New Digs, New Plans

It's only been a week and three days, but I'm feeling rather settled in my fourth floor apartment. Being a hand-me-down unit from relatives, it's far from perfect, but the issues are fixable.

I'm also reconnected to the Web, and a working gas stove means I can boil drinking water. I am a bit apprehensive over using a three-way adaptor plug for the fridge and hot water pot, though.

It's been a week without TV, and I'm still alive. Not even a whiff of a withdrawal symptom. Wish I could say the same about a week without Internet access. At least I won't have to search and apply for new jobs from the office.

Uprooted Once More

Most people would expect somebody in his early thirties to have a degree of worldliness and concern for his country. So it's rather embarrassing to have an 18-year-old speaking on behalf of my tired, apathetic self.

The cupboards, shelves and drawers in my room have been emptied, and all the contents are packed in cardboard cartons and plastic storage boxes, ready to be shipped out.

Three-plus years. This is the longest time I've ever spent at a place in all my years in KL.

The new neighbourhood will be much busier and noisier, and a lot less secure. Parking will be harder to find, and taking out the trash will be even harder. My next room will be smaller than this, and I may have to live without an ASTRO feed. There'll be no washing machine, either. On the bright side, I have much of the place to myself and I'll be alone for most of the time.

I know, because that's where I lived for nearly three years before moving to the house I'm staying in now.

I didn't have a lot of good memories of the place.

I feel the usual pang that comes from being uprooted (again), but it's not as strong as it once was - a return to familiar surroundings, perhaps? If only I could feel the same for all the changes happening in my life - whenever they come.

I will be totally cut off from cyberspace for days until the technicians come fix my phone line (not sure if the old digs have wi-fi coverage, which, truthfully, is not really worth the money).

So I don't think I'll miss this place too much: the spacious kitchen, sprawling living room, ready parking space, quiet surroundings, and all that living space in what I will soon call "my old room". I'd like to think I've learned not to get too attached to a home that's not my own. But damn, I'm also going back to hand-washing my laundry after three years of automated wash, rinse and spin.

Tea And Chocolate

Saturday, 25 August 2007

Months before this, Alexandra Wong wasn't really a name that stuck in my mind - but her writing did. It was refreshing to see passages that bounce and spin like one of those funky, out-of-this-world space-age tops with those flashing lights, especially in a dour production like The Star newspaper. Her name would remain fuzzy until the day we first met. She was as chirpy as her writings, not to mention good-looking.

And here I was, helping her move house.

There was only one box, but it was heavy, and awkwardly shaped.

But joy!

Anyway, it's not about the move. Alex announced her decision to publish a book, and she needed expert advice. And the only expert big enough within reach is Eric Forbes of MPH Publishing. So after we dropped the box at her new digs, it was off to the Local Authors' Hi-Tea Event at MPH, 1 Utama.

The panel of speakers were getting into gear when we arrived. There weren't any more seats left, so we just stood at the doorway. As expected, Eric was there. An MPH staff member was kind enough to direct him to Alex. While she and Eric talked business, I turned my attention to the issues raised by the panel.

As it turns out, this lovely country, which rarely bats an eyelid when rearing white elephants, installing fake flora to beautify roundabouts and imposing outlandish laws to curb immorality and atheism, drags its feet when it comes to setting up checks and controls that allow local books to be marketed effectively overseas. There are also grouses about protectionism in the West, kind of like an AFTA for literature.

And I found out why it was so expensive to order my How to Draw Manga volume, instead of buying it off the shelf. An author who directed a question to the panel said it most eloquently, quoting a friend from overseas who wanted to buy her book: "Are you kidding me?"

Later, Alex sauntered over.

"Were the discussions fruitful?" I asked.

"Very," she replied. Her smiling face shone.

I was glad to hear it.

Of all the speakers who were there, Rehman Rashid stood out. The author of The Malaysian Journey took the time to pitch his book, talk about the good old days and rub the success of his publication into the faces of his erstwhile tormentors. It would've been a poignant tale had he been less of a prima donna. He speaks well, for a crusty old journalist - which means he probably writes well too.

I am, however, not ready to forget or forgive what he said about bloggers in general, even though I suspect he was targeting certain individuals with his opinion/rectum screed.

I wasn't looking forward to the food, but the curry puffs were okay, and the bite-sized chicken mayo sandwiches were surprisingly yummy. Earlier I greeted Sharon Bakar ("my favourite squid", she called me - ha ha, nice to see you again, too), and there was Lydia Teh, who still remembered me from last year ("oh, you're Giant Sotong!" - excellent memory, by the way).

Alex and I left MPH for a bite to eat at Del•icious Café. I had an early dinner, while she was content with a drink and dessert. As usual, the folks at Del•icious fail to disappoint when it comes to food and desserts, but I feel that they tend to overdo it sometimes. The Classic Chocolate Cake, topped with a huge scoop of vanilla ice-cream and surrounded by a moat of chocolate sauce, was luxuriously sinful.

Last Rites, Death, Funeral Procession and Burial by Chocolate.

Sure, it doesn't sound good on the menu, but it takes care of everything at one go, so there's no need to call the good people from the Nirvana Memorial Park.

After a little shopping spree, we spent the rest of the evening chatting with the landlord, who proudly showed me his old ice hockey stick and a real Louisville Slugger(!)

You don't get endings like that for a great day, you know.

However, to my utter shame and chagrin, my biceps were beginning to hurt. I would be so feeling them the next day, and the day after that.

A Frog In Their Throats

You probably have never heard of the common coqui. It's a small Puerto Rican frog that is considered an invasive species in places like Hawaii. At night, the males make such a din, nobody can get a good night's sleep.

A similar kind of noise being made by a 50 Cent-wannabe is also keeping government officials up at night.

Namewee is the handle for a university student from home who was smart enough to be in Taiwan when he recorded the six-minute diatribe about police corruption, lazy civil servants and racial tension in the country - far from the reach of those over-zealous Constitution-thumping government officials.

But he was not smart enough to leave the national flag and anthem out of it, and instead, carelessly marketed the ditty as a "gift to the country" and an "expression of his patriotism".

No matter how insignificant or redundant you think it is, or how much disdain you feel for them, you simply do not "pimp up" your nation's symbols or use them as props.

Only the government can do that.

Well, of course they can! Not long ago they messed around with the tempo of the national anthem. And how many times was the "national language" renamed and tinkered with? I was - and still am - quite happy with the Johor-Riau dialect, thank you so very much. And the old Negaraku has a much more soothing effect, especially when played during Monday mornings.

And the flags - oh, the flags! Come National Day, they're everywhere, stretched across buildings and lamp-posts, flown from rooftops of all kinds, exposed to the elements and pollution until they're nothing more than rags. The end effect is more garish, rather than festive or "tastefully patriotic".

I also remember a spot of kris-waving and a blood-curdling call to arms to "defend the sanctity of religion, ethnicity and country" during some political party's annual general assembly. But that's their symbol, and they can do whatever they want with it.

Way too many people have defended his actions; I think he screwed up. He became a godsend for politicians desperate for red herrings and easy prey, while others out there - the muggers, snatch thieves and assorted hoodlums, not to mention loons like Nordin Top - who could do (and have done) much worse, are still free to do as they please.

Snakes, rats, weasels and foxes are raiding the chicken coops while the farmers go after singing frogs, which are nothing more than a mere annoyance.

Time for the public to act smart, so the authorities will have no choice but to pick on someone their own size.

A Slice Of Nirvana

The working title for this post was (seriously), "I Can Has Duck ConFEE?" And the answer? "Yes I can!" And I did.

Friday, July 06, 2007

She practically shoved the address up my nose. "Here." I had obviously made her upset. How or why, I couldn't remember. An amazing feat, since we were on Yahoo! Messenger.

I had never even heard of this place until last night. Somebody had done a pretty good salespitch, ooing and aahing over luxuriously rich duck confit and pasta, creatively scrumptious apple tart dessert and lemon meringue pie, all at "proletariat prices". But she didn't have to mention the pricing.

She had me at "confit".

Which was why I walked all the way from my office to The Bodhi Tree.

It didn't take long to find the restaurant, tucked away so neatly off one of the main roads in the heart of KL. On the outside, it looked pretty run-down. A bodhi tree stood stoically at one side of the gate. In the small front yard a light-box menu tried its tired best to tease potential patrons with pictures of some of the delights to be found within. I walked under a trellised arch thick with vines and entered through the nondescript front door.

The interior was much cooler. Looking around, it seemed like somebody decided on a whim to set up an eatery at his home. The uneven floors, old wood and metal furniture, bamboo-splint blinds, roughly textured paint on the walls that were peeling in places, all this lent the place an old-world, bucolic charm.

There was one disconcerting detail: the indentations in the chair-seats that would fit a pair of butt-cheeks. Please, please tell me those were made by the carpenter - with his tools.

Soon after I ordered the confit set lunch, the soup du jour arrived at my table. I had a look. Looks like pumpkin soup. A moment later, a sniff. Smells like pumpkin soup. After a few shakes of pepper and some stirring, a taste. Tastes like pumpkin soup.

When a waiter came to collect my empty bowl, I asked him. "Pumpkin soup," he replied.

Actually, I could have saved myself all the drama by taking a careful look at the huge chalkboard hanging behind the counter, but that's me. And it was damned good pumpkin soup, by the way.

My duck confit pasta arrived in - and nearly covered - a plate roughly nine inches across. Now this was a main course portion. I was happy.

One thing I couldn't forgive was the tomato sauce. While the dish was good overall, I questioned the wisdom of nearly smothering the duck confit in tomato puree. Gamey meats like venison, duck, reindeer, lamb and impala should be allowed to take centerstage, even if some people are put off by the smell.

Still, it was good duck. Lip-smackingly dehydrating (that tomato sauce again), but good.

But wait, there's the bread pudding.

By the time I had polished off the main course the lunchtime crowd began pouring in. Tranquility was soon overtaken by chaos. While it was irksome, it provided some sense of relief. I am not dining in a dying restaurant. Even before dessert arrived I had already scheduled my return.

I got scalded by my first bite of pudding, thoughtfully heated up by the floor staff.

First-degree burns aside, dessert did not disappoint. Like a teasing lover, the pudding initially resisted my spoon, and finally yielded as I applied more pressure. Most important of all, it tasted like bread pudding should. The caramel sauce that draped the dessert was OK; samplings of other caramels evoked memories of bad cough syrup. The scoop of vanilla ice cream provided the buzz of the post-coital cigarette, contrasting and complementing the warmth and sweetness of the pudding.

Like Buddha all those ages ago, I attained enlightenment in the shade of a bodhi tree. If this unassuming place - hidden away like a hermit's retreat deep in the heart of an asphalt jungle - could offer so much, what other wonders would reveal themselves if we cared enough to venture where others wouldn't deign a second look?

That heady feeling of discovery was still there when I picked up the tab. I was so far gone, I paid for RM31 with two notes: one blue and one red. The lady behind the counter tactfully prompted me with the right amount. Somehow, it felt like a great way to end a wonderful meal.

True nirvana may be beyond the reach of ordinary mortals, but I came away happy, feeling as if I had a glimpse of it.

---

The Bodhi Tree

1 Jalan Kamunting
Off Jalan Dang Wangi
50300 Kuala Lumpur

CLOSED FOR GOOD

Don't Ask Them About Ohana

There's one scene in Lilo & Stitch where Experiment 626 (a.k.a Stitch) hitched a bike ride with his new mistress, Lilo. He was anticipating a trip to a big city, where there's plenty of things he can destroy: buildings, vehicles, etc. What greets him, however, as they reached the top of a hill, was a sparsely populated stretch of real estate that gave way to the vast open sea.

"It sure is nice to live on an island without any big cities, isn't it?" Lilo asked her new pet. In reply, the poor creature fell off his seat and rolled around on the ground, whining pitifully.

It's a very funny scene, despite the enormity of what might happen if Stitch had discovered a whole city full of potential playthings.

That was the parallel I drew with the scenes of destruction and havoc wreaked by the Pakistani student-militants. What can I say? I'm a twisted individual.

Stitch was created and fine-tuned by his creator to be a machine of destruction. That is all these pitiful, misguided individuals are in my eyes: life-sized representations of Stitch. Their idea of regime change, after all, is the dismantling of the existing governments and their infrastructure. Once everything in their path has been subjugated or annihilated, what is left for them to destroy?

When the Taliban drove the Russians out of Afghanistan, they set about doing the only thing they were trained for: they destroyed tapes, kites, non-religious books, anything "unIslamic". With the cities all levelled and all the citizens cowed with threats of death and imprisonment, they turned their guns on the statues at Bamiyan. If the US didn't interfere, chances are good they'll be knocking on their neighbours' doors. "Hey, open up! You have unIslamic elements in there, and we're going to clean it up!"

Considering the level of expertise with which they "cleaned up" Afghanistan, I can understand anyone's reluctance in accepting the Taliban's generous offer.

Murder is a grave crime in every single civilised country; vandalism less so. The laws concerning those, secular or otherwise, are loud and clear. If everybody is allowed to vent their anger in any way they choose, all hell would break loose.

That's why Dr M's latest statement vexes me. Whether he realises it or not, he's actually condoning terrorism - and in the case of Pakistan, treason - as a justified response against perceived grievances and injustices - making him (nearly) as irresponsible as the clerics who brainwashed the students.

It will not end if the "root causes" of Muslim anger are addressed. Today it's Western attitudes; it could be something else tomorrow.

Because anger is blind to what it burns - and what it needs to burn.

Too Much Information

Saturday, 30 June 2007

MidniteLily's decision to (maybe) attend the latest round of Readings spiced up what was becoming a monthly routine - depending on the circumstances. There were certainly a few new faces among the attendees, but she was nowhere to be seen.

It was still a memorable affair, though. For reasons good and bad.

Good, because of two celebrity writers: David Byck, and Andre Vltchek. There seems to be at least one luminary among the readers for each session, which contributes a great deal to the main goal of Readings: encouraging writing talent.

Byck stood out because of how my attention was drawn to his book a few weeks back at MPH MidValley for some reason I could not fathom. It's A Long Way to The Floor brings to mind the recollections of a CEO who has gone back to his roots, not a story of someone's path to discovering yoga. Yogis, as far as I can tell, stay real close to the ground.

Good, because Sharon, the emcee and a major driving force behind the organisation of the event, took her turn at the mike and did not disappoint. It is, in addition, a great boost to her credentials as a teacher of creative writing.

So, why the bad? Well, "bad" wasn't exactly the word I wanted to use...

"...the nose, that organ located halfway between your eyes and mouth... that very useful organ, good for smelling and most of all, digging..."

What - the - hell?

"...yes, nose digging is such a relaxing activity, does not harm the environment or endangered species, a great way to pass the time, unsurpassed by anything else, except maybe..."

The revelation that followed drew mixed reactions from the crowd. I knew at that point I shouldn't be in the room. But it only got weirder from there. The mental overload that started with the recitation on the benefits of nose-digging kept me rooted to the spot like a stroke - without the debilitating side effects. It didn't help that my own nose was itching towards the end.

I wanted to sink into the floor. Get struck by lightning. Be attended to by Dr Kervorkian. Meld into one of the abstract paintings on the walls. Anything. Just get me out of here!

It was later revealed that the author had written all that himself (in Malay) and passed it off as the fevered mumblings of a man dying of some obscure cancer. I'm still conflicted over whether it was "bad", extremely funny, or both.