Island Adventure

No time to wax lyrical over this latest misadventure. I'm tired, and my head is still in sync with the movements of the waves. I won't be walking in a straight line until I wake up tomorrow.


Pulau Ketam (a.k.a Crab Island) Labour Day adventure! In point form.

• Boat rides were OK, but wish they'd play more uplifting music instead of Chinese oldies and karaoke discs.
• It is not so bad when the boats move; it's even worse when they don't.
• The island is apparently the tourist destination for Klang Valley denizens too cheap to fly AirAsia.
• Try not to pay too much attention to the floatsam on the water.
• Who could imagine anything on stilts and concrete pylons could be so secure?
• Oyster and la-la omelette is made the Penang way - but still not up to par.
• Live crabs in plastic drums on display in the market district - animal cruelty.
• The umbrella-hats are real. Resisted the urge to buy one.
• Kim Hoe Restaurant no longer serves the very, very best crab bee hoon. A fact totally lost upon the holidaying rubes from the asphalt jungle. At least the crabs were nice.
• Sewage goes into sea; ocean bounty returns to land. Island-style circle of life. Yum.
• Most locals keep their doors open.
• On the island, Ah Sui is the Tesco of dessicated shrimp and dried seafood.
• When in the bathroom, make judicious use of tap water.
• Tragic to see so many people using the sea as a trash can.
• Eat light - or not at all - before getting onto a boat.
• What kind of maniac would spend days in a chalet that's more like a prison cell atop a floating fish farm, doing nothing but fish?
• Walk slowly and gently on the planks and don't look too closely at the wavelets showing through the gaps and cracks in the timber. Do not run, stomp or jump. Try not to fall in, either. The barramundi (siakap) are not picky eaters.
• Baby tiger garoupas are cute; red snappers are snappy.
• GreenWay fish farm tour was conducted mainly in two Chinese dialects. Not very educational. Maybe because I was in an all-Chinese group.
• Watch your head on boats.
• Weather behaved itself. And sea breezes can be cooler than air-conditioning.
• Next time, don't forget the motion-sickness pills. Maybe some sunscreen, too.

Starbucks and Stories

Coffee and conversation with the indomitable Yvonne Foong - and it's the second time I made her wait. This time, it's because I got lost. I hate Subang Jaya. Like everywhere else in the state, the signboards made no sense.

She has a debilitating disease, but it doesn't stop her at all. Earlier she'd written a masterful response to a journalist's poor professional conduct. There was talk about creating a branded charity foundation-or-whatnot. Discussions about psychology, marketing and, of course, blogs.

You do not want her angry at you.

Next time, I'm studying a map - and then, test-driving the route.

---

There was supposed to be something about this month's LitBloggers' Breakfast with Kunal Basu, but I couldn't be bothered. Besides, I wouldn't want people to think I attend all these meets just so I could post something... .

Some interesting and pertinent points garnered from the meet include:

• 's chemical. Stories are all chemical. Natural ones produced by your body, of course.
• Let the story take centerstage. Don't fit stories into themes.
• Don't give a shit about readers. Write what you want, write what you like. And pray the readers you don't give a shit about will like it too.
• Research is important (and from his tone of voice it could also be fun). If all else fails, fill the gaps with your imagination. Why else would you call it "fiction", duh?
• Most lit-fic readers are women; no woman, all (lit-fic authors) cry. In this case, Bob Marley had it wrong.
• MPH Bangsar can't get their hands on chicken mayo.

Kungfu For Kung Fools

Hearken, voices calling for the Forbidden Kingdom to be... forbidden. From cinemas.

(I wish I was talking about China, too. But I'm not.)

There were complaints about how rip-offish the set pieces were. Words like "silly", "unoriginal", "irreverent" and "sacrilegious" were waved like Tibetan flags in a Beijing '08 Olympics' torch run protest.

(OK, maybe I do want to write about China. Maybe.)

The indignation from kungfu movie afficionados was so thick nobody ever paused to think that it might have been done on purpose. If the directors were poking fun at martial arts culture - or more precisely, certain perceptions about martial arts - they did so with aplomb.

Consider the plot: kungfu-crazed American teen falls through a wormhole into ancient China; to get back, he must learn enough martial arts to survive and complete a mission scriptwriters say only he could accomplish. Right, make some white kid the hero, with two genuine kungfu grandmasters playing sidekick.

Wrong.

After Jackie's and Jet's characters meet halfway through the movie, it all becomes clearer. The on-screen intensity of their initial rivalry, the friction, the repartee. This was what everyone wanted - a Jackie vs Jet showdown - and they got it. Elated over their first collaboration, they take it over the top. But when the reluctant non-Oriental disciple turns on both masters, they both put their pride aside to dish out a dose of discipline.

They look like they're having fun. Why shouldn't they? They've been doing this forever. Jet's is pushing fifty; Jackie, sixty. Retirement beckons - why not have some fun while you're on the way out, even at each other's expense? (and the audience's as well, but since they got half of their movies through pirates and YouTube, they shouldn't complain) A paid vacation. That's what it is.

It is Jackie's admonishment of Michael Angarano's character, however - an extension of the lesson Bruce Lee gave the West - that is the gist of what the movie is about.

"You've watched every martial arts film, played all the video games. You know the moves and their names inside out. Big deal. You can't even swing a stick properly! You're not learning anything because your head's filled with garbage! 'No-Shadow Kick'? 'One-Fingered Death Touch'? You know jack-shit about kungfu, white boy. Now hump those concrete blocks and gimme a hundred! And no supper till you're done!"

You might think that's rather mean of Jackie, but in case you forgot, he did graduate out of a training regime that would unnerve even the Spartans. Jet's own credentials need no elaboration. With regards to teaching neophyte "kungfu" nerds, there is no one else more qualified.

In the movie, Jackie's animated, impatient and fiery temperament is artfully offset by Jet's mountain-like calm. At the lowest point of the white boy's journey while holed up in a desert cave, he has doubts about his chances of success. "What if I freeze?" he asks the meditating Jet, who replies, "Don't forget to breathe." Ooh, how Zen.

The Chosen One may be Caucasian, but the real stars were the so-called token Chinks - and they stole the show.

All of them.

Lost On Ice

This novel, in size and weight, was a real brick. I wasn't exaggerating about its climate control properties - reading over 600 pages of Arctic weather descriptions has a profound effect on the mind. I didn't really hate it, but it's not something I'd recommend.

---

Arctic slaughter

first published in The Star, 18 April 2008


The quest for the Northwest Passage, the fabled naval route across the North Pole to the riches of the East, has long confounded explorers and sailors. In 1845, Englishman Sir John Franklin set sail with two ships, Erebus and Terror, in search of the route – and never returned. The fate of Franklin's exploration team is fictionalised in The Terror.

The novel, which includes real and (possibly) fictional characters, begins months after both ships ran aground in the Arctic. Although Franklin is their de facto leader, the protagonist is Francis Crozier, captain of the HMS Terror and primary witness to the drama on the ice, who struggles to keep his crew in line (one of the novel's many flashbacks pin the blame on Franklin for the mishap). With supplies dwindling, bad weather and little hope of rescue, the crew from both ships face extreme hardship. Compounding the perils is a supernatural presence that is preying on the men.

As if that's not enough, the busy captain also has to keep an eye on a mute Eskimo beauty the crew dubs Lady Silence, who mysteriously blundered into their midst. In no time she's firing up the imaginations of the land-locked sailors, adding to Crozier's growing list of headaches.

Franklin eventually dies, leaving Crozier in command. Betrayal, suicide, murder, cannibalism, disease (scurvy, in particular), the cold and the mystery creature continue to whittle the group down to size. On top of all that, the stoic, no-nonsense officer would later be challenged by mutinous crewmembers led by a snivelling character everybody loves to hate. A typical day in the captain's cabin.

Wait – did I say "drama"? OK, I'm being generous. The promise of a "white-knuckle thriller" evaporates along with the story's glacial progress (mine turned white due to the strain of holding up and turning the pages of the big 769-page novel). In his efforts to entertain us, Simmons reduces the expedition members to crude, one-dimensional versions of their actual selves and serves them to the beast and the wilderness. You feel no pity for any of them as they perish one by one. If not for the Eskimos (apart from Lady Silence), The Terror is nothing more than a weekend slaughterfest at a Roman coliseum featuring foul-mouthed angmoh sailors, with the author in the emperor's seat.

The storyline often drifts between the past and present – or dream and reality, making it hard to follow. The flashbacks do shed some light to the crewmembers' backgrounds but you still can't relate to them enough to empathise with their plight.

The "supernatural presence" hounding the men? Sounds either like the polar bear from the TV series Lost – or Frosty the Snowman. There are also allusions to the creature's mythical origins and its connection with Crozier's enigmatic guest. It's rare for a reader to cheer for the monster, but that's exactly what I ended up doing.

On the other hand, going through the novel does feel like you're slogging through the Arctic snow, feeling cold, tired and hungry and asking repeatedly, "Are we there yet?" At some point I found myself turning off the air-conditioner. A testament to Simmons' ability to create very realistic backdrops.

Politics, greed, the fear of the unknown, and the fury of the elements – The Terror gives us an idea of the obstacles faced by those who helped open the trade routes leading to the proliferation of spices, tea, Starbucks and KFC. However, it falls short of its lofty goals as a page-turning thriller.


In the early 20th century, Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen became the first person to fully navigate the Northwest Passage. In 2005, global warming opened up enough of the frozen north for a ship to sail the entire length of the fabled route.

---

The Terror

Dan Simmons
Little, Brown and Company
769 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-316-11328-1

Pocket-Sized Weekend Drama

I wasn't overly fond of this book, but it was still a good read - short and sweet. Will the author be at Readings someday? One can hope.

---

Foul play

first published in The Star, 11 April 2008


Cerpen is a word I haven't heard of since I left school. It perfectly sums up Lee Su-Ann's The Curse, the second prizewinner in the English Novel Category of the Utusan Group's Young Adult Literature Competition of 2005. It has since been published and ready to enthral sceptics of local literature.

The Curse showcases village girl Azreen, who takes a sabbatical from her studies overseas and returns to her hometown in her sleepy village in an island south of Langkawi. Her homecoming is greeted by the tragic death of her sister Mahduri, the fair blossom of the unnamed village. The incident leaves her parents traumatised, especially her mother, whose senility becomes more pronounced.

In the aftermath of her sister's end, possibly due to foul play, a strange pall hangs over the village. There's the token ghostly figure in white. Making things worse with allusions of a curse is Puan Normala the village gossip, who is guaranteed to get under your skin.

Sinking into that familiar fugue that follows the loss of a loved one, Azreen revisits memories of her youth, good and bad. She finds no comfort from her sullen father or delirious mother. Thankfully, at no point does our heroine go into Nancy Drew mode. Throughout the novel we are informed via flashbacks that our heroine is no typical village girl, even in her younger days: tomboyish, headstrong and not above talking back to her elders. Which might explain her estrangement from her parents.

Main distractions come in the form of Mohd Asraf, the hot-headed village hunk, whom Azreen had a crush on in her younger days. There's also the mysterious outcast, an old lady whom Azreen befriends. Spicing things further is Mahduri's recent marriage to the village headman, the jealous fits of the headman’s first wife, and some livestock that shared the victim's fate.

Was Mahduri murdered? Is there really a vengeful spirit stalking the village? Will Azreen get the guy? Who, or what killed the animals? Will it ever stop raining? Are Mahduri's parents Bollywood fans? And why won't that irritating Puan Normala just shut up? I bet you’d like to know.

At first glance, it doesn't look like much. It is almost pocket-sized, and borrows a lot from existing works. Mahsuri legend? Check. Vengeful spirits? Check. Rip-off of Stephenie Meyer's cover to New Moon, complete with bloodied white flower? Check. Script from a typical Drama Minggu Ini? Check. Compensation for all that comes in the believable portrayal of the rural Malay village and its inhabitants.

The level of suspense is quite credible, but the execution is hardly subtle. Hints pointing to something sinister in Mahduri's demise start falling like ripe durians about halfway through the story. Thankfully, they will all miss their mark, and we are thus spared from a predictable ending.

Lack of originality aside, there aren't a lot of issues with The Curse. Its small size is actually an advantage. It probably kept the author focused on telling the story without any added fluff – all the elements of one good story in one minuscule package. I'm still amazed at how the author pulled it off.

The Curse is further proof that the local literary scene is neither dead nor moribund. This edition is a nice comfortable read for everybody – especially those with short attention span – as opposed to that 700-odd page international award-winning bestseller.

Plus, it's actually readable.

---

The Curse

Lee Su Ann
Utusan Publications & Distributors Sdn Bhd
232 pages
Fiction
ISBN: 978-967-61-1971-7

Who's The Aggressor Here?

Another shark attack victim dies in Australia.

Amongst the polite pleas to not take it out on the sharks - like they did with stingrays after one of them shanked Steve Irwin, were comments calling for a shark hunt, and to "put 'em in their rightful place - a cat-food tin".

And what's this about "making an example of a few of them"? Did I read that right? Did they just compare animals to terrorists? Is there even a United Denizens of the Deep (UDD) we humans can negotiate with? Oh, yeah, like it will so work, well, because... we're, like, the good guys!

Aussie rednecks. They think anything is possible after a dozen beers.

Sharks, like all natural predators, eat the slow, weak, sick and dying (which sheds light on some surfers), leaving the seas to the strong, bright and healthy. They also keep the oceans clean by gobbling dead and decomposing sea creatures, lovely breeding grounds for potentially nasty bacteria. Sharks are also biological wonders whose healing and sensory powers are being investigated by scientific, medical and military agencies.

If they all ended up in cat-food tins, Neptune's realm will see a massive free-for-all that will have bigger fish gobbling up smaller table fish and their young. Unlike us, Ma Nature's hunter-killers don't catch more than what they could eat. We already kill tons of sharks each year - most of them finned, speared and as by-catch. On average, less than twenty fatal attacks are reported annually worldwide.

And so far, no spokesfish for the sharks have approached the UN asking for an audience or offering coral branches of peace.

Sharks may be ugly and uncuddly, but unless we're willing to replace them as the ecosystem's euthanists, garbagemen and biohazard crew, we should shut the hell up, give them a wide berth, and just be extra careful every time we go out to sea.

And It's Only The First Day

I had some hopes for the biggest book fair held this year at the Putra World Trade Center (PWTC). By the time I left the venue they were utterly dashed. Was I too early, or was the whole affair simply not what it was cracked up to be?

(And damn, the web site isn't very helpful either. You'd think that an e-portal for an event promoting literature and reading would have more details)

The timing sucked, for one. The fair coincided with Bank Rakyat's annual general meeting. The mob scene that confronted me was astounding, bringing me back to the days when the annual Microfest was a huge affair - not that it was any more pleasant. No way of telling who was attending what (although I'm sure the bevies of schoolgirls are most likely lured by the promise of cheaper textbooks). It was loud, chaotic, and somehow, vampiric. Fatigue quickly set in even before I reached the entrance.

My jaded worldview discerned a separation of society classes at the "book fair". The lower level was packed, crowds reaching sardine-can densities at the booths hawking textbooks, tabloids and comics. Plenty of religious material as well. The less-crowded upper level was where the more sophisticated choices were: dictionaries, literary fiction, various non-fiction titles and university-level reference materiel to name a few.

Sad. Tragic. I'm trying but I can't find the exact words for what I felt. This glimpse of Malaysia's literary strata paints a very depressing picture.

Sincerest apologies, but hosting multi-national publishing and distribution companies do not an international book fair make.

Oh, I did notice the hastily-corrected buntings:

Books Empowers.

Fear the Red Pen of Sharon Bakar™.

Bangsar Book Talk Brekkie

While I am contemptuous of some mainland Chinese's eating habits and flaunting of wealth, I wouldn't mind trying some dog - it's supposed to be good for my asthma. Relax, no dogs were harmed in this production.

To be repeated 500 times on a chalkboard: A blog is not a message service.


Saturday, 22 March 2008

This month's MPH LitBloggers' Breakfast Club was one I didn't intend to miss. Chuah Guat Eng (whom I saw at last month's Readings) and Wena Poon were the featured authors.

The first thing I did was home in on the buffet table. My heart sank when I failed to spot any chicken mayo sandwiches. It killed the mood for the coffee. The egg and tuna mayo sandwiches were just as nice, but couldn't they do something to prevent the bread from drying up?

Both authors introduced their works and revealed a bit about the creative process and experiences involved, before getting down to reading from their books.

There were definitely two distinct personalities and storytelling modes at the fore. Wena radiated gregarious enthusiasm as she read and voice-acted Dog Hot Pot, a humourous take on responsibilities, morals and cultural differences revolving around exotic canine delicacies. Every detail is carved out and presented in bold, chiselled features.

Chuah, meanwhile, was the paragon of quiet, regal dignity while reading a passage about two pretty men. The ambiguity in the characters and settings allowed some leeway for the reader's imagination, like the pictures in a colouring book.

Did someone say Chuah was from Rembau?

The Q&A session that followed took an odd turn when Wena asked Chuah a question. Now this is how it should be, I thought with approval. Definitely some yin yang mojo at work.

Both draw upon different sources for their works. Wena's experiences during her travels made Lions a very "global" collection of stories about Singaporeans living abroad (like herself). Chuah's Old House was built on memories and images spun out of the air. A nod at Wena's canine hot pot story came in the form of an anecdote about a stray pup that wandered into Chuah's yard and died mysteriously.

When asked about memoirs that aren't memoirs, Chuah expressed dislike, and reckons books like those should be classified as non-fiction. Wena was of the opinion that too much inclusion of real-life experiences into literary fiction lessens the degree of art involved.

That being said, she also voiced her frustrations in warding off reader assumptions that Lions was partly autobiographical, even though some of the narrators were men. Then Chuah chipped in with another anecdote where readers got the gender and race of the narrator wrong - thanks to the way she writes - but thinks it's cool to let their imagination run wild.

During the schmoozing session that followed, Sharon Bakar told me how she found one of my published articles, and gave me some positive feedback on it. She initially didn't know I wrote the piece; members of her circle know me by my other Internet handle. She also assuaged my doubts on panning a bad book and reservations on reviewing books with objectionable content.

I had to miss out on the Readings later that afternoon because I had other plans. It was a good session, though - a good portent for the rest of the day.

Doraemon, Japanese Cultural Ambassador

Japan's tendency to give in to escapist fetishes every time there's a crisis simply astounds. The ImagiNation has conferred Doraemon the title of Anime Ambassador. The earless technotronic cat with the hammerspace pocket and a phobia of mice was feted by the Japanese Foreign Minister in a ceremony commemorating the occasion. As if babysitting Nobita wasn't enough.

I've always known the Japanese to be kooky, but they break the mould so often it's a cause for concern. And we're buying their cars? Watching their shows? Eating their cuisine? Soon, they'll be voting other notable characters into the Cabinet. Dr Black Jack for Ministry of Health, anyone? What about Initial D's Takumi Fujiwara for Ministry of Transportation? Death Note's Kira would make a great Minister of Justice (Ryuk can be deputy). Ministry of Women and Community? Helloooo, Kitty! And of course - Ultraman for Prime Minister! Which one? They can vote for it.

On the other hand, there are far too many candidates for Ministry of Defence. Oh well, if they can't find one, they can always make one. The Japs are creative, they are. It's not so strange, considering their difficulties in facing reality - and they couldn't even pick a bank chief from a pool of real people.

It'll be interesting if this fad spreads abroad. How would a Mickey Mouse Presidential Campaign look like? "Sarkozy Out, Asterix In?" Probably good for France. Too bad about Malaysia - right now all we have is Cicakman.

Italiannies Does Not Really Suck

Was Antoine de Saint-Exupery, author of The Little Prince, killed by his fan - a WW2 German fighter pilot? If true, it further underscores just what war really does - and why it should not be waged at whim. Too bad all the recent warmongers don't read (much).

The moment we got into the pasta (my salmon fettuccine, to be precise) we knew we'd been hoodwinked. Or maybe we should've asked, "Why does Italiannies suck, anyway?"

FunnyBunny and I have heard lots about why the franchise has garnered so much flak from the general public. Immediate family members and close friends handed out thumbs-down verdicts. They said the same about Singapore hawker food as well, but we found evidence to the contrary. All that was in the background and fading fast as we tucked in with gusto, despite our growing guts.

I suspect that some Italian foods are an acquired taste, with the use of herbs and all. The portions are huge; you won't have room for dessert unless you're really hungry, or if you send back the bread. We made the mistake of eating too much bread (for which we were admonished by the floor manager) and we had to pack the lasagna home.

What we ordered was good. Service was nice. But with its mammoth portions, above average prices and all that cheese and olive oil, Italiannies is not a place for everyday dining.

Come to think of it, maybe something went wrong with my culinary experiences in Malacca, too. I'll have to do more research before making a return trip.

Headlines

Internet connection is slow. Are people hogging up the bandwidth for the latest election results? It appears so. Some web sites were practically bottlenecked to non-existence.

I know I shouldn't be celebrating, being a fence-sitter and all, but I can't shake off the fact that the premonition I had while driving to work on Friday just came true:

Siput Sungai Separa Nilai - HANGUS!¹

That would look good on any paper.

Against the odds, some major "villains" have fallen to the ire of the public. Notable exits include Zainuddin Maidin, the National Front's facsimile of Baghdad Bob. After vilifying the online community for months, some of them decided to show him that bytes do translate into ballots.

To add insult to injury, his biggest bugbear made it into Parliament. Jeff Ooi takes his place as the new Big Cat of Jelutong. It remains to be seen if he's a worthy successor to Karpal Singh. Most notable of wins is Teresa Kok's. Frankly, I wasn't too surprised. The smear campaigns screamed of desperation and failure of imagination.

They had expected some losses. They had dropped some unsavoury candidates. They surrendered their fate to the people and were sent packing. Was it true that the polls were announced early to deprive a certain someone a chance at power? We'll probably never know, because if that was the case, it blew up spectacularly. Losing a few districts is one thing. Losing entire states is a totally different matter.

But winners shouldn't start popping champagne just yet. They did that in '69 and look what happened. Now that you voters put them in this spot, you have to help them deliver - and deliver they must. Otherwise this display of people power will be nothing more than one colossal farce.


¹ Malay, translated means "Semi-Valued River Snails - BURNED!" To be served with a big slice of schadenfreude.

For Me, The Fever Ends Now

Next week, or sometime next month, we're getting a new government. The run-up to the results are heating up the airwaves. But it doesn't affect me, since I'm not a reg-

...I think I just outed myself.

Well, I had written an angry rant about lefties who keep counting down to today with their blogs and generally getting my goat, my cow, my chickens and ducks - not to mention my prize European wild hog - by insinuating that it's the fault of me and my ilk if the government doesn't change next week, because there weren't enough votes to turn the tide against an allegedly rigged election.

I say, if you don't have much faith in a system you're willing to try anyway, you shouldn't complain.

Good luck, anyway.

Reservations On Romania

Romanians take a cue from their national hero Vlad Tepes and thoroughly skewers Tony Bourdain over the draculaean portrayal of the country in an episode of No Reservations. His thoughts on the issue raised the ire of Romanians worldwide (seven-hundred-odd replies(!) and counting), particularly his choice of Russian drinking buddy Zamir as his fixer. Didn't he learn anything from Uzbekistan?

"Disco with bellydancing and flaming margaritas? Not-so-fresh offal barbecue? Shopping for weird wedding presents? Sexual harrassment -slash- Cold War torture routine in a Turkish bath? Quality television!"

Aside from that, I didn't think ZeroPointZero had a choice. Each episode costs money: airfare, luggage, equipment, meds and drugs, bribe money and other expenses - not to mention all the time and effort invested. Scrapping the episode might incur serious financial repercussions. Other questions beg to be answered. What part did the Romanian authorities play in this? Were the locals as surly and hostile?

Perhaps they should've had some reservations when it came to Romania. It would've been better to call it No Expectations.

The expressions of "disappointment" were predictable. He makes the best of another botched episode (Beirut, no thanks to Israel and Hezbollah) and suddenly he's the next Anderson Cooper. No Reservations is a reality sitcom where the surly embittered fifty-something (usually) pokes fun at local customs and abuses himself for our entertainment. Keith Floyd's shows were a more genteel version of it, while Jeremy Clarkson does the same with anything on wheels.

Come back to Malaysia, Tony. We'll promise you a better time. Andrew Zimmern? Angry mob.

See Them Flounder

Carol Chew, the National Front's candidate for Seputeh was hobnobbing with patrons of the OUG night market. She looks much shorter in person... . At least they wised up this time around. They twice pitted a male Confucian-esque chauvinist against this modern-day woman of steel; each ended up like diced shallots. How would this fight shape up, I wonder?

Another thing tonight was the roadworks at the stretch parallel to OUG Plaza. Wasn't that bit paved over a few months ago? And was still okay this morning?

Of course. It's election season. Spread the tarmac. Which only works on unsophisticated hillbillies in the boondocks of Far Far Away. With their abysmal pre-poll performance they're really pulling out all the stops.

For me, it's like watching an enemy drown in quicksand.

Parliament Idol XII

Or Parlimen Fantasia XII, whichever rocks the biggest possible boat.

Tough call, really. Five more years of old guard neo-feudalism, or five rough-and-tumble years under a new crew with no experience in steering the ship?

Makes no difference to me. I'll be stuck with the same people that picked Daniel Lee.

Lots has been said about the infamous son-in-law, most of it bad. I feel the same way about him. For me, it's his smug goateed mug. Something about it just compels me to dislike him. His race, religion and affiliations are completely irrelevant. In fact, those aspects cease to exist every time he wears one of his photo-op expressions. Only the repeated whispers of a sibilant voice remain:

Must • Hate • His • Face...

I don't understand it myself. It defies logic or reason. And I do have other pressing matters to attend to. How do I put it? I feel that he's like Mawi, only with more hair - or Sanjaya, only with less hair.

There's always one in each season of a talent show.

Frittering Away at Silverfish Books

"Im sorry I missed the launch at the Annexe," I said.

"Oh, it's OK," Amir Muhammad assured me, adding that the crowd was so huge that day (about two hundred strong) it spilled out into the surrounding area. That made me sorrier to have missed it. Must've been quite a spectacle.

It didn't seem fair to miss an event I pimped, so I made up for it by attending the reading of New Malaysian Essays 1 at Silverfish Books by Amir and the other contributors. I also thought I would even help out a little by getting more than just one copy.

I'd arrived late and hungry, pausing briefly to take in the eclectic range of materiel on the shelves. Treasures, each and every one. Upon seeing me the lady manning the counter directed me to the tiny reading room at the end of the bookstore. Brian Yap was wrapping up his performance.

Instead of grabbing a seat, I made a beeline for the table where all the snacks were and nicked a banana fritter from a plate. Ah, sweet, sour crunchy succour.

Was it just me, or had I just committed a huge social faux pas? Raman's look certainly said so. There were disapproving glances from a few members of the small audience, who had to make do with a basket of various chips.

Screw politeness. I'm hungry.

I reached for another. These were damn good for bananas that aren't sweet. Aminuddin Mahmud began reading his contribution, a well-researched and entertaining academic paper on the power of branding around the mamak franchise.

Then Amir rose from his place and took a fritter and a cup of tea. That made me feel better. But I was already going for fritter #4. These were damn good. They haven't even gotten soggy yet.

It was Saharil Hasrin Sanin's turn. According to Amir, he is famous for his short stories (each about half a page long) that still manage to speak volumes. He'd asked for something for this book, and ended up with a 52-page contribution titled Teroris Bahasa, a brilliant and funny memoir-slash-monologue-slash-debate against the policing of language. References to "pert English knockers" raised titters among the crowd, which included a couple of Caucasian women.

'Tis a day for faux pas, it seems, I mused, munching on my fifth fritter.

There were also choice words about another contributor, Burhan Baki who is currently at Aberdeen. "But he has a brilliant piece in this book," Amir concluded. "Real genius. And he's at Aberdeen." Something about that last bit made the crowd chuckle.

Did he just make Aberdeen sound naughty?

I got three copies of the book, which coincidentally read EN-EM-EE 1 when abbreviated - which is how the mainstream (read: government-regulated) publishing scene sees Amir nowadays. I can tell you that it is money well-spent - with or without the autographs.

There was no sixth fritter. I had plans to dine at Sri Nirwana Maju after the event. Unfortunately, I was feeling full before I could polish off the last bit of rice. Maybe I should have stopped at three.

A Visual Feast

A hazard of reviewing a book you bought yourself and actually liked is that the review will never be published, not do the book justice, or both. Thank goodness I liked this one enough to keep it.

---

More or less of the same

Anthony Bourdain certainly has a way with words, as well as with food. Of course, being the bold soul that he is, there’s always another medium he wants to experiment with

first published in The Star, 02 February 2008


When I managed to get my hands on an unwrapped copy, I eagerly went through the pages. Why were they so thick, I wondered. Then, as I encountered page after page after page of pictures, I understood. It didn't help my disappointment, though.

Why, Tony, why? I mean, you used to ... write! You know, making words with a pen or word processor? What's with this glossy Technicolor travel scrapbook? You don't even cook anymore! What went wrong?

To the uninitiated, "Tony" is Anthony Bourdain, that acerbic, trash-talking chef who made a splash in the entertainment biz with his book Kitchen Confidential.

He's currently the host of the travel/food show No Reservations, who has traded his sauté pan for a word processor, occasionally writing articles for food-related publications in between his travels and appearances on other food-related shows.

His latest book, No Reservations: Around the World on an Empty Stomach, is a collection of snapshots from the series of the same name.

Many of the pictures have appeared on the show's web site; the article on his Beirut show (rudely interrupted by the Hizbollah-triggered Israeli invasion of Lebanon) was published earlier on salon.com. It is a departure from his previous works, which he acknowledges and apologises for.

Sorry, Tony. It'll be a while before I can forgive you.

We are introduced to the members of the filming crew, before being taken on a whirlwind tour of the best and worst places of the series. There's even a list of addresses, which includes "The Place Under The Big Tree" (a steamed fish head eatery in Sungai Besi).

Rounding up all that is a travel tip section, food pictures, and a list of essentials for the typical travel show host.

Even though light on words, the commentary still retains its edge. The placement of some pictures also hint at the darker side of his personality.

In one photo he's holding a piglet with a strange smile on his face and a gleam in his eye. On the opposite page is a breakfast platter with eggs, sausage and bacon. "No piglets were harmed in this production." Yeah, right.

Another example of his wit is a helpful tip on finding the absolutely best place for your favourite food: start a flame war in a food forum.

Local fans would be pleased to know Bourdain has nothing but nice words for Malaysia (in addition to neighbouring Indonesia and Singapore).

The Malaysian episode of No Reservations, he enthuses, was among the nicest in the series. He also has nothing but praise for the durian. Who could hate a gwailo like that?

That being said, he is neither shy nor evasive about the things and places he doesn't like. Uzbekistan wasn't particularly pleasant while Iceland was boring. Then there was this one nasty meal he had in Namibia. Graphic examples of hazards encountered while filming (mosquito bites and mysterious welts) have a section of their own, as well as a small sample of bathrooms he and his crew have visited.

For those who appreciate the kind of writing Anthony Bourdain does, this book is a disappointment – at first, anyway. The pictures are nice, as are the captions, commentaries and whatever writing is available.

But, somehow, it still feels ...incomplete. He has voiced his doubts (in another book) about his ability to translate the beauty and sensory wonders he's experienced into words.

No Reservations (the book and the series) feels more like a personal project than a profit-making venture. For all his bluster, sarcasm and profligate use of the f-word, Bourdain's a pretty honest, friendly and sentimental guy.

And, of course, he loves food, and the people who make it. He may have left the kitchen, but his heart's still there.

Never mind that half the material has already been published. If anything, it gives a much clearer picture of Bourdain and his new life’s mission.

So clear in fact, a friend of mine actually felt inspired to follow in his footsteps. Looking at a picture of Bourdain, smiling beatifically with the ruins of Machu Picchu behind him, I couldn't blame her. He looks like he's having the time of his life.

---

No Reservations

Around the World on an Empty Stomach

Anthony Bourdain
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
288 pages
Non-Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-7475-9412-3

Happy Third, Readings

Saturday, 26 January 2008

I was feeling rather drained at the end of this week, and logic dictated that I should just plant my feet into a pot of soil on the balcony, sprout leaves and photosynthesise. But I couldn't pass up the session of Readings that celebrated its third anniversary.

Many of the regulars where there: Leon, Chet, Dr Shanmugam, Mr and Mrs Ted Mahsun, a few of Sharon Bakar's friends, Animah Kosai and daughter and Readings' own technician, Reza. Luminaries who graced the event included Seksan, owner of the venue, Eric Forbes of MPH Publishing, columnist Daphne Lee, the controversial Amir Muhammad, Shahril Nizam and Jerome Kugan, whom I last saw at La Bodega, KL. Eugene a.ka. Dreamer Idiot, Philipp the Eternal Wanderer and Kenny Mah were glaringly absent, though. And I kind of miss Sharanya Manivannan.

Had a chat with Eric about books and favourite reads (why do I get the feeling I was being interviewed?) Lainie Yeoh sported a stitched wound from an encounter with a snatch thief; the rest of us should be fortunate to encounter them on newsprint. I mistook Catalina Rembuyan for Liyana Yusof (a behemoth of a boo-boo!). Hope she wasn't too offended. Photographer Sufian got much of it on film.

(Ooh, watch me drop names like bad habits - a habit I should also drop, I think.)

But I was late for this month's session. When I stepped into the hall, Shi-Li Kow was reading a funny story from the anthology News From Home, about a deceased pet cat who became the biggest thing since that papaya they said had Lord Ganesh's face.

"...all the aunties, passers-by made offerings to the cat for the next big number ...someone even built one the little red huts (like the ones for the datuks) over Patches' grave... even the DBKL lorry drivers were getting into the act... Don't you miss Malaysia?"

— Shi-Li Kow, describing the only "vision, 2020"
Malaysians are really interested in

Bernice Chauly, one of the Readings' founding mothers, read some pieces from her published collection of poems, The Book of Sins. I swear I've heard some of them before at a previous session last year.

Our own Prince of Darkness, Tunku Halim gave us a peek of his collection of horror stories, Gravedigger's Kiss. And he was, like, sitting next to me during the second half of the Readings. I was beside myself, wondering, "Hey, maybe they aren't all that elitist after all!" - in spite of his feelings about a review of 44 Cemetary Road in The Star a while back.

The other contributor to News From Home, Chua Kok Yee had the audience in stitches with a modern and hilarious yarn about that monster called Progress - and its reluctant sidekick, Intolerance - who spare no one and nothing, not even fairy tales like the Three Little Pigs.

"...you see, we had to make some changes. We had to make the switch to kittens to avoid offending countries where their religion does not allow pigs ...China's OK. They love pigs - I mean, they love to eat pigs, but..."

— Chua Kok Yee, taking a subtle swipe
at censorship and fanaticism

Writer and creative writing guru Chuah Guat Eng (who tutored Sharon once) illustrated the use of language as a weapon with excerpts from her new book The Old House and Other Stories: Penang Hokkien to set up a kill, and Manglish to disarm, or making light conversation. Her rationales for that were quite convincing. I think I should start paying attention to what my parents say from now on.

Gerald Chuah, journalist and Sly Stallone/Rocky Balboa uber-fan came up to the mic to read and ended up giving a dissertation-slash-pep talk on the never-say-die attitude of the underdog, which inspired his book, In the Eye of the Tiger. Although it was a somewhat refreshing and inspiring deviation from the open-your-book-and-read performance expected of in Readings, he was nervous and repeating himself a few times, talking about - instead of reading from the book, and it was nearly six.

"This is Readings, dammit," I mentally fumed, "not a book talk at the Booker Room! Quit quoting Rocky and freaking read something, or I'm kicking you off the podium!"

I was surprised to hear what Rehman Rashid had to say about his book. The excerpt of the review was so inspiring, uplifting and positive. It didn't sound like Rehman Rashid at all.

Did I mention that there a cake-cutting ceremony? Up till now I've never wished a non-person a happy birthday before. First time for everything, I suppose. Books by some of the readers were also on sale. Didn't feel like buying anything, though.

I will be sure to catch Readings' fourth anniversary.

Books, Wind And Water

Finally found the long-awaited download of the infinitely better version of the Will.I.Am "hit". How did they record all that with straight faces? Right now it's the tenth replay of the file. And. I. Still. Can't. Turn. It. Off.

Don't help me.

"Hello!" went the young lady's enthusiastic greeting. "Are you here for the book talk? This way, please."

I've come to expect some sort of audience at book talks, so you could imagine my shock and dismay to find less than ten people in the Booker Room today: Sharon Bakar, feng shui expert and new author Jason Fong and his two guests, Julie of MPH (the enthusiastic young lady) and myself. A far far cry from the rock-concert crowd during the last Authors' Hi-Tea.

I guess keywords like "book" and "feng shui" aren't exactly crowd-pullers.

Sharon invited me in, and did a double-take when she realised who I was. I was introduced as a friend and blogger. It's an honour to be called a friend, but I didn't really feel like a blogger today. It's like being at a press conference where you're the only journalist.

The show, however, went on.

Fong answered many of Sharon's questions on the science of geomancy, which he backed up with scientific facts. Some of the revelations included the role of running water and granite in causing cancer and other maladies, plus the secret to "Mr Genting" Lim Goh Tong's wealth. We also found out just how difficult it was for the author to take pictures for his book; there was some mention of battling bad weather and traipsing around rooftops for the perfect shot.

Lillian Too, the self-proclaimed Queen of Afflictions was also mentioned, albeit in a less flattering manner. One of Fong's guests - a colleague and traditional feng shui practitioner - dismissed the famously prescribed placings of statuettes, wind chimes and ornaments for more luck and money. "Those things don't work," he scoffed, "and your house will end up looking like an animal farm." We laughed.

I am skeptical of the whole feng shui thing, but never in doubt of the psychological impact it has to those who believe it - something agreed upon to some extent by the rest of the assembly. The talk adjourned about an hour later, after a presentation by Fong's colleague about how the sixty-four transformations of the ba gua - the foundation of the I Jing (Book of Changes) - came about.

After the guests left, there was some talk about another banned-books controversy. The Internal Security Ministry is offended because these books feature bearded men who claim G*d talks to them. I suppose I couldn't fault the Ministry for enforcing such rigid standards (the people there have bills to pay, too), but if that's the case they should also pull publications featuring Nik Aziz Nik Mat, Abubakar Bashir, Osama bin Laden, and to a lesser extent, Pat Robertson, Shoko Asahara and George W Bush.

Then again, what do I know, anyway?

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.