Don't Count On Tomorrow

The cheery atmosphere of an Internet chat was shaken by news of a murder. It brought home the realisation that such tragedies don't just "happen to other people".

Gloomy thoughts on mortality dragged me out of my shell and into the real world, which laughed, shook its head and sometimes cheered my attempts in seizing those swiftly-moving days. Even before the latest round of bad news, the passing of several personalities had already given "Project Get-A-Life" an added sense of urgency.

I hated the fact that one day, I won't be able to see, hear, smell or taste all the things that I've come - and will come - to love and enjoy so much: blue skies, turquoise oceans, colourful works of art and pretty faces; flowers, spices, and the scent from the nape of my partner's neck; new and old favourite songs and familiar voices.

There are other new things that I'm sure I'll miss someday.

Yvonne waving at me with a smile on her face after picking me out of a crowd (with only one good eye).

Irene's throaty laugh when she hears a good joke, or when the joke's on me.

FunnyBunny getting all animated as she recounts her latest (mis)adventures.

Wildguy's sardonic observations of things around him and the wild, wild ideas that sprout like weeds from his criminal mind.

Mom's cooking and Dad's dry curry.

All of that, and more, will come to an end. And I'm taking in as much as I can before my time comes. We don't need to wait till we're down with a terminal illness, or when someone's put a contract out on us.

If you see me a little too often at a particular event, a food joint or venue, or find me gatecrashing one party too many, hold your snide remarks about me being some fixture or unwelcome guest. I'm there for the experience, and for you guys as well. Because our lifetimes are much shorter - and more precious - than we think they are.

Yet some people still hang on to the past, flog dead horses or obsess over race or religion. Do they think they'll live forever? Or have they merely lost their way?

If Only All Weekends Were Like This

Lately I've been lucky enough to find a few escape routes from the mundane existence that is my (lack of a) life. If only I could say the same about my (lack of a) career.

The talk about writing believable characters at MPH, 1 Utama last Saturday was brief, and poorly attended. But the panellists managed to squeeze in some infotainment into the one-and-a-half hour slot. While the Professor and Nik Azmi felt somewhat at home, Kam Raslan looked like he'd rather be somewhere else.

The question of race was inevitably brought up during the discussions. The argument was that the deeply-rooted compartmentalisation of our society has made it difficult to sell works that pitch the "harmonious multi-racial utopia" because we ourselves can't relate to such literature.

And I bought a book. Kam Raslan signed my copy of Confessions of an Old Boy, the novel he flogged during that Central Market reading session, where he teased the audience with humorous snippets from one of the chapters. The "hero" of his story reminds me of Taita, the brilliant eunuch slave from Wilbur Smith's River God. They share the same level of cowardice and snobbishness, plus the talent for words and ability to mingle with saints and scoundrels.

I checked the signed page last night. It was strange that the date was the 20th of May (Sunday), when the talk was held on Saturday.

Sharon Bakar's invitation to lunch at Ms Read's Del•icious Café derailed my plans to invade Italiannies and find out what the fuss was about; some people loved it, but my sisters didn't. That didn't stop me from joining in. The food is great, as are the desserts.

So that was my weekend done - or so I thought.

On Sunday, ten to midnight, the FunnyBunny threw me an invitation for a drink, which landed right between my eyes like a well-aimed javelin. She'd just come back from an overseas jaunt, and missed some of the local flavours. I accepted, and footed the bill - my way of thanking the higher powers for keeping her flights trouble and terrorist-free.

I had work the next day, but she is a friend.

There were photos, of course. Food, cute furry animals, impressive architecture and... works of modern art. Since she has her own blog, I won't go into detail here, lest she peels me like some edible fruit of choice.

And after that, I opened Kam Raslan's book and it swallowed me whole. Half the night was gone.

No, I wasn't terribly late for work.

How To Dish Out Your Thoughts

It wasn't as big a deal as Yvonne's book launches, but I attended the book-talk anyway. She and Her Majesty Boadicea held court at MPH 1Utama last Sunday. Although it was about that collaboration called Write Out Loud, the maestro of the project, Karen-Ann Theseira, was nowhere to be seen.

OK, so I arrived late and probably missed her.

The so-called book-talk-slash-how-to-write session quickly morphed into a cross between A Tribute to John "The Next Tom Clancy" Ling and "What You Don't Want to Know About Writers" (the latter part owes much to Boadicea, Part Time Queen of Darkness). Revelations about writers as brooding, tortured beings who tap into wellsprings of raw negative emotions almost made a young aspiring writer in the microscopic audience swear off the art forever. In the end, though, all was well.

But back to the Young Aspiring Writing Newbie.

This was what happened: young aspiring char koay teow seller wants to be the next big thing, so he seeks guidance from one of the Famous Macalister Road Sisters from Penang. Being the guileless, not-so-surefooted fledgling that just realised that those flappy things are meant for flight, he puts forth queries he thinks will bring him closer to his goal. "Should I slice the spring onions diagonally or straight horizontal?" "What brand of koay teow is best?" "Aluminium or non-stick (wok)?" "Wild or farmed (prawns)?"

To her credit, Her Majesty (who has a reputation for not suffering fools) was very patient with the budding acolyte, satisfying his burning curiosity as best she could.

I felt like whacking him with one of the chairs.

Writing is a bit like cooking. You need ingredients, proper utensils, preparation techniques and - the most important thing - that personal touch. It's the last bit that sets you apart from the rest, because it is, well, you. It will take you years - or never - to develop and hone your magic touch to a katana-edge. You think it's easy to put bits of yourself into your writing? Some find it easy, so much so that they're not doing it consciously. Then we have our fledgling, whose fuss over tools and technique kept him from getting off the ground.

Speaking of technique: Let me spin you a yarn.

When I was in Form 5, we had to produce rice paper prints from a carved linoleum board for our final Art exam. Half of my class were students of this one art tutor, and the teacher who graded the paper immediately noticed the applied techniques of his colleague in the masterpieces they turned in (they all even had the same theme: nesting birds). Mine sucked, but the design and colours were my very own.

Too bad you don't get points for being yourself in exams. With writing, it's a different story.

O budding writer, do not be afraid. Bad writing is everywhere, so your first attempts won't be the catastrophe you thought they were. Practise whenever you can. Read, and read lots. Even the bad pieces. Do have a dictionary in hand, because spelling is always important. Learn to convey your thoughts and ideas in a manner so concise your readers will get you the first time. Forget about that thesaurus sitting on the bookstore shelf. Even as a professional writer, you will never use up to eighty-percent of the contents in your lifetime. Research your chosen genre thoroughly so that you look like you know what you're talking about. Use words like "kewl", "sux" and "kthxbai" to incur my everlasting wrath.

The rest? You pick it up as you go along. You, your life and your journeys are source of the ingredients for your writing. Once you have an idea of how to "cook" and present them, it should be smooth sailing from there.

Getting published is another matter entirely.

The one thing you can't control is the reader. Don't bother trying. Since readers are also people, there will be those who will either love you or hate you after they've sampled your prose. Not everybody likes char koay teow, you know.

One of The Better Days

I found a bean sprout growing out a kitchen sink's drainage outlet on Friday night. Either the sister has developed a sense of humour, or it's the long-neglected grease-trap, crying out for some care and attention. The creepiness factor only added to the sense of foreboding that hovers above those who have to work weekends.

Later, after divulging my plans for the next day during an on-line chat, the FunnyBunny pointed out a glaring inconsistency in my declaration of misanthropy. The plan was to work half a day before speeding off to a sort-of social event at Ikano's Popular Bookstore, the scene of a previous engagement involving literature.

But when I arrived at the office, my colleagues were a no-show. I should be happy, but I wasn't (because nobody told me of any postponements). After waiting for an hour, I choked down an inferior pasta dish at a food court and left for the venue. I arrived early, so I killed some time by window shopping. A pre-event surprise was bumping into Ruhayat X on the escalator.

It was raining mammoths and sabre-toothed tigers when it was almost time for the launch.

Unlike her previous launch, they made it official by roping in sponsors and a real Member of Parliament. There were door gifts for early birds, courtesy of the sponsors and (gasp) gifts for some (choke) pop-quiz. One notable presence was Advertlets, which was recently embroiled in a minor controversy. And there was the author herself.

I've never seen Yvonne look prettier.

The speeches, while honest and heartfelt, were mostly unscripted. I found myself wincing at certain points due to the loudspeaker. The launch was officiated when the MP and Yvonne signed the poster that commemorated the event.

Among the gifts was a voucher for a free Starbucks beverage. With that in hand, we followed Yvonne down to the Starbucks outlet to pick a drink of our choice after the event was over.

The local representative for Starbucks for the launch was pretty too. We talked briefly about coffee, Yvonne, blogs - and nothing else.

Chats with Yvonne still involved paper and pen; she couldn't equip the implant that allowed her to partially hear sounds. I also had to adjust my font size when she found my awful handwriting too small to read. There was talk about blogs, naturally, and her work. She also expressed admiration for Lillian Chan, saying that she could never find the courage to be so forthright in her own blog.

In reply I wryly scrawled, "Second childhood, maybe?"

It was good to see her again.

I stayed around longer than I should have, and I wondered why until I was asked to help carry stuff from the Popular Bookstore office down to the parking lots - across the street at The Curve (I previously played porter after the end of her charity concert. Coincidence?) With my trembling arms manoeuvring my inhaler after the task was done, I began wondering about other things, like which deity did I unintentionally offend this time; who the heck drinks strawberry-flavoured milk nowadays; and why is Marigold still selling it?

On the other hand, I finally got to see what's behind one of those "For Staff Only" doors, so I'm not complaining. Thank you, Yvonne and Cordelia. You've made my day.

I rounded up the day by going over to the Curve and got a newer, sturdier backpack, plus a nice dinner at Café 1920. The pasta was much better, although their idea of a "main course" portion was my idea of a starter portion. I think I may have spoiled it a bit by adding too much parmesan.

There was some grocery shopping before returning home. Upon entering the house, I spotted the sister and her boyfriend in the midst of wrapping something - a picture frame perhaps? - until I got a closer look.

"Oh no," I said as it dawned on me. "Tell me that's not a-"

"Yes it is," they answered almost in unison.

They were, in the living room, wrapping layers of newspaper around the manhole cover to their new house. Someone suggested they take care of it until they finally moved in.

I suddenly remembered why. "Oh yes," I said, "they used to steal those to sell as scrap."

The sister looked up. "What do you mean, 'used to'?"

"They'd even brave electrocution to steal live copper wires," her boyfriend added. "Lots of them have died."

"Well, if they're so brave maybe they should have a go at Fear Factor," I suggested, placing my shopping on the table.

"Ooh, I see you bought a new bag from TearProof," the sister noted. I should note that all it took was one glance. "Oh look, it's also a High Sierra brand," she told her boyfriend. "XYZ has a bag like this."

The casualness of her observation blindsided me. "How the..."

"Trust me; I recognise all the shopping bags that come out of every shop in MidValley." Yes, there is a TearProof outlet there too, but that's not the point.

"I recognise all the shopping bags that come out of every shop in MidValley."

I found that deeply unsettling. Her boyfriend, however, looked rather amused.

I'll see better days, someone once comforted me. This was definitely one of those.

Swordfish At Our Shores

Thailand is in trouble. Its king is apparently so ill he can't even defend his own royal dignity from infantile YouTube pranksters. That sacred duty is left to the junta, who have firewalled the site out of the Kingdom of Smiles until every last offensive clip is removed.

It is a desperate and futile gesture, but don't laugh just yet.

A similar phenomenon is already brewing here.

The perverse penetrative power of the Web has been rattling the nerves of our political masters, to the point where they start rambling incoherently. Just how would camwhores, cat lovers, avid readers and foodie adventurers threaten the fragile social fabric of ours? Putting high school and college students through red tape hell because of their virtual soapboxes? Muzzle the voices of concerned citizens who are now finding new ways to air their heartfelt, genuine grievances?

(OK, there is at least one blog, the One-That-Shouldn't-Be-Named, who is unaware that his holier-than-thou attitude makes him an even bigger jackass than he already is. I'm exercising mercy by not giving him any more publicity; his head might swell and explode, and I'm sure nothing good comes from that.)

Now, soldiers are not required to be intelligent, so we could excuse the Thai military for thinking that theirs is a brilliant idea. The same can't really be said about our government.

Fogeys of my generation remember an old fable about Singapore (or Temasek) and the Storm of Swordfish that swept the island. Bereft of sound ideas, court officials suggested lining the shores with men to stem the scaly tide, which of course, led to even more casualties. Then a boy came up with a more sensible solution: banana trunks. The storm soon passed, and lives were saved.

Alas, there would be no happy ending. The court officials, fearing for their positions, petitioned the king to kill the boy for what was nothing more than a suggestion borne out of common sense. Lots of flowery words were used, like the one from an English exercise book I read, which goes, "...it is said, that a child should be a pupil, and not a teacher to kings..." - an allusion that a child that is smarter than his elders violates all sense of propriety. Being an idiot himself, the king succumbed to the machinations of his court, and had the boy killed.

(Just when I thought I was the only one, here's another who managed to connect the dots.)

The Internet isn't just one big grapevine; it's also a massive storage vat. Any dirt that finds its way around the Web will be available for all to see, and will remain so for a very long time. When you're a ranking official on the take, it's a real cause for concern. And there seem to be a lot of those popping up lately, since this country got wired.

So, could we be faulted for receiving the vibes we're getting from the current quivering of our politicians' nerves?

---

Here's another politician who thinks he's got it all figured out. It's not related to the current issue, but I can't help but see some parallels. He obviously hasn't seen the Gen-Y wave yet. They could teach some kings a thing or two.

Coffee With WildGuy at KLCC

I couldn't sneak off early for a lunch date with WildGuy, but I made it anyway. I sought the healing provided by more social contact with friends. That need grows as you get older. And it's fun talking with him. He sets everything straight with his warped philosophies and wry observations.

(So McDonalds has a mini-outlet at the food court now - and it's not even a year since my last visit)

There were musings on death, mercenary work in the Middle East (and the beauty of RPGs, AK47s and M16s), abuse of the suffix "-cino" by Malaysians, and an acquaintance of ours with an eerily reptilian nature.

"Have you heard from him lately?" WildGuy asked while we were having McDs.

"Nope," I replied. "Not a peep."

"Same here. Haven't heard from him for a long time now."

"Maybe business has been bad lately, so he hasn't had much activity." I sipped my Ribena (who cares about that vitamin C thing? It still tastes good). "So he's probably hibernating. You know how reptiles are."

WildGuy cracked up. "Yeah well, it's the rainy season. The weather is cold, after all, so it's understandable." As usual, he had the last word. There was also something about bloggers, but I forgot what.

KY had a prior arrangement, so he couldn't join us for coffee right after lunch. By the time he was ready, the coffee was gone and I had to leave.

The coffee? Tastes like anything ending with "-cino" should taste - in Malaysia, at least.

Imagine If They Were 300 Years Old

"Why is it so bad lately?" a female colleague asked about the traffic situation in KL this week. Another female colleague said some roads were closed, but didn't know why.

"The Royal Malaysian Police are celebrating their 200th anniversary," I supplied. "They've closed the roads to Dataran Merdeka for the festivities." Where they prance around in shiny uniform and showing off at the motorists' expense, I mentally added.

Female Colleague #1 rolled her eyes.

"What? The police are so old already?" asked Female Colleague #2.

"Of course," I said. "The British formed it first."

The modern police force was in fact founded by our former colonial masters. Clinging stubbornly to ancient roots, the Malaysian Police's web site insists that they went back as far as the Malaccan Sultanate, when the Police Chief was known as the Temenggung. True in a sense, but it doesn't justify shutting down part of the city's busiest traffic grid for a self-promoting celebration.

Weren't there any vacant National Service camps they could've used for rehearsals? And after that, I'd suggest they do all their well-practised marching, chanting and human pyramid building in a deserted stadium on a weekend, make a high quality DVD recording of it all and have it on sale at every police station. It'll reach a wider audience, be available for viewing all year-round, and would take care of any Police Day "celebrations" - and all related road closures - for the next two centuries.