Milestones

I've settled my first car loan. All the documents need now is the stamp from the Road Transport Department.

Just last month, I lowered my credit card balance to more manageable levels (meaning, can be cleared with just one payment).

When one thinks about it, the passing of time is more tangible when money's involved.

They Wanted Blood For This?

Everyone should be familiar with the food warning label, "May contain traces of nuts". When you're Hannibal Lecter, that takes on a whole new meaning.

Salman Rushdie got knighted.

The author of novels like Midnight's Children and Shalimar the Clown is, unfortunately, more known for that book with the inflammatory title, The Satanic Verses. Entire nations wanted him dead because of the perceived insults to Islam the book represents.

That clarion call has been repeated when word spread that Rushdie would soon join the ranks of other luminaries like Cliff Richard and Elton John. A price was put on his head (again). British ambassadors were called up (like children sent to the principal's) to "explain". There were brief episodes of effigy-burning and rage-filled calls for blood.

One of these firebrands is the Pakistani Religious Affairs Minister, who attacked the decision, adding that acts like these justified suicide bombings (a slip of the tongue he later retracted). What caught my attention, however, was what Iran's First Deputy Speaker had to say.

"The British monarch lives under this illusion that Britain is still a 19th Century superpower and that bestowing titles is something still deemed important."

It's mind-boggling that such wisdom can't pre-empt the anger over what he says is an illusion.

And the Muslim world's reaction gives Rushdie's knighthood the significance (and enormity) it does not deserve.

When Museums Make You Stupid

I rarely go to museums, generally because they are just so inaccessible, even during weekends. But when I do, I expect an education. So it's funny (at first) to have museums dedicated to wilful stupidity.

John Scalzi, the sci-fi writer who has a reputation for "taunting the tauntable", has been mercilessly egged on by his readers and colleagues to visit and write about the shrine to the Darwin-bashing ideology that emerged from the soul-searching that came about when Americans realised that not everybody loves them.

Among the revelations put forth by the institution are the fact that the earth is actually 6,000 years old, as opposed to the 4.5 billion I read about when I was a kid; there were no such things as "predators"; and that all animals were vegetarians until Adam and Eve were chased out of Eden.

And the fearsome tyrannosaurus rex once ate coconuts.

I'm staring to pity the once-fabled king of dinosaurs. First were the theories that it wasn't the super predator of the Cretaceous, but a plodding, over-sized reptilian vulture. Then they discovered that its descendant might be the lowly chicken. Now this. Talk about libelling the dead.

While I did have a good laugh over the Photoshopping done by Scalzi's readers, amusement soon gave way to rage. It's one thing to lobotomise yourself and replace that grey matter with the Scriptures. When you try to do that to other people (ostensibly, to "save" them from eternal damnation), it's another matter entirely.

Like it or hate it, the US has contributed a lot to our understanding of science and the world around us. When a community rejected the inclusion of Creationism in their schools (to Pat Robertson's chagrin), I cheered. Loudly. So it's quite a wrench for me to watch these self-righteous tripe-peddling loons take advantage of the freedom of speech to tell the world just how weird they are, and that their weirdness is truth.

Religion and politics is a dangerous mix, as we can see in the news. Religion and knowledge is only slightly less so. A line must be drawn in the sand between the two, and right now.

Don't Ever Count On Tomorrow

Tomorrow.

An oft-used invocation that would hopefully stay the hands of time and fate, and ensure that everything for the said appointment or deadline will be there the next day - or the day after - when you could be bothered to attend to it.

But as I realised, tomorrow is often unreliable, especially when you want it to be.

"You read my blog?!" ChiQ gasped. That was June 2005, after I had asked about the "rough patch" I'd read about in her BlogSpot blog. She looked shocked, even - happy, to learn that a reader, a total stranger, had cared enough to ask. Her round, cheerful face betrayed nothing.

That was the first and last time we met.

Because she walked out on Tomorrow - and on all of us.

Hey, guys. Take care, will you? Don't do anything stupid. I'd rather lose all of you to old age.

When Wordsmiths Gather

The latest Readings session was well-attended, and had the atmosphere of a gathering of martial arts experts. Both the founding mothers of Readings, Sharon Bakar and Bernice Chauly were present, and even a crouching tiger and hidden dragon had come out to play.

---

"Hello, I'm Kenny."

I rummaged through my memory. "Kenny Mah," I blurted out in recognition.

The poor fellow nearly jumped out of his skin. Apparently this happens to him a lot.

He should have expected it, though.

Virtually everyone at the gathering shared a connection with Sharon. They were either commentors on Bibliobibuli, or in some way involved in the local literature/poetry scene. So it wasn't too hard to deduce that this fellow "A" is actually "A" of "B" from the "C" blog, and so on. This was a closely-knit group that would give a Freemasons' lodge a run for its money.

---

Never judge a person by how he opens a wine bottle.

When I first met him Nicholas Wong was not doing very good job. My opinion of him was fairly neutral, but he didn't impress me. So when Sharon rattled off his achievements as an introduction to his turn at the microphone I was stunned. There were awards, prizes, and published works and interviews. The boy was as decorated as a knight of the Round Table.

And if that wasn't enough, Sharon told us that the veteran poet Wong Phui Nam, whom she had trouble inviting to Readings, agreed to come only if Nicholas was coming to read.

Me? I fared a lot worse. I had nearly ruined a bottle of wine. His cork extraction skills, however, has since improved.

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.