Never Felt Safer, Part II

I don't know which revelation about this is the most unsettling:

• People are surfing the Internet for threats at the Internal Security Ministry.
• Untried, naive and gullible country bumpkins are probably surfing the Internet for threats at the Internal Security Ministry.
• The possibility of untried, naive and gullible country bumpkins being employed at the Internal Security Ministry.
• Surfing the Internet (during office hours) is considered a legitimate full-time job at the Internal Security Ministry.

Oh yeah. I feel, like, really safe.

On the other hand, that sounds like a plum job. I wonder if they're hiring.

Never Felt Safer

Ah, nothing warms the cockles, mussels and oysters of your heart than the knowledge that you can count on our beloved government to take drastic action against depraved homicidal lawbreakers.

Like begging depraved homicidal lawbreakers to release their captives and repent for fear of the collective fury of over twenty million indignant souls. Or installing more electronic eyes as deterrents.

Wow, like, I feel safe already.

If such "drastic" measures actually work, there wouldn't be any depraved homicidal lawbreakers, lecherous kleptomaniacal charlatans or depraved suicidal speed-limit-breakers to begin with. It just goes to show just how much (or how little) criminals think of our authorities - or our anger at their hijinks.

But I just have to wonder: What manner of madness or cunning could compel men to sink to such unfathomable depths? Where and when did all this begin?

Not Really All-Malaysia, But Close

Although I first heard about the gathering from Suanie, I thought it strange that she only stayed there briefly. I guess all the outings and partying during the year-end must have worn her out. Glad I didn't buy any beer.

Why The Gardens at Mid Valley, of all places, the high-end-brand museum disguised as a shopping mall?

I eventually decided to ponder over other important things, like what to have for lunch - and boy, I could use a coffee.

I became evasive at the registration desk; after two-and-a-half years I was still skittish over my blog's flimsy privacy. I retreated to the counter and said hi to Yvonne. I also bumped into Peter Tan (actually, it was the other way around), who told me of Suanie's absence. He was there with long-time friend Wuan, whom he recently married.

All the usual suspects were glaringly absent from the meet. Fresh or unheard-of names were the order of the day. There were, however, some familiar faces.

First was Albert, who is rarely seen without a camera. And there were a lot of cameras there that morning. It's like a press conference where the journalists interview each other. The spectacle did freak out a few shoppers, who gawked and stared as they walked past.

Then there was April Yim, the statuesque Amazon who designs her own trinkets and contributes greatly to Yvonne's fundraising drives. She shared a table with Yvonne, Yvonne's new friend Fiona, and Raj "the Stud", whose enthusiasm and gregariousness bespoke of his experience in PR and event management. Raj had heaps of ideas for the organiser's All-Malaysia Info web site.

Cordelia (Yvonne's other friend) and husband turned up as well. She remembers me as the Big Squid. "I can never remember your real name," she admitted, "because it's so ordinary. Your nickname's more interesting." She also chided my refusal to sign up with Facebook.

Another surprise was the presence of Kurt Low. There was also Skyler, along with Shaz and the Kellster, who were also at the Burger King meet in 2006.

Due to crowd-fatigue, I didn't speak much to most of the attendees, and had to decline Yvonne's invitation to lunch. "Anti-social," she teased. I gave a mental shrug, realising at last why she preferred smaller meetings. What can I say? Some crust was left after this old loaf of bread was trimmed.

Year-End Travails of 2007

My summary of year-end misadventures is delayed because of an after-vacation hangover, so I'm ringing in the new year with it. Friday, 21 December 2007 Fetched FunnyBunny from the office, only to have her drag me shuffling and grumbling (as opposed to kicking and screaming, because I know I won't win) to the nearest cinema to catch Enchanted. Kudos to Disney for this Bollywood-esque hit - and I suggest they keep their cel animation workshops for future projects. On the other hand, the saccharine sweetness made me cringe for about fifteen minutes of the flick. And who would believe in house-cleaning cockroaches?! Rendered in excruciatingly realistic detail. Eww. There was also supper at Cineleisure's Kopi Oh! Café. Their Signature Rice, Special Sandwich and coffee are great after-movie munchies. Monday, 24 December 2007 I hadn't planned to be at the Christmas Eve party at the House with the Koi Pond, but a call from WildGuy changed my mind. Much hilarity ensued when I arrived in time for the Not-So-Secret Santa event. Some of the gifts included a bachelor's "survival kit", chocolates, a do-it-yourself seafood soup (complete with a real fish and a recipe) and a packet of dried meat. The non-halal gift was being passed around haphazardly; I was surprised the contents hadn't disintegrated when the fanfare ended. The Snark Hunter was surprised to know I still remembered him from the 2005 PPS bash. "That was two-and-a-half years ago!" he marvelled. I didn't think it was that long ago. Ever the consummate firestarter, WildGuy suggested baiting curious police officers with magic words like "Reformasi", "Hindraf" and a number of very un-PC, anti-establishment slogans (I probably should add that he has a very warped sense of humour). And the cops actually came; raucous revelries in the past had earned the Koi Pond House a certain eminence among local law enforcement. The police soon left though, thanks to KY's diplomatic skills (and probably the sheer number of camera/phones in the crowd). Weekend, 29 to 30 December 2007 A Malaccan road trip! An important milestone in my life as I packed up for a two-day, one night stop at the historic state. While the neighbourhood I stayed at had that enthralling old-world charm (with the Cheng Hoon Teng temple and Kapitan Kling mosque within walking distance), my fears of encountering a garish low-budget theme park of a tourist destination were realised when I laid eyes on the Stadhuys and Christ Church. Rickshaws posed serious traffic hazards with their supersonic horns, concealed boom-boxes and carnival-parade fixtures. Hawkers peddling souvenirs, knick-knacks, clothes and drinks were everywhere. An old cannon on the grounds was turned into a garbage can. Jonker Walk has morphed into a less-modern Petaling Street. Virtually every stall and shoplot offered the "best" chicken rice balls, durian cendol, pineapple tarts and authentic Peranakan cuisine. Every cup of coffee I had had less kick and character than the average Malaysian soccer player. Attempts to find the best of the "best" failed - abysmally. And all I got out of it was a lousy fridge magnet. The quaint Limau-Limau Café was a nice spot, but if they lowered their prices I could've tried at least three of their drinks. The dragonfruit lassi was flatter than Kate Moss and probably not the best item to measure the strength of their other concoctions. A visit to the Portuguese settlement was equally disappointing, particularly the devil curry (more like devil's advocate curry). The crowds and smoke from the chilli-coated baked fish evoked memories of the recent Hindraf rally. The only memorable food I tried was a fried vege-roll from a mobile popiah seller (who also sold fresh ones) and some wantan noodles at a tiny shop. The mediocrity! The kitsch! It burns, it burns! The final irony of the trip: KOed by nasi lemak, my first taste of real Malaysian flavours upon my return. Monday, 31 December 2007 New Year Eve dinner at FunnyBunny's pad, where the landlord prepared a sumptuous feast for us and his friends. Witnessed a mini-display of fireworks nearby and stayed till 5am to watch a hilariously entertaining mahjong game. The marinated, baked chicken wings were a winner, not to mention the mashed potatoes. The landlord should set up shop - maybe at Malacca's Jonker Street. That'll add some character - and more importantly, flavour - to the place.

Cracking The French Code

I had such low expectations for the book, the laughs that followed page after page after page became even more satisfying.

And it was a big surprise to see it in print while I was in Malacca. One of the great things that ended an annus horribilis on a good note.

---

French comprehension

Those who don't understand French also do not understand the French. Now, with this book, you can

first published in The Star, 30 December 2007


I admit I know almost nothing about France or the French, other than Napoleon Bonaparte, the Eiffel Tower, Asterix, the guillotine, the works of Alexandre Dumas, and the French penchant for scapegoating. I also know about the French stereotypes perpetrated by the British in sitcoms like 'Allo, 'Allo and Mind Your Language.

Just when I thought I didn't need to know any more, comes this little volume called Talk To The Snail: Ten Commandments for Understanding the French.

"Don't go to France without reading this book", the back cover warns. I'm not sure I would want to go to France, even after reading this book. There are so many ways you could offend the French, and they have just as many ways of returning the favour (Americans and their "freedom fries" - hah! "Amateurish" would be an overstatement).

Verbal faux pas are all too easy to commit, and French etiquette holds many pitfalls for both the uninitiated novice and well-seasoned expatriate.

But have no fear. If you've gotten a copy, you're in good hands – almost.

Talk to the Snail is the brainchild of British (who else?) journalist and author Stephen Clarke. He had honed his edge through writing comedy skits for radio and stand-up comedy, which explains why he is that good.

The Brits are masters of the sardonic wit. You know who they are: Simon Cowell, Jeremy Clarkson, Hugh Laurie, etc. By the end of the second chapter, I added Clarke to the list.

Before this book there were three others, which he wrote under three different names, and published under his own label to give away to friends and other interested parties.

One of them, A Year in the Merde, a quasi-fictional account of the author's experiences in France, went on to become a runaway best-seller.

Other titles in that vein, Merde, Actually and Merde Happens hold equal promise, and reinforce the author's fixation with the French word for ... "excrement". What's next, Merde, He Wrote?

On the first page, the author offers his "sincerest apologies" to the French, a disclaimer that grows evermore fraudulent as the book progresses. A couple of pages after that another lie is exposed – there are actually 11 commandments!

I like him already.

I've learned more French in this book than I would care to. There are words or phrases I already knew, plus some I've only heard of once or twice.

And, of course: "There's a French word/phrase for that?" – a reaction that keeps recurring as the pages flipped.

Phonetic pronunciation guides are provided, though I doubt they would be of much help.

With regards to the usual Anglo-Saxon stereotype of France and its citizens, Clarke does not hold back. The wit is razor-sharp, the language acerbic, and political correctness is unceremoniously defenestrated. The fnotes, which were reminiscent of Terry Pratchett, added to the fun factor.

Then the fun had to stop about halfway through when I needed my inhaler.

Revelations in the aforementioned pages may sound over-the-top, but France is a country where you wouldn't last a week if: (a) you don't speak French; and (b) you are not well acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of the French.

Clarke has lived there for over a decade, so he does - or should - know what he's talking about.

Of course, it's not all about lazy workers who are constantly on strike, dodgy real estate agents, bad drivers, surly restaurant help and insufferable service counter staff. There are praises for their culinary tastes, easygoing attitude, aptitude for romance and pride in their culture.

On the contrary, some "common mistakes" in French are
not entirely meaningless

Clarke sounds like a cynical Francophobe most of the time, but it all hints at his covert admiration of the French and their lifestyle - pitfalls and all.

Would I recommend this book? I don't know. I loved it, however. But make no mistake - this is no Lonely Planet guidebook, but it is a good read for anyone who wants to go to France, and a tantalising peek into what Clarke's other Merde-themed novels might have to offer.

---

Talk to the Snail

Ten Commandments for Understanding the French

Stephen Clarke
Transworld Publishers
262 pages (Hardcover)
Non-Fiction
ISBN: 9780593057223

All Paris, No Hilton

Why don't you read it?" she challenged me. She was not getting away with it.

I kind of regretted it.

Are all chick-lit pieces like this? "Yes, they're all like that," a friend replies, to my horror. It'll be a while before I could gather the courage to pick up another one.

---

Lightweight chick-lit

first published in The Star, 28 December 2007


To me, the word "chick-lit" is synonymous with Japanese, Korean and Thai horror movie titles. However, somebody found my Achilles Heel by practically shoving a chick-lit title up my nose and challenging me to read it.

Sweetheart From Hell is May-Zhee Lim's sophomore effort, after the chick-lit version of Harry Potter, Vanitee Bee. The first book must have been successful enough to encourage her to write another one. While both the lead characters have the same last name, it’s unclear if Sweetheart is the sequel to her first book.

Think Paris Hilton – but with 10 times the Paris and no Hilton – and you have Vicky Vanitee, the titular "sweetheart" who divorced her husband over a runaway lipstick; lied to her friends about a glam job in the tropics and a mega-celebrity husband; flew halfway around the world (to Kuala Lumpur, no less) to take up a position that is about to be terminated; and tormented her current beau – along with his friends, associates and ex-girlfriends – with random acts of deception, sabotage, fits of jealous rage and profligate spending. All told in her own words.

Reading this felt like riding the nightmarish theme-park attraction, "In the Wake of the Darling from Hades". The narration has the aesthetics of a burning 20-car pile-up. The over-the-top hi-jinks evoke a mixture of disbelief, consternation and amusement. Her chronic, self-centred, bombastic neuroticism makes you weep in pain – from all the cringing and wincing. The plot is fairly straightforward; the adventure lies in surviving the experience with your mind and intelligence intact.

It's easy to sympathise with every single character – except Vicky. She craves attention, thirsts for affection, hungers for recognition and begs to be taken seriously, but everything she does leads to the contrary. Instead, you feel more for the victims of her schemes. It was satisfying to see her finally get her just desserts (quite literally, in one instance).

Just when you're about to reach the end of your rope, begging, "Please, no more, oh God please, please, please put me out of my misery", you spy one of the creative cliff-hangers among the pages – a journal entry, conversation snippet, or blueprint of her next scheme – and once again, morbid curiosity overpowers everything else and you're back into her chaotic slipstream.

Overall, Sweetheart is the literary version of comfort food: it's not healthy, but it is fun – totally mindless fun at that. Its release seems well-timed, given the number of voyeuristic reality shows that are mushrooming all over the airwaves lately. Though it's clear Lim is putting her beloved lead character through the wringer for our enjoyment, one wonders – is she eulogising or parodying aspects of American and regional pop culture?

Fixations for brand names, multi-talented megastars (Jay Chou in particular) and their devotee-like fans, and the paparazzi's hungry gullibility – it's all there, and more.

In spite of the language and drama, there were times when I couldn't help but laugh. The cliffhangers were the funniest parts. From the atrocious narration, in-jokes, and cameos by her friends (and possibly an enemy or two), it's obvious May-Zhee had fun writing the story, which I suspect is that of her alter ego, the pompous, overbearing prima donna hidden behind the façade of the straight-A student.

However, her novel yarn-spinning method may not have a wide appeal. The pink cover is a loud and clear KEEP OUT to sheltered bookworms and stiff-upper-lipped literati. To those who dare, beware of its vampiric vacuousness.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for my Discovery Channel fix. It's been two weeks and I'm still salvaging my IQ.

---

Sweetheart from Hell

Written and published by May-Zhee Lim
382 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-983-43144-1-5

Piltdown Rakshasa

This looked too good to pass up.

National Geographic recently published news of an old Internet hoax to put to rest the notion that giants used to exist. A local Indian paper actually reported the "find", which allegedly came from north India and confirms the existence of giants from the Mahabharata epic (the paper later retracted the report).

Did somebody appeal to that country for help against oppression? Do they believe in apsaras¹ as well?

The society is no stranger to scams. The biggest one in recent history was the discovery of a missing link between dinosaurs and birds. The find, called the Archaeoraptor, was eventually exposed as a fake (one version suggests that the fossil was actually assembled in haste and sold to black marketeers by the villager who found it, sullying the "Made in China" tag even further).

Although National Geographic issued a public apology over the Archaeoraptor flap (pun so very much intended), some publications were not so forgiving, cheekily dubbing the scandal, "The Case of the Piltdown Chicken". Creationists and Bible-thumpers also had a field day. Since then, other fossils of bird-like dinos have been found, but scientists are more careful with these finds.

I suspect however, that in India, hope springs eternal.


¹ Celestial handmaidens in Hindu myth, similar to the Persian houris.

² Rakshasas are considered demons, and not all of them are gigantic in size.