as bewildered as I am by the happy coincidence.

As always, the burger tasted great.

But don't you just hate the way life tries to prove you wrong?

Me, Anonymous Author?

Some career choices are like sand-traps; once you get in, there's next to no chance in getting out. This holds true for most of us who don't have the willpower to just drop everything and chase dreams. I've only met one such person in this country so far. For me, that spoke volumes.

The IT industry as a whole had begun sliding into stagnation oblivion when I picked up my scroll. By the time I recognised the signs it was already too late. Seven years later, my outlook on IT dimmed completely. I was considering other options.

Like writing, for instance.

This other career choice looks just as precarious. Anybody can be a writer, but good writers are exceptionally hard to find. Or maybe I'm just not into literature. When I was much younger, I scorned artists, looking down at a profession that's usually associated with unstable incomes, eccentric behaviour and incestuous cliqués, not realising (again, until it was too late) that such a stereotypical Hyde was lurking within my own developing psyche.

By the time I discovered my budding and barb-covered muse, it looks as if all the good stories have already been written. I've tried my hand in writing fiction before, and it's hard. All the great ideas have been taken and written to death. What's left for those waiting in the wings?

I'd be perfectly happy writing - whenever the inspiration's around: sitting at a PC, hammering away at the keyboard, my nostrils teased by the aroma from the half-empty cup of white coffee lying on my other table (there will be no other weird smells, because I endeavour to keep my den relatively clean). Being misanthropic, I'll probably need an agent to handle the entangling social and financial issues regarding publishing and marketing.

What? I may have to attend public events like book-signings, launches and writers' circles?

Darn, I knew there was a catch.

Artists are bad enough, I should think. What are even worse are celebrity artists. Once they reach a certain amount of fame, something in them dies. That also happens when their mindset changes. I've noticed that my muse visits me when there's this pall over my head (maybe she's been visiting other similar people, the flirt). Whatever friends I have told me I'm too dark, neurotic and cautious. Go out there and live a little, they said. Take a few chances.

Hey, I am toying around with the idea of becoming a writer (and here I am, writing under an alias I won't be using in the future). That's pretty dangerous, don't you think?

I see myself doing nothing but writing for the foreseeable future, even after I leave my current company. But local publishers aren't keen on writers who prize anonymity. Given my opinions about my government and society, I'm not comfortable having my articles tagged with my real name. I'm quite certain that if I toned my act down, the most potent force behind my muse shall dwindle, driving her to seek shelter elsewhere.

But, why not? Does anybody know B. Traven? Me neither. Nor have I read any of his books (sorry, I only read English). But he pulled it off, writing a best-seller under an alias and ultimately, took all clues to his his real identity to the grave.

That has a certain appeal; I don't like being famous, I don't want the kind of attention JK Rowling gets (from housewife to best-selling multimillionaire author - great fairy tale, but not for me), and I certainly don't want to get up on stage in front of thousands of strangers to receive some prize. That sounds paradoxical because writers depend on the reading public for their livelihood.

Then again, that's just like me.

Year-End Travails of 2006, Continued

It seems that my itinerary of year-end hijinks hasn't come to an end just yet.

Car Service Centre, Act I
What was supposed to be a routine car service became not-so routine when they found a failed brake fluid pump, along with worn brake pads and faulty windshield wipers. After more than a year, my piece of Pauper's Plastic made a return appearance. I needed liquid cash, and if my fate involved being entombed within the wreck of my car, it will not be my fault.

While waiting, another customer joined me in the waiting room. Without the buzz from my morning coffee, I revealed details about myself I'd usually keep from strangers (like, where I came from, my age, etc). When I told him I wasn't attached, he asked, "Are you, like, gay?"

Him being a stranger, I forgave him. Nobody challenges my sexuality and comes away unscathed.

"Come on, no shame to admit it if you are."

Man, was he pushing it. Is this how members of my community engage in conversation with people they'd just met? Forget 2007; if this persists there will not be a single good day - let alone a good year - to set foot in Malaysia.

Car Service Centre, Act II
Later, when I was alone, I read a copy of The Star. It was yesterday's, but I didn't mind. When I reached the Citizen's Blog section, I found that a few self-righteous individuals just painted over fifty-five million bloggers worldwide, including yours truly, with a really broad brush. So what if all we cared about was the speed of our Internet connection? You'd be mad too if you're not getting what you paid for, which was what many users of our glorified narrowband service had to deal with. And it's not as if we're totally immune to disaster.

I was relieved to be able to continue on to my destination: Bandar Utama. It was the first time I'd used the Damansara-Puchong Highway totally unsupervised. I reached there in no time, and I didn't even get lost.

Launch of Write Out Loud, Ikano Power Centre
I heard about another book launch, and was intrigued; among the names were faces I wanted to see (like Alexandra, whom I've heard about from Irene), so off I went. Again, I was early, and again, I forgot the details of the event. I had the date, time and general venue correct, but... where exactly was it? I connected the dots and headed to what was probably the largest in the chain of Popular bookstores in the country.

After the launch there was a short reading session involving some of the contributing authors, among whom were Her Majesty Boadicea, who'd read her contribution, an abstract piece of prose with a misleading title. She later cajoled me into buying a copy, effectively backing me up a wall. I'd just come from servicing my car; any purchase I'd make from that point onward required serious thinking.

In the end, there was just no denying Her Majesty's will.

Returning with my newly-purchased copy, I spied Irene, who had come to "surprise" Alexandra with her unscheduled presence. I chatted briefly with Ted Mahsun, and collected a few signatures. My request that Alexandra use that timelessly endearing line, "Thanks for buying the book, YOU CHEAP BASTARD!" was politely turned down. How disappointing.

A real surprise (not like Irene's) was the business card given out by Karen-Ann Theseira, captain of the Write Out Loud (formerly known as The Book Project) project. Turns out she has a day job. I did recall someone saying, "If you want to be a writer, get a job that doesn't involve writing."

Ah.

Meatballs at IKEA Restaurant
The ladies were hungry, and there were plans to eat at the IKEA Restaurant. I gatecrashed the gathering in my typical fashion; I was hungry, too - and I had an unsatisfied curiosity about Swedish Meatballs. New tastes, and a chance to expand my social circle. "Killing two birds with one stone" should be in my résumé's Skills section.

Apart from Alexandra and Irene, there was Kat, also another of Irene's friends, and a friend of Kat's as well. Both have blogs, apparently, but I wasn't in the mood to ask for URLs then (I had meatballs in my head). We did have an interesting conversation, where Kat's friend, Z (wonder if he knows V?), demonstrated an unusual level of maturity and intelligence.

Where did I go wrong when I was growing up?

From Alexandra, I learned about an old schoolmate from my days at Penang Free School. She didn't say anything about a funeral, so I assumed that he must still be alive. The guy was a regular at the school's Chess Club, which I joined only to pad my school testimonial. I'd sign the attendance form and let him or some other club member whup my ass in less than fifteen moves, before leaving for my Malay language tuition class. Besides, I had no patience for the game.

This year's going to end on a peaceful note for me. See you all next year.

Like Rain On Your Wedding Day

The buzzword of the day is SLOW, with varying numbers of Ws, depending on the levels of stress, boredom, or an unhealthy mix of both. It's half-past midnight, and the local blogosphere is absolutely buzzing with busybodies who are having better luck updating their blogs than I.

While fifty or so Malaysian bloggers sing "The Internet is Slow-Wow-Wow-Wow-Wow", I'm stuck here waiting in vain for the Blogger home page to load.

Figures.

If ExaBytes came out with a special Quake-Proof Web Hosting Package for bloggers, they might see lines longer than those formed for the PlayStation 3.

Taiwan Quake Boosts Productivity

Malaysia was effectively cut off from the rest of cyberspace when the latest Taiwan quake shook some undersea cables to bits. Sites hosted within the country are unaffected by the interruption.

The local ISPs are downplaying the severity of the outage by claiming that reductions of connection speed, rather that total inaccessibility, is to be expected for the next several days while the damage is being repaired. Mostly true, of course, but speeds are so slow while accessing overseas sites it might as well be inaccessible.

Meanwhile, millions of office drones all over the country (including yours truly) have no choice but to work more, now that many of the latest on-line soccer/golf/basketball scores, news sites, forums, blogs and gossip columns are temporarily unavailable.

Year-End Travails of 2006

Last weekend was spent hopping between a well-read, intellectual, boozing, fun-loving crowd to a wild, hardcore-partying, boozing fun-loving crowd.

Readings
My first Readings session saw the launch of Project Elarti, a magazine by the boys of Neohikayat. I was among the earliest arrivals, besides Sharon Bakar and Nicholas. Other highlights of the event included Sharon's forgetfulness, an incident with a recalcitrant wine cork, and my first glimpse of a blook.

The crowd was smart, open and unafraid of the new and unexplored, not to mention much more cosmopolitan, with more Malays and Caucasians. The atmosphere was not unlike that of a penny university where intellectuals gathered to talk shop, split hairs or gossip over a warm cuppa. Frankly, I felt intimidated.

I was very much afraid of yawning or falling asleep during the readings; most of them read their own pieces. Original works. No cop-outs reciting Hemingway, Burns or Tennyson here. Fortunately, I stayed relatively awake during the whole session, which was interrupted by the muezzin from a nearby mosque.

Sorry about the wine bottle, Sharon. I'll practise.

KY's Christmas Eve Party
There was a surprise at the party: the attendance of ex-colleague WildGuy. At a birthday party last year, I found out the KY and WildGuy worked at KLCC, and assumed they'd eventually bump into each other. They did and are practically best friends now.

WildGuy hasn't changed; he's very much that pumped, angry, unrestrained, sexist, misogynistic, ultra-macho xenophobe he was a couple of years ago (still the same bundle of fun). I missed his frank and unvarnished assessments about everything, including myself. I also discovered that his angst remains at the same level, sober or otherwise.

Overall the party atmosphere was quite muted (but still intoxicating), at least up till the Secret Santa session; Fireangel, the Spice of Every Party was elsewhere that night. Though I knew why I couldn't drink, the word "allergy" disappeared from my vocabulary that evening, which was how I ended up being force-fed alcohol from a communal Grail. I also tore my knuckles open bashing the punching bag that hung in KY's kitchen (with some encouragement from WildGuy.

I made it home safe. Thankfully, there wasn't a single police roadblock.