Short fuse getting shorter (Part #2)

In May this year, I posted a blog entry about how, in the past couple of years, I have degenerated from a usually patient and tolerant person to one with a short fuse and bad temper. And this has been pointed out to me, not just by casual observers and acquaintances, but by the very people whom I hold dear to my heart.

It is one thing to have this trait being pointed out to me by the casual observer. But if my random outbursts and beginning to affect those around me, and worse, hurt those whom I love - none of whom bear even a minutiae of malicious intent in their words and actions, then it is time to stop and take stock of the situation.

It is my fervent hope, and a prayer that I cry out to the Heavens above, that those whom I have hurt from time to time with my random bursts of fury (often sudden, but short-lasting), do not see me as any less of the person that I am and can be. It is unfortunate that history and past events in my life have planted into me some undercurrents of rage, and a life of constant vendettas.

Until now, I have not yet found it within my heart to release that unrelenting iron grip called pride that binds me. But someone has come into my life. Someone who means so much to me. Someone who has given me a reason to turn all the pent-up fury into affection. Someone whom I would never want to hurt with my temper, but yet is one whom I have hurt with my temper. Someone whom I would never forgive myself for if I were to drive her away, all because of vengeful pride and fury - borne from my past, manifested in my present, and destroying all hope for a joyful future.

It's the Christmas season. It is a time to forgive and forget the past. It is a time to accept people and things for what they are. It is a time to to see love in all things, and in all its unusual and unexpected manifestations. It is a time to love, and allow ourselves to be loved. And even when this Christmas season passes by, Love should still remain.

Thought for today (and something I read many years ago): A child once asked the parish priest, "Padre, why can't people today see God like they did in days of old?" The priest answered, "Because, my child, people today cannot stoop so low." When love gives way to pride, we become blind.

The "Big Guy" Dilemma

The original version of the article below was actually composed as an e-mail to a couple of my close friends last week. It was one of those days when I was in my rare mercurial mood swings, and desperately needed to lash out my fury using the only civilised tool at my disposal – the vehicle of the written word. Of course, my anger has simmered somewhat since then, but the amber flame from the fire still lingers. So, before the fire completely dies out, I decided to reproduce the text here – edited in some areas, and expanded in others.

* * * * * * * * * *

I get the occasional passing compliment from acquaintances about my height and size. Casual observers would think it is flattering. But speaking from personal experience, I can tell you, it’s not all that rosy a picture.

For those of you with average stature (and, I can safely assume, most of you are), you have no idea how tough it is being a big guy. When you are relaxed, people think you are this daft ox who has trouble keeping up with the conversation; when you are up and about trying to participate, people think you are a bowling ball gone berserk. It’s a case of “damn if you do, damn if you don’t”. And in between, everyone around you is so darn afraid of you moving or touching things, and everyone panics when you so much as stir your little finger or move your huge ass an inch - from fear of you breaking some expensive piece of china, or – worse – squashing someone into a pancake. I am so f**king sick of people telling me to "careful, careful… watch it, watch it", like I have no bones in my body. People think you do not have the manual dexterity and grace to use hand-tools, hold a pair of chopsticks, or do origami. You just can't win.

Perhaps the whole visual effect is amplified by the fact that I happen to be a towering 6-foot 95kg lummox (and by Asian standards, that is huge), such that even the slightest movement could rock the building, shake the floorboards, overturn furniture and shatter window panes. It probably would not look so obvious if I were 3 inches shorter and 30kg lighter. But Providence has granted me with such a physique, and so I have to live with it. In order to fit into society, it has become imperative that I reduce the overall velocity and acceleration of my bodily atoms, so that those around me will feel more at ease – rather than subjecting them to the fear of being in the vicinity of a gargantuan sack of TNT mounted on a springboard… just waiting to bounce off, hit the ground, and explode into motion.

I suspect it is only a matter of time before big guys like me earn themselves a classification of their own under the Environmental, Health & Safety Department's list of "Occupational Hazards", and be confined to selected jobs, surrounded by 3-feet thick concrete office walls, and restricted to the use of special industrial-grade stationery that will not snap like a twig the minute a big guy so much as picks them up. Who knows – they may even patent the first industrial grade high-carbon-steel ball-point pens and PC keyboards to cater for the likes of us.

Fear not, for the Darwinian Theory will prevail, and my kind will eventually be eliminated from the human gene pool for the betterment of Mankind. Let the record show that virtually all the giants (tall, fat, or a mutant-like combination of both) documented in the Guinness Book of Records had unusually short life-spans. Seldom past the age of 45. Hey... that's just a decade away for me! Anyone checked the price for XXL-sized coffins lately? Maybe it's time I booked one for myself. Or, wait... cremation in a bio-degradable body bag may work better; let's not have my rotting corpse take up the extra few inches - lengthwise and widthwise - of precious and fast-depleting footprint, and perhaps save a tree or two, shall we?

Oh, and before I forget: Have you ever noticed how, in most movies, the big good guy is always the one who ends up getting killed off because he is the only one who cannot fit through the (a) hole in the cavern wall (b) bars of the prison gates (c) chimney (d) ? And nine out of ten times (I am being conservative in my estimate here), he is usually the Mr. Dopey of the group. The stereotype certainly does mirror the general perception… though, I wonder which came first.

We can learn from the Western work culture

It is now a little over a month since I joined my current company. Although there have been the usual frustrations in having so many things to learn in a totally new and alien industry, it has been exhilarating. More importantly, there has been one aspect of the work life here that I have come to appreciate: The Western work culture. It is probably because the majority of my colleagues are Westerners. But they have brought with them many elements of the kind of working culture that we here in Malaysia - and Asia as a whole - would do well to adopt.

There are too many to list down in detail, and I really do not want to exceed my lunch break with this blog entry, so let the four main ones that come to mind suffice for today, fair readers.


Communicate well!

I realise I have been away from a working environment where English is well-used... or maybe I have not actually worked in an environment where English is well-used!. And here, I must emphasise the word 'well' here. I have worked in local offices of multi-national corporations where English is supposed to be the working language. Yet, I have found the standard of English utterly atrocious - to the point where documents and written correspondences are barely readable, and presentations so incomprehensible that the speaker may as well be conversing in Ancient Greek (no disrespect intended to the Greeks). But where I am now, people use English, and they use it well. And it encourages the locals - no matter how poor their English may be when they start off - to use the language well.

No, I am not saying that English is a language superior to any other (and damn if I do, because it is not even my mother tongue!). What I am saying is that with the effective use of the working language of choice, communication lines are smooth and unambiguous (that's the word for it!), documents are comprehensible, and people are confident enough to use the language such that they are never afraid to speak up.


Speak up!

On the subject of never being afraid to speak up, the employees here never hesitate to take the initiative to present their opinions and ideas (from fear of being shot down, or labelled as brown-nosers). There is none of the "it's not my department, so why should I stick my head out?" or "better I keep my mouth shut, lest the problem falls on my lap" attitudes so prevalent in local work cultures. Everyone gets to contribute ideas, and everyone does so unreservedly. Meetings are conducted regularly, and everyone is encouraged - and expected - to speak and contribute.

And even if there is disagreement towards any ideas presented, they are done so in a professional manner; people explain to you why your ideas may not work, instead of giving you the "shut up, you big-mouthed moron" evil eye.

People are the most important asset to any organisation. And what good are the people, if they do not - or worse, cannot - communicate their ideas, the jewels of their mind? Fear to communicate can be most discouraging and paralysing to one's psyche... and one's career.


Work smart!

The culture of sticking around late in the office just for the sake of clocking hours is non-existent here. From my first day of work, my boss told me, "Mark, do your work and do it well. And unless you have pressing issues to handle that require you to stay back, just leave by 5:30pm. Don't stick around trying to look busy." There is no room for flower vases here. People come into the office early, do real work, and aim to leave on time. There is no point is wasting your time sitting at your desk till the sun goes down when you are not being productive, just so your boss can see you. As far as he is concerned, you are wasting company electricity from the additional lighting and air-conditioning.


Respect one another!

People treat each other with respect. They greet each other along the corridor. They say "please" and "thank you". They smile. They accept you as individuals. They embrace diversity in cultures, and mindsets. And they never make you feel uncomfortable at the workplace - ever.

My random musings on love (Part 2)

When I attended Mass at St. Francis Xavier's Church (a.k.a. "SFX") two Sunday's ago, Father Simon Yong Kong Beng - whose well-thought-out, insightful and often-academic homilies I have often enjoyed (second only to those of Father Michael J. Elligate of St. Carthage's - Melbourne University's parish church) - expounded the subject of "love before duty". To paraphrase, he said: "When an act is borne out of love, it no longer becomes a duty that one is conscious of, but rather something that one does naturally, without any thought of reward or retribution. There is no longer the question of 'what is in it for me?'; the act is done out of unconditional love and the desire to give without receiving."

Now, if I were to extrapolate that idea to love in the romantic sense of the word, then it would suggest that one should love his/her soulmate unconditionally, without thought of that love being reciprocated. But in the end, we are all human. And humans, by nature, need the reciprocity of love. We may have so much love to give, and all so unconditionally. But with the need for reciprocity, can it be that a man can love a woman unconditionally and indefinitely, when he does not feel even a morsel of that abundance of love coming back to him?

Many women believe that in order for a woman to be truly happy, she should find and marry a man who loves her more than she loves him. That only works if the guy is prepared to put love before duty - to give a lot of love to the woman, expecting only a fraction of it in return. To quote the tag line from latest Coca-Cola™ commercial: "When you give a little love, it all comes back to you." But by putting love before duty, and expecting little or nothing in return, for the guy that tag line should read more like "You give a lot of love, hoping for just a little to come back to you." Only then can a woman say she has found a man who loves her more than she loves him.

You are probably wondering where I am going with all this rhetoric. My bottom line question is: Can someone really live unfalteringly by the principle of putting love before duty? Is it really possible for a man to love a woman so much that he would wait on her, give so much of his time and energy to her indefinitely, and yet expecting little or no reciprocity? Can such love be sustained indefinitely?

I have found that the acid test on whether I truly love someone, is when I find myself so willingly showing my care and affections for her - without thought of time, energy or pennies expended. There is no expectation of any equivalent returns from her - save only the hope (or better still, the knowledge) that I have managed to touch the very depths her heart, no matter how stone-hard and icy-cold it may be.

And maybe - just maybe - when putting love before duty creates that bottomless wellspring of energy, fuelling those unwavering and unfaltering acts of love, that hardness will eventually yield, and the iciness will melt under the continuous streams of warmth. And perhaps, when those iron-cold floodgates collapse under the torrential waves, the wellspring of love that she has been holding back thus far will gush forth - waves mingling and intertwining under the gaze of the sunset. For we are only human, and no human being is so cold as to be able to indefinitely hold back the torrential currents of love that nourishes the very core of our souls... and of our humanity.

A time for freedom and solitude (Part 2)

A year ago, I wrote about how frustrated I felt about those around me occasionally taking me for a helpless invalid and how, as a result, I tend to appreciate and enjoy my time alone, away from the crowd.

Well, a year later, little has changed.

Recently, someone asked me why I did not enlist the help of friends to set up my newly-purchased furniture from IKEA. My terse response: If I had to do that, I may as well put on a blouse and skirt, break both my arms and legs, and sit in a wheelchair. For Heaven's sake, IKEA furniture is designed to be assembled by an idiot with ease. Do I look that incapable to you? I apologise if I sound sexist and egotistical, but there are just some things a guy can and should do by himself.

I am tired of people who ask me to speed up when I slow down to tie my shoelaces, yet tell me to relax when I am doing things fast in order to save everyone some precious time. Fast and slow is relative - so, who gave you the mandate to set the standard for me to follow, anyway?

I am aware that I have an eccentric sense of humour that sometimes border on buffoonery. So, does that automatically mean I am an imbecile? Must I ruffle myself up, and look and sound all serious an intelligent?

One thing I have slowly and painfully learnt is that when I try too hard to listen to and follow other people's standards, I stumble and fall. So today, I live by my own standards. I go at my own pace. I make my own eccentric decisions. I listen to my own instincts. And I have found that when I do so, I am seldom wrong. And if I do fall, I take the aches and pains myself. No quarter taken, none given. I do not need your sympathy. I only need you to respect me enough to let me do things my way. For if I could not govern my own decisions, actions and destiny, then what self-respect do I deserve?

So, for those of you who wish to impose your views and standards on me, here's my reply: Go f**k yourself.

My random musings on love

Recently, someone close to my heart commented that while I have written about a whole plethora of topics in my blogs - ranging from the suffocatingly-dull to the unbelievably insane - the one topic that I have never written about is l'amour - love. Now, this could be easily misconstrued to mean that I am not a very romantic person at heart - and I will vehemently deny that I am not! It is just that being both romantic and conservative at the same time, it does not come naturally to me to openly talk - or, in this case, write - about love.

So, for today, I shall endeavour to pen my musings about what love means to me. And, in not keeping with my usual propensity for coherent writings, I shall keep this musings as random and spontaneous as I can, in order to capture the spirit of my heart.

* * * * * * * * * *

I am standing in a crowd. The air is thick. The omnipresent chatter surrounding me is deafening. I look around, trying to turn my eyes away from the sea of anonymous faces that drown me. And then, from a distance, I see her. I do not remember when or where I have seen her before. But she seems even more beautiful now than I recall. She looks at me, a faint smile on her lips. She, too, appears to know me, but from where or when, she cannot seem to recall. We stand far apart, separated by the crowd. But as my gaze remains transfixed at her, the crowd seems to fade away, and there seem to be just two of us in a wide open space. My heart stops for seven pulses. Time stands still.

* * * * * * * * * *

The years pass. I never forgot her face. Her bewitching eyes. Her captivating smile. I receive word on her whereabouts. The memories come flooding back. I seek her out. The journey is long, the trials are many. But I find her. I look into her eyes. She looks momentarily, then her eyes look away. She does not remember me. But it does not matter. For I have found her again. That alone is enough.

* * * * * * * * * *

Perhaps, in time, she will remember me. And accept me for who I am. Can the beautiful gypsy La Esmeralda ever love the hunchback Quasimodo, and choose him over the gallant and dashing Phoebus? For even in her death, Quasimodo came to die alongside her, his deformed arms embracing her in death eternal. Will she ever see and know how much she meant to him?

* * * * * * * * * *

I sit beside the one I love. I reach for her hand. There is a mild hesitation from her. But it is mild. And only momentary. It is just shyness. She eventually relents. I feel the warmth of the palm of her hand. Our fingers intertwine. They move subtly, communicating silently our feelings. No words are spoken; none need to be spoken.

* * * * * * * * * *

Kuala Lumpur city tour

It's funny how we spend so much time and money taking trips out-of-state or overseas, and fail to explore our own backyard. So, QM came up with a brilliant idea - how about doing a day trip of own very own Kuala Lumpur for a change?

The day began on Saturday 6 October at 7:30am. We headed out from Petaling Jaya to the Kuala Lumpur Botanical Gardens. The original plan was to have breakfast at this famous nasi lemak at a stall within the Gardens, and then continue with a walk through the Orchid Garden and Herb Garden (both within the Botanical Gardens). Unfortunately, we had not considered that the stall would be closed during the Ramadan fasting month - which it was!

So, we drove out from the Gardens towards the city centre for breakfast. We took the decision to enjoy good old 海南餐 Hainanese cuisine at 鎰記茶餐室 Yut Kee Coffee Shop off Jalan Ampang. Since it was everyone's (other than me) first time there, we decided to order a little of all the good stuff - French toast, roti babi, 海南麵 hailam mee (Hainanese-style fried noodles), 豬腸粉 chee ch'eong fun and, of course, Hainanese-brewed coffee.



10:00am. After breakfast, it was back to the Botanical Gardens, to view the Orchid Garden and Herb Garden. A picture paints a thousand words, so I best let the pictures of the flowers speak for themselves.



By 11:00am, it was time to leave the Gardens, and rush to Jalan Imbi area. The reason: 王記 Robert Wong's famous 燒肉飯 siew-yuk faan (roast pork rice). The roast pork only emerges from the fire at 12:30pm, but orders are taken starting 11:30am. And believe me, the queue was long! However, it was well worth the wait. Absolutely crisp, succulent and sinful roast pork. That's my fat intake for the year!



1:00pm. After lunch, we headed over to Merdeka Square area, to visit The Cathedral of St. Mary the Virgin. It's a small Anglican church dating back to the late-19th century. The highlight of the church is the pipe organ sitting in an elevated alcove to the left of the altar. Were it not for the fact that I am Catholic, this would be a lovely place to hold my wedding reception... sigh.



2:00pm. The afternoon rain pulled our excursion to a temporary halt, so we sought shelter at the new KL Pavillion departmental store in Jalan Bukit Bintang (where the old Bukit Bintang Girls' School once stood). Just a toilet stop, and a chance to stuff our faces with cream puffs.

4:00pm. The rain had stopped. So, we left KL Pavillion and made our way to our next destination - Royal Selangor Pewter. The place was about to close by the time we arrived. However, the staff were kind enough to fit in a quick 10-minute guided tour of the place. We were given a short walk through the factory area, and finished off in the pewter products shop.



5:30pm. It was a little too early for dinner, and none of us were feeling hungry. So, we decided to take a one-hour walk around the KLCC Gardens.



7:30pm. Okay, everyone was finally hungry. Time for Mark to pull out his hat-trick for the day, with yet-another little-known gastronomical haven of KL. A little shop somewhere in KL's 秋傑區 Chow Kit area selling 麻辣板麵 spicy pan-mee (I shall not reveal the name and exact location, lest one of my favourite 'best-kept-secrets' gets swamped by a hoard of patrons!). If I may say so, my friends, initially skeptical about the dodgy area, left the restaurant with borad smiles on their faces.



What a fulfilling day. I crashed the moment I got home. The end.

Cole Porter's "In the Still of the Night" (cont'd)

Would you believe it... just a day after I posted my blog on Cole Porter's "In the Still of the Night", I received an MP3 of the track (performed by Jane Monheit) in my mailbox... courtesy of my dear old Penang friend Girlie Tan.

The best part of it is that Monheit performs the song in a mellow bossanova rhythm, just the way I first heard it at No Black Tie.

I am letting it slowly lull me to sleep now, as my thoughts fade far away into Neverland.

You made my day, Girlie... I owe you a real big one for this!

Prisoner to one's own rules

I never really understood the reasons why some people create rules for themselves for no other reason that just for the sake of having rules to follow.

They establish rules, standards and pre-conceived notions about how things should be. And having set those rules, they become prisoner to those very same rules that they created for themselves in the first place.

They deny themselves the flexibility, the openness of mind and heart to changes, differences of opinion from their own, and - most of all - dissent from other parties. They shut themselves out from others who do not live by those rules. And when things do not go their way, while others are happily sailing along sans the unnecessarily shackles, they throw their hands up in the air and say "Oh, those crooked people probably went through the back door. That's not the way to do things. We know better."

The worst of this category of dogmatic fools are the ones who, having established these irrational rules, thereupon start imposing their rules and value system on others - walking around with the holier-than-thou notion that those who do not follow their rules are the uncivilised, the heathen, the condemned lot who will fail in life... and afterlife.

If you cannot rationalise with me about why something "should" be a certain way, apart from telling me that it's your God-forsaken rules, then please take your rules elsewhere. Do not quote lines in your "Book of Rules" to me, as if I am bound by your irrational belief system. Conformance for no reason is plain bollocks.

Do not get me wrong - I am not against the idea of a person living by his or her principles, ethics and codes of conduct. That is an entirely different thing altogether. Principles define one's value system and the essence of one's conduct. But rules made just for the sake of having something to follow like a security blanket, is - to me - plain stupid. Anyone who tells me that "there is a lot to be said about protocol and decorum" when the situation calls for flexibility, compassion and survival, ought to be given a rap on the head for being so darn thick.

Oh... and I forgot to mention that in my experience, most of these prisoners of rules fall under one or more of the following three (3) broad categories: (1) Overly-educated (2) Severely-disillusioned (3) Fear-stricken. They whip themselves into this vicious cycle of self-fulfilling prophecies, preferring to just toss their hands in despair, staying at home eating just boiled rice and drinking plain water, and have deleted the word "change" from their vocabulary. Status quo. Stick to the rules. Better to be miserable for life, than to be pitted with uncertainty. Uncertainty is dangerous.

A member of the academic staff at one of my former institutions of learning (I shall not mention names and locations, except to say that the individual was a woman) once told the students: "Adventure is a romantic word for trouble". How I wish I could hurl a bucket of muddy water at her today. If everyone had that sort of dead-locked, fear-restrained, change-averse and non-progressive attitude, we would all be back in the Stone Age living off potatoes and dead animal carcasses. Oh, I'm sorry... it's dangerous to hunt. Too risky. That's against the rules. So, no dead animal carcasses. We'll stick to the potatoes.

My rant for the week.

Cole Porter's "In the Still of the Night"

Up until last month, I did not think that any other song could carry so haunting a melody, and so touching and melancholic a lyric, as Alec Wilder's "Moon and Sand" and Billy Strayhorn's "Lush Life".

I was at No Black Tie (a jazz club downtown Kuala Lumpur) with a friend. It was my first time watching Rachel Guerzo's quintet performing. The group gave a fine selection of soothing swing and Latin standards. All the songs set the mood for the evening... but one song stood out, and completely blew me away to Neverland.

So captivated was I by the song, that I just sat rooted to my seat, just letting the notes of the melody, dancing atop the bossanova beat in the background, penetrate the very depths of my soul, swaying me from side to side in lovestruck drunken stupor.

I append below only the lyrics of this enchanting song, and I leave it to my readers to seek out a recording of the song on their own (and believe me, they are legion!).

Quote: "The song itself is seduction music of a very high order, with a melody in the verse that insinuates itself into the heart of the listener through rhythmic repetition and a melody in the bridge that soars over every possible objection to ask and answer the question "do you love me?" " ~ All Music Guide

In the Still of the Night
Music & Lyrics by Cole Porter (1937)

In the still of the night
As I gaze from my window
At the moon in its flight
My thoughts all stray to you

In the still of the night
All the world is in slumber
All the times without number
Darling when I say to you

Do you love me, as I love you
Are you my life to be, my dream come true
Or will this dream of mine fade out of sight
Like the moon growing dim, on the rim of the hill
In the chill, still, of the night

Like the moon growing dim, on the rim of the hill
In the chill, still, of the night

無聊之愛好

我最近有一個很無聊愛好: 每次光顧某間店舖或當口, 一看到招牌寫 "潮洲" (例 "潮州鹵鴨"), 立即告訴其店之老闆道 "老闆, 希望你不介意我 '多口', '潮州' 之'州' 無 '三點水' 的."

前兩週於一間 "六十年代潮州魚丸粉店" 竟然看到此錯誤於其招牌. 當付款之時不妨通知櫃檯之服務員, 看其樣子應該是被我嚇至無語!

My passport photographs

The Malaysian Immigration office has a policy of not allowing passport applicants to use the same photograph as the one used their previous passport. I venture to guess the reason is that there would have been facial changes due to ageing over the five-year period of the passport's validity.

This morning, I had my Malaysian International Passport renewed at the Subang Airport Terminal branch. The lady at the counter almost refused to accept the photograph I provided, claiming that it looked identical to the one on my now-expired passport. I had a bit of a hard time convincing her that "yes, I am wearing an identical-coloured jacket and tie as the one in photograph on my old passport" and "no, I took this photograph only last weekend, the one in my old passport dates back to the year 2002... do you not notice how I have aged?"

Apparently, she really did not notice that I had aged. So, I still look like a 27-year-old. How flattering... considering I look like a half-asleep thug in my new passport photograph.

I love the night

I love the night.

As a student, both in high school and university, my bedroom would never be flooded by the light shining from the overhead fluorescent tube. No, I would prefer to study under the luminescence of just one spotlight shining over my desk, or relax with just the bedside light on.

Even as a yuppie working in Penang back in the early 2000's (yes, I am that old!), I used to enjoy the evening hikes up the nearby Bukit Jambul hill after work. The pleasure of standing up on the summit and watching the sun disappear beneath the horizon of the distant Pulau Jerejak island, with the lights from the town below. And then, there is the hike down the hill through the forest track in the dark, with only a torchlight to light up the way. Most cringe in fear - wild predatory animals, attackers, ghosts, you name it . But somehow, I always derived a certain sense of peace and serenity walking through the forest at night.

Paradoxically, my love for the night stems from that feeling that I actually feel more secure and protected by the blanket of the darkness... as opposed to feeling visible, naked and exposed by the vulgar sights and sounds of the daytime that so disturb the urban soul.

Ironically, I have never been a nightlife guy. You will never catch me in a pub or discotheque, drinking beer and dancing till 3am. But I am outdoors after hours, chances are you will find me in a jazz club - sipping coffee or port with a slice of chocolate cake, and losing myself in the enchanting and romantic world of soothing swing/Latin-style jazz standards. And yes, the jazz club will be very dimly-lit.

I love the night.

Hiking in Bukit Tabur on National Day

While most of the country was probably spending the National Day public holiday sleeping in after a hard night of partying till 3am (or later!), I was up by 6:30am! Spent the morning hiking in Bukit Tabur (also known as the Klang Quartz Ridge Gates) in Ulu Klang.

We started the ascent around 8:00am. After the tough initial slope lasting 30 minutes, we finally reached the first plateau. The view of the lake, with the hills in the distance blanketed by the morning clouds on the horizon, was in itself worth the trip.

View of the lake from the halfway plateau

The second section involved a bit of rock-climbing... though, by actual rock-climbing standards, it was probably no more than a Grade 4 route (we could do it without ropes for protection!). The tricky portions were the occasional sharp descents where the ropes already secured in-place were much appreciated!

(L-R): Chee Keong, Christina, Charmaine, Quee Mei & me

The return trip brought us through three fruit orchards - jackfruit (nangka), durian and rambutan. The hikers before us had plucked a bunch of rambutans from one of the trees (naughty-naughty!), and they were nice enough to give us some.

All in all, a splendid morning, and my regular Mother Nature fix to recharge my soul!

Linguistic exclusion and outright discourtesy

Malaysians are a rude lot. I am sorry to have to say this about my fellow countrymen, but it's true.

Tonight, I was having dinner with my Dad at our usual favourite restaurant, Mama's Restaurant in Damansara Jaya. Sitting at the table next to us were three Malaysian Chinese men and a Caucasian. From the snatches of their conversation, I gather that the three Malaysians were managers of a company, and the Caucasian was either a colleague or supplier.

What really offended me was that the three oldsters were speaking among themselves in the Penang Hokkien dialect, while it was plain to see that their poor guest was feeling out-of-place and lost amidst the babble.

Now, don't get me wrong - I am a fan of the Penang Hokkien dialect, and made a special effort to learn it well during my 6-year stint in Penang. But it was obvious that the three men were fluent in English. And how do I know that? Simple: Not only did they speak good English to their guest, their Penang Hokkien was peppered with English words here-and-there, and their Hokkien vocabulary was limited - a tell-tale sign that they were not Chinese-educated.

So, why did they have to be so discourteous as to deliberately use Hokkien and exclude their guest from the conversation? It was clear to me that what they were talking about was nothing more than idle chat (I was not eavesdropping; their voices were booming).

No, I have to write this off as blatant discourtesy towards foreign visitors. Call me disloyal or unpatriotic towards my roots, but I think when you are entertaining foreign guests, and you have no problem speaking a language that your guest understands, it is only polite that such a common language be used.

Newspapers with grammatical errors!

It's official. The standard of the English Language in Malaysia is going to the dogs. And you know it is beyond hope, when even the newspapers have glaring grammatical errors.

Without naming the newspaper in question, I cite two glaring errors:

1. "Daughter pinning for dad". I am trying to imagine the poor girl pinning her dad on the wall. It's pining, not pinning. Mind you, this was on the headlines, not in the text itself.

2. "... comprising more than 800 stalls maybe an attractive shopping destination...". Can somebody please tell the writer that there is a difference between "maybe" (one word) and "may be" (two words). Perhaps the writer was trying to reduce the character count for the article, and a space counts as one character.

There was a time when teachers used to encourage students to read the newspapers as a way to improve their English. The advice is still sound, but I think it is best that the teachers qualify the advice with the proviso that they avoid the local newspapers like a plague!

To Hong Kong (Day #2)

My second day in Hong Kong. The entire day was spent on Hong Kong Island. We started off the day going downtown for some music CD shopping along 王后大道 Queen's Road. I picked up a couple of nice jazz compilations - just something to listen to when I am caught in KL's mad traffic jams. After that, it was a simple lunch of 雲吞麵 wan tan meen and porridge.


王后大道 Queen's Road and trams

After lunch, we rode up the Central to Mid-Levels Escalator, stopping along the way to check out some 麻雀 mahjong shops. Then, it was a mandatory stop at the 泰昌餅家 Thai Cheong Confectionery at 擺花街 Lyndhurst Terrace to buy egg-tarts (the shop is famous for being patronised by ex-British Governor of Hong Kong Chris Patton). Most of us bought one piece. I was feeling greedy, so I bought three. And since the egg-tarts are best eaten when hot, I ate all three in one go.


(L-R): 泰昌餅家 Thai Cheong Confectionery, guzzling my egg-tarts

After dinner at a nice Manchurian restaurant in Soho area, we did a short stroll around 蘭桂坊 Lan Kwai Fong, just to soak in the typical Hong Kong nightlife. It was amazing how alive and crowded the place was on a weekday night. The restaurants and pubs were just over-flowing with people.


Night scene in 蘭桂坊 Lan Kwai Fong

To Hong Kong (Day #1)

My second trip to 香港 Hong Kong. The first was in March 2004, to attend Brother Michael's wedding. That was a relatively short trip, only 4 days, so I did not get to see much. So, I decided that this time, I will try to cover more areas. This time, it was with my ex-housemates.

Our day began at 8:30am, with a trip up 太平山 Victoria Peak. Since the apartment we stayed in was in 跑馬地 Happy Valley, which is practically halfway up to the Peak, we decided that it did not make sense for us to go all the way down to the base of the hill and take the tram up again. So instead, we hailed a taxi from right outside Wendy Apartments.

It was a really hot morning up on the Peak, and reports state that we were experiencing the clearest skies ever witnessed at the Peak in 9 years! I took quite a few pictures at the vantage point, and took a nature walk along the 2.8km circular trail around the Peak. I even bought myself a new pair of long-shorts at Giordano (I only brought one pair of long-shorts, as I was not expecting the weather to be so hot).



(L-R) At the lookout point of Victoria Peak, along the hiking trail

The afternoon was spent in 九龍 Kowloon area. The primary agenda was for two of us to buy our climbing ropes and other rock-climbing accessories (according to my climbing buddy, rock-climbing equipment is generally cheaper in Hong Kong than back home in Malaysia). However, in the process of traversing from one shop to another on foot, we managed to cover a large portion of 九龍 Kowloon area.

Food-wise, we had a simple lunch of 腸粉 ch'eong fun in some small eatery, followed by egg tarts purchased from a roadside stall in 旺角 Mong Kok area.


(L-R) 腸粉 Ch'eong-fun for lunch, and egg tarts for dessert... yummy!

We finished off our Kowloon walking tour with a stroll through 廟街 Temple Street, browsing at stalls selling cheap trinkets and souvenirs.


Along 廟街 Temple Street

Then it was a quick dinner at a small restaurant serving fish ball noodles. The contrarian in me opted for beef spare parts noodles.


(L-R) 牛腩麵 Beef spare parts noodles and 炸魚 deep-fried fish

After dinner, we adjourned to 尖沙咀 Tsim Sha Tsui to watch the 15-minute Symphony of Lights display along the harbour front. It was a spectacular display of lights from the major skyscrapers on Hong Kong Island's side. Not the kind of display a point-and-shoot camera can capture - you just have to be there to see it with your own eyes.


Symphony of Lights, viewed from 九龍 Kowloon side.

What a tiring day. My feet are sore from all the walking. Thank goodness, it will not be another early day tomorrow. I think I will rest early tonight.

Dating without tears

As I was sitting on Her Majesty's Throne (read: toilet bowl) yesterday, I read this interesting column entitled "Dating Without Tears" in The Star Metro Classifieds. The first thing I intuitively did as I went through the bullet points (which I have reproduced here ad verbatim) was to perform a mental check on how many I had followed or fumbled with:

• The best way to ask a girl out is in person. If that is not possible due to lack of opportunity or because you aren't confident enough, your best alternative would be over the phone.

I admit it: I am a shy guy. I have always had problems asking a girl out in person. Especially if it is a girl I am really fond of. I get the shivers. Yes, the phone definitely helps.

• Make sure you are well groomed. And of course check your breath beforehand!

Now, I may have crappy fashion sense, but when it comes to grooming up before a date, I think I do pretty alright. And I also make a mental note when a girl passes subtle hints about what kind of clothes suit me (and what kind don't!), so that I know what shirts and trousers to avoid like a plague on the subsequent dates (if there even are any!). And there is, of course, my sacred bottle of Tommy Hilfiger aftershave that I use only on dates. As for the breath part, I normally go through two bottles of Listerine before leaving the house, so I generally smell like a mint production plant throughout the date.

• If the girl says no, don't take it personally. Continue the conversation for a little longer, say it was nice talking to her and walk away.

Oh, this is one that took a lot of working for me. I used to feel so dejected from rejections. I would go home with my tail between my legs, and bang my head against the wall wondering if if was my hair, breath or bad sense of humour that cheesed her off. After a decade of rejections, I think I am handling it much better now.

• The fact that you took her rejection well may even pique her interest. If she isn't a stranger make more of an effort to get to know her. She may grow to like you and you may get another opportunity to ask her out.

This one remains to be seen. I have yet to have an angry customer return to my front door.

• If she says she was busy to your first offer and you get a similar response to your second date option accept it as a rejection and move on. She is probably trying to be nice.

Oh, yes... this sounds so darn familiar. Practically right out of a textbook.

• Think of subjects to discuss on the date in advance. Good ideas include stores about you, things you want to know about her, family and common interests.

Herein lies the problem. Once I get going with my lucidity, my weird sense of humour and uncontrolled hand gestures start kicking in. Some find it downright musing. Others feel the need to escape this raving lunatic.

• Do not ask a girl out over e-mail or by instant message.

Oh, God... now I know the reason for my 99.9% failure rate.

• Don't worry about small breaks in conversation as that's normal. But if it lasts an excessive amount of time, or she is giving you non-verbal queues that she wants out of the conversation, then politely end it.

This is usually a one-or-zero thing. Either we talk so much that the restaurant owner has to throw us out the back door, or we spend the full hour or two at the diner staring at the floor and counting the number of floor tiles. Fortunately for me, the latter only happened once... a long time ago.

"Chinatown"

Roman Polanski's 1974 movie "Chinatown" (starring Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway) ranks among the best movies ever made. Fast forward 33 years later, and I finally got down to watching this film classic on DVD recently. And all the while, through all the twists and turns in the plot, I thought to myself, "they don't make movies like this anymore".

But there was something else that I enjoyed just as much as the movie itself - the soundtrack composed by the late Jerry Goldsmith. The jazz tracks peppered here and there were enchanting, but in particular, it was the main theme "Love Theme from Chinatown" that truly mesmerised me. Short as it was (the track is only two minutes long), the haunting yet sultry melody puts you right there... on a street in the city at night, illuminated by a solitary street-lamp, with your lover in your arms and warm embrace.

Listen to the piece once... and better still, listen it as you watch this great movie. And just for those two minutes, you will feel yourself sent faraway to a world of romance like no other.

Of unscrupulous taxi drivers

A colleague of mine from Shanghai made her maiden voyage to Malaysia yesterday, also her first trip outside of China. She was supposed to catch a taxi from Sheraton Hotel in Subang Jaya to our office in Kelana Jaya this morning. It would have been a relatively straightforward journey - 10 to 15 minutes and no more than 10 Malaysian Ringgits.

Hailing a taxi was a harrowing experience for her. All the taxi drivers whom she hailed not only refused to use the meter, but also insisted on charging her RM25 for the journey! Fortunately, she was clever enough to decline, and promptly called me on my mobile phone for help. Naturally, I obliged her a ride to the office, and thereupon arranged with our company secretary to have a dedicated taxi to ferry to and from work for the remainder of our stay.

To my colleague Grace Ge, I say, "我代表馬來西亞所有的誠實公民向你道歉, 希望今日發生的事件不會破壞到你對馬來西亞的印像" ("On behalf of all the honest citizens of Malaysia, I offer my sincere apologies, and hope that today's incident will not mar your impression of Malaysia").

Malaysia is 45 days shy of its 50th birthday, and yet we are suffering the embarrassment of having our local taxi drivers give our country a bade image with their unscrupulousness and bullying attitude towards foreign visitors. When I think of how honest and professional the taxi drivers in Shanghai are, I feel so ashamed that our country, supposedly just over a decade away from Vision 2020 (our targetted year to officially become a fully-developed nation), is falling behind in terms of integrity and civility.

Privacy... over-rated?

Some people have absolutely no concept of privacy. They thrive on the concept of a totally borderless world; a world where everyone is everyone else’s best friend; a world where you can barge into another person’s personal space (read: home, office cubicle, bedroom, personal closet of hidden treasures) without even at the drop of a hat; a world where it is unforgivable to keep secrets; a world where the simple courtesy of “knocking before entering” is non-existent.

Those who do not understand or appreciate the concept of privacy often equate it to selfishness. They consider it as people’s way of being anti-social and shutting others out of their lives. They think that locking a bedroom door or closet means you have a dark secret to hide, making it all the more reason to pry it out for the whole wide world to see. They harbour no shame in telling their nosey neighbour next door that their niece is sleeping with her university lecturer.

I, for one, believe strongly in the concept of privacy. Call me selfish, but I think there is a reason why God created us without the ability to read each other’s thoughts. In a world where privacy is fast becoming extinct, in a Web-based universe where we can access the most private of information with just a few key-strokes, it is our hearts and minds that remain the final frontier of personal space and sanctuary.

My first lead-climb in 3 years

I had my first lead-climb at the rock-climbing wall in three years today. It was dismal, to say the least. It was just a pokey 15m-high 5C route, and three years ago I could have done it without so much as a struggle. But that was three years ago, and I also had not worked out for an entire week since my recent Shanghai trip.

To begin with, I just wasn't feeling confident at all with the moves. And on top of that, a week's absence from the gym made me feel as if I had lost 30% of my upper body strength. I was stopping to rest at literally every clip-in point!

Here's the capper: I was struggling to clip in the rope at the last clip-in point before the anchor. My fingers slipped at the gate of the caribiner. My belayer Chee Keong heard the snapping the caribiner's gate, and assuming that I had successfully clipped-in, proceeded to give me rope tension - effectively hauling me down! It wasn't his fault at all, really - one normally assumes that a rope clip-in operation proceeds without problems, and this was also Chee Keong's first hand at lead-belaying.

Anyway, the force of his pull on the rope, coupled by my muscular exhaustion, caused me to lose my grip and fall. Now, I weigh 96kg, and that's a good 30-odd kg more than Chee Keong. The force of my body weight yanked the poor bloke towards the wall, and there was probably a split-second when he lost grip of the rope. I plummeted about 5 metres before Chee Keong managed to arrest my fall.

That's not the worst part. In my panic at moment of the free-fall, I made a desperate attempt to grab onto the rope. Not only did I fail to arrest my own free-fall, the force of my body weight under gravity gave me a severe rope-burn on my left hand.

It's funny what an adrenaline rush can do to you. As I said, I was stopping to rest at every clip-in point. But after the fall, which caused me to drop 3-4 clip-in points below, I immediately started off again, oblivious to the seething pain from my rope-burn injury, and prompty cleared the height I had lost during the fall. Too bad, by the time I got back to where I had left off, I was way too tired to complete the climb.

Oh, well... every climber has to experience a hard fall once. In my case, it happened only six years after I started rock-climbing! Well, at least I did not get it as bad as my Penang climbing buddy Joo Biau - the poor guy not only fell, his whole body flipped upside-down, and he came within a nose-hair of crashing his face into solid granite!

Note: For those of you who are unfamiliar with rock-climbing terminology, there are generally two types of climbs - top-rope climbing and lead-climbing. In top-rope climbing, the rope is already set-up and anchored at the top of the route. In lead-climbing, the climber is responsible to bring the rope up on the ascent and set it up at the anchor.

Get your jargon right!

This thread is a tribute to my obsessive-compulsive disorder insofar as correct terminology is employed.

For those of you who still remember high school mathematics, I am sure you would have come across GRAPHS. And in a typical 2-dimensional graph, you will always have a vertical axis and a horizontal axis, correct? Now, what do you call the vertical and horizontal axes, respectively (yes, this is the part where all of you start raising your hands in dire enthusiasm)?

Okay, hands up, all of you who said:
"The horizontal axis is the x-axis, and the vertical axis is the y-axis"

WRONG, WRONG, WRONG.

And why is it wrong? Because the horizontal axis could very well have been, say, the t-axis, with the vertical axis being the x, y, z, or any other dimensional axis (this is known as a displacement vs. time graph in physics). Or just about any combination (any of you remember dy/dx?...yep), not just x-y.

The horizontal axis is known as the ordinate, and the vertical axis is known as the abscissa. So, in a graph of x vs. t, t would be the ordinate, and x would be the abscissa. I actually knew these terminologies from high school, but it took my Dynamics lecturer at university - Dr. Janusz Maciej Krodkiewski - to hammer it into my vocabulary.

And for those of you who did mathematics at university and got this wrong, you ought to be shot.

Hang on... I am not quite done yet...

Okay, let us move on to music. I have often heard people refer to the "G" of a scale or and "F" of a scale, etc. Strictly speaking, that is also wrong by musical terminology, and is about as sacrilegious as the "x-y" terminological inexactitude. What is a "G" of a musical scale? The speaker obviously assumes that the reference scale is C-Major, and that the note in question is the 5th note from the scale's key. But what if the scale in question was not C-Major (which, there is a 1/12 probability of it being so)?

NO, NO, NO.

The correct terminologies for the notes, measured from any given key, are as follows:

First note: Tonic
Second note: Super-tonic
Third note: Mediant
Fourth note: Sub-dominant
Fifth note: Dominant
Sixth note: Sub-mediant
Seventh note: Leading (or Sub-tonic)

So, "G" in the C-Major scale is the Dominant note, but in the G-Major scale is the Tonic note.

My OCD rant for today. I think I'm done. Have a pleasant weekend.

Back to Shanghai

Back to Shanghai this week for a client visit. My first real trip back here since March 2005 (the one in October 2006 does not really count in my books, since it only lasted 24 hours, most of which was spent sleeping in the hotel room). I am actually writing this blog entry on-board my return flight to Malaysia.

My first night in Shanghai was spent in the company of my Shanghai colleague, Jamie Zhu. First, it was a mandatory stop for me at one of the tea shops in 城隍廟 Cheng Huang Temple, to pick up a nice box of tea leaves. We attempted to go for dinner at 南翔饅頭館 Nan Xiang Man Tou Guan restaurant (there is a branch at The Curve in Petaling Jaya), famous for its 小籠包 xiao long bao (dumplings). Unfortunately, the long queue was rather discouraging, so we ended up having dinner near Jamie’s apartment instead. Jamie is a really nice girl, and it is always a pleasure being in her company. The only caveat is that her bullet-speed speech coupled with my very poor Mandarin listening skills, mean that I often only end up capturing half of what she is telling me (ironically, I find that we communicate a lot better when writing in Chinese). Despite that fact that she is an English major, I always resist the temptation to speak to her in English, as a way for me to brush up my Mandarin listening skills.

My second night was spent having dinner with Jamie, my other Shanghai colleague Billy Zhang and his wife Margaret. It was a significant dinner for me, not only because it was my first time meeting Margaret, but also because it would be my last dinner with Billy as a colleague, for that was also the day Billy officially tendered his resignation – leaving the company to pursue his full-time MBA. The two of us had a rough start in our collaboration back in early-2005, but we have come a long way, worked very well together in recent times, and I felt a little sad to see him go – he was truly a real pillar of strength at the Shanghai office. We adjourned for coffee at Starbucks outside the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, where Billy shared his vast collection of photographs from his various trips around the globe with Margaret. For reasons already mentioned above, I did not engage much in the conversation. Most of it sounded like Greek to me. I wish I had brought my 555 note book, so that they could write down what they were saying.

(L-R) 粽子 zong zi (dumpling); with Jamie, Margaret and Billy

On the third night in Shanghai, it was back to 城隍廟 Cheng Huang Temple again, this time with Jamie and three of my Malaysian colleagues who were also here on other assignments. This time, I decided that we would brave the long wait at the famed 小籠包 xiao long bao restaurant. It took 30 minutes to get a table and have our orders served. But I figured it was worth the wait, just to be able to say that I have eaten authentic 小籠包 xiao long bao at the xiao long bao restaurant in Shanghai.

(L-R) Jonathan, me, Jamie and Christy at 城隍廟 Cheng Huang Temple; enjoying 小籠包 xiao long bao

I figured that hardly qualifies as a decent dinner, so after the little 小籠包 xiao long bao feast, I suggested that the five of us adjourn downtown for some real food. Off the top of my head, I remembered this restaurant that my ex-colleague PH Lim brought me to – 滴水洞 (literally “The Cave of Dripping Water”), located at the intersection of 陜西南路 South Sha’anxi Road and 茂明路 Mao Ming Road, supposedly famous for its 湖南 Hunanese cuisine. It was quite embarrassing, as I had forgotten how to get there; it took two IDD calls to PH and one local call by Jamie to her friend to locate the place. But the good food made up for the mild fumble! I kind of felt sorry for Jamie, because linguistically, the tables were turned on the poor girl this time. She was in the company of four Malaysians speaking a crude mixture of Manglish (Malaysian English, or mangled English!) peppered with the occasional intrusion of Malay, Hokkien and Cantonese words – simply ghastly to the uninitiated. Well, we did try to accommodate her with some Mandarin!

At 滴水洞 Di Shui Dong Restaurant

A little bit about my hotel room: I stayed at the Four Points By Sharaton, located in 浦東Pudong’s 由由 You You district, and right next to the Shanghai office. The hotel was quite comfortable, except for a few minor niggles:

· There was no bench in the room to put my suitcase, so I ended up putting it on the floor by the door.

· The coffee terrace needs some improvement in guest admittance system for breakfast. On all three mornings, I was greeted by a long queue, with the staff at the front door struggling with the guest list and table allocation. I cannot quite fathom what the problem was, as it seemed to me that the occupancy rate was no more than 60 %.

· The coffee machine seemed to constantly run out of milk and hot water.

· The buffet breakfast selection was identical for all three days.

Well, one good thing is that the room came with an international adapter plug (not that it really mattered, since I normally bring my own, anyway). And there was unlimited Broadband Internet access (Howard-Johnson, the hotel I stayed at previously, charges for room Internet usage by the minute).

Oh, another thing I always enjoy during my trips to Shanghai - listening to the locals speak in the Shanghainese dialect. Especially the taxi drivers. I always get a kick out of listening to Billy and Jamie giving directions to the taxi drivers in the local dialect, and trying to decipher what they are saying. I got into the taxi on Tuesday morning, heading for a client's office in 宜山路 Yishan Road. The taxi driver, a kind-looking lady, mistook me for a local, and asked me in Shanghainese "yi-ze-lu, shi-ve-la? (宜山路, 是否啦?)". I wish I could tell you that I answered her in Shanghainese, but I can't. And it was only much later that I realised that I did know a couple of Shanghainese phrases from my Shanghainese phrasebook at home, and that I could have said "dei, dei" 對, 對 ("correct, correct"), or even ask her "li geh tah me yuoe va?" 離搿笪蠻遠伐? ("Is it far from here?" 離這兒很遠嗎?).

Time check: 2050hrs. I will be touching down in KLIA in half an hour. Will upload this blog entry once I get home. Good night.

When travelling to China...

Lesson for today: When preparing for a business trip to China, you may have all your documents ready on your laptop, all those neat presentation slides and 3D-animations to show to the client down pat, a well-rehearsed speech all memorised, your well-ironed suit and well-polished shoes to create a professional image, and even your flight tickets booked well in advance… but none of it will make a raccoon’s ass of a difference if your darn China visa expired a month ago!!!

Short fuse getting shorter

A close (and recently acquainted) friend commented that I have a bad temper. For those of you who have known me for years, you will probably find this observation strange.

Then again, it is true that of late, my fuse has shortened considerably. I have not reached the point of throwing loud tantrums yet, but I have, on occasion, raised my voice and resorted to rather abrasive (but not foul) language to vent my anger to the relevant parties.

The trend is getting alarming, because it is starting to affect even my own household. My mum avoids confrontational topics of conversation with me, and even my normally bad-tempered dad seems to be handling me more with care.

This is not boding well for my blood pressure, my signature easy-going nature... and my already-pathetic social life.

Streamyx sucks

So much for Malaysia's Cyberjaya, the Multimedia Super-Corridor, and all this talk about a vision to become a technology-savvy nation. A simple thing like Broadband Internet access, and we get f**ked-up service and f**king incompetent call centre staff.

For the past five consecutive nights, I have been getting "Error 691: Access was denied because the username and/or password was invalid on the domain. Check your password and then try again. The computer you are dialing in cannot establish a connection." Here's the same f**king telephone conversation I have had to endure for the past five f**king nights:

1. "Please press 1 for Malay, 2 for English" (yes, I pressed '1' - the buggers on the other end of the line refuse to speak English, anyway)
2. "Please press 1 for Streamyx, 2 for..."
3. "Please press 1 for... <go fill in the God-damned blanks yourself>
4. (Wait till Kingdom Come for the operator to finish manicuring her fingernails and answering the phone)
5. "Thank you for calling TMNet, how can I help you?"
6. "How do you spell your name again... sounds like Martian language to me"
7. "Can I verify your contact details, so we know you aren't some sick terrorist?"
8. "Oh, you've got that problem... hmmm...(and here go the same f**king standard questions straight out of some kindergarten chant book):
(a) Are you using a splitter?
(b) Do you hear static when using the telephone?
(c) Have you been f**king around with the password settings?
NO NO NO... for the f**king last time - NO!
9. Here's the capper... when I called tonight and told the **nice** lady on the other end of the line that she can save the cookbook questions, you know what she tells me? Hold you seat for this one:

"Oh... then I don't know how to solve your problem, lah."

10. Anyway, I got it figured out. "Session hanged". Just tell the dumb f**k on the other end of the line to just shut the f**k up, and delete the session. And stop chanting cookbook mantras to me. I've heard them so often, I could moonlight as a TMNet call centre operator after hours.

11. Oh, yes... the call centre operator tells me to go and change my password, just in case some some parasitic bastard has been leeching off my account. I ask her for the URL. She gives it to me. http://tmbill.tm.net.my. I try it out. Yup... you guessed it - I can't get in!

I think I'll migrate to Maxis.net.

Unaware of the concepy (Part #2)

Define man's ignorance about the female gender:

When he thinks that mascara and mask (you know... that weird stuff women apply to their faces to beautify it, and after applying it, they cannot talk or twitch their facial muscles, lest the mask 'cracks') are the same thing.

My Golden Retriever

Today's blog is dedicated to Trixie - my ultra-lovable Golden Retriever. Both a bundle of joy (those sad and droopy eyes, and how she always flips over to get a tummy massage whenever I approach her) and a holy terror at the same time (she eats everything - from slippers to electrical wires, no kidding!).

Not too many words this time. Just some nice pictures to melt your heart. :)

Trixie at 2 months old


(L-R): Rolling on my bed, exploring the WWW, and sleeping in her natural position

Trixie at 4 months old



More pictures as she gets a little older... stay tuned!

Learning Shanghainese

Another of my new linguistic escapades...

The Shanghainese dialect is a very interesting language. For a native Cantonese speaker who is accustomed to a rich array of consonant endings and a more 'musical' set of tones, learning this dialect can be quite disconcerting - both to the ears and the palatial muscles. All words can only end with a vowel, -ng or a glottal stop -q. But where it suffers in terms of a limited selection of endings, it more than makes up for it with a dazzling array of consonant beginnings, and its own unique array of tones - both long and short.

I now have in my collection, two out of the three books that form a set of learning texts for the Shanghainese dialect (the series is divided into "Basic", "Daily Use" and "Business"). All the books come with CD's, which I now play in my car to practise my listening skills - much to the disgruntlement of all those who have the misfortune of being my passengers over the next few weeks!

儂身體好伐? 倷飯吃過了伐? 謝謝儂! nung seng-thi hoa va? na ve chi ku le va? sha-sha nung! (How are you? Have you eaten yet? Thank you!)

Pull-ups and dips... back in action!

I am a true believer in Body Pump™ now.

Before I started classes, my pull-ups and dips were in the absolute doldrums. I was barely able to muscle out 7 pull-ups and 15 dips, reminiscence of my younger days. But after just four sessions, my pull-ups have shot back up to 13, and my dips have hit 30!

Now that I am back on a roll, I have reverted to my good old strength workout routine for rock-climbing, i.e. doing pull-ups and dips with added weights dangling from my feet (7kg for pull-ups and 20kg for dips). The way I figure it, if I keep this training routine up, I might just be able to break my 21st birthday record number of pull-ups, i.e. 23.

The downside is, my cardiovascular endurance is going down again. It was on an up-climb while I was still doing RPM classes regularly, so I think I better get back into it again. Thing is, nothing strikes more fear into my heart than that ghastly Track #5, where you are expected to do that insane 'stand-up-sit-down' thing during the chorus! Ugh, my burning ass...

Denial (逃避現實)

Denial can be a powerful state of mind. It cripples you, forcing you to see and hear what really is not there, throwing you into a whirlpool of one self-fulfilling prophecy after another.

While the rational side of your mind struggles to bring you to your senses, the state of denial clouds your better judgement, as you fight the uphill battle of trying to justify to yourself - and to those around you - the apparent rationality behind what is truly futile nonsense.

The mind knows it is wrong, but the heart soldiers on into the abyss. There is no hope for survival, or for even the faint sight of light at the end of a long corridor. And yet, the heart presses on.

In the distance a hand - the hand of the mind, of rationale - stretches forth to this intrepid sentimental fool, beckoning him to return to his senses. But another stronger hand pulls him away. It is the hand of the heart. It draws him further away from reality, taking him where the final, inevitable end is nothing but pain. Yet, he allows himself to be drawn to that end.

A painful end, no doubt. But that is the power of denial.