A shittier week I've never seen...

Here's the roll-call...

1. Monday: Tenant called, the living room couch has finally given way due to old age, the springs sticking out like an impaler's spear.
   
2. Tuesday: The girlfriend chewed me up for making last-minute changes in dinner plans.
3. Wednesday: Two weeks' leave of absence from climbing to recuperate from my near-death experience, and the result is a thoroughly dismal performance at the wall.
   
4. Thursday: My Broadband modem died on me (probably a lightning surge).
   
5. Friday: My bed collapsed (poor build quality, coupled with my penchant for rolling about in my sleep).
6. Saturday: I backed my car out of my driveway and straight into a 4WD parked on the side (it was late at night, and the bloody thing was black), and my bumper now needs a new coat of paint.
   
7. Sunday: My dog chewed up my driver's license (dropped it on the lawn the night before, and Trixie hasn't quite outgrown her teething stage and her inexplicable taste for plastic yet).

Anyone care to up the ante?

A near brush with Death

It is one thing to read or hear about the inherent dangers of extreme sports such as rock-climbing. It is quite another thing to personally experience it yourself, and yet be lucky enough to escape – not only with your life, but also with your limbs relatively intact.

I had such an experience over the recent weekend, during what should have been just another regular outdoor excursion to Batu Caves’ “Damai Wall”. While attempting to clip-in at the third bolt of a 6a route, my lack of jurisprudence in selecting a secure foothold caused my left foot to suddenly slip without warning. My belayer suffered severe rope-burn, and I free-fell 5-6 metres to the ground.

Upon hitting the ground with a thud, the first thing I instinctively did was to stand up. I guess it was my mind telling me to do confirm that yes, I was still alive.

By God’s grace, I was spared the very real possibilities of broken limbs, concussion or paralysis. The ground underfoot was grass on soft wet ground. I also miraculously landed on my most well-endowed and least damageable part of my body – my big fat ass. Of course, some degree of collateral damage was to be expected – I suffered lacerations on my left knee and right ankle, and I believe I may have baldy bruised my right ankle.

One of the veteran climbers on-site whom I recounted the event to, told me that I was, to date, the third casualty of that particular route. The first casualty slipped off the fourth bolt and crashed to the ground, but also escaped unscathed. The second casualty was the result of an overly-short rope length (he used a 50m rope on a route that was over 25m in height^*), causing him to plummet 10 metres to the ground, and landing him in hospital.

Some degree of reflection on increased safety awareness, be it during rock-climbing or daily activities in general, is called for here. But it is also a time for some degree of reflection on Life, to be thankful to God that I was spared the loss of it, and to appreciate all that it has to offer.

* The theoretical minimum required rope length is twice the height of the route. An additional 5m as a minimum is required for tie-in purposes.

Urban life? I crave the simple life

This week marks my second business trip to Norway (the first was with my previous company of employment). Norway ranks among the richest and most developed countries in the world, and was voted the Best Country To Live In for five (5) straight years.

One thing I have come to realise while being here for just a few days, is that a society's high degree of maturity does not necessarily equate to a high degree of urbanisation and development. Norway is at the forefront of a multitude of echnologies, ranging from biomedical to industrial technology.

Here I am in Mo I Rana, one of Northern Norway's industrial hubs. And yet, the residents - numbering just under 30,000 - lead a simple and straightforward life, free from the trappings of high-strung urban development so characteristic of Asian cities and industrialised regions.

Families still live in cosy cottages along the hillsides - not in high-rise, densely-populated condominiums. Weekends are spent taking the children to picnics, hikes in the forest, or even ski-ing - not to crowded and air-conditioned shopping malls, theme parks and arcades. Children complete their education, settle down with their high-school sweethearts and start their little families early - not get caught up with the paper-chasing, and the complicated, stressful and multi-geographical career paths that inevitably lead to multiple-failed relationships and settling down late, if even at all.

Asian urban life makes for a complicated life. I certainly do crave for the kind of simple yet developed lifestyle that the Norwegians here enjoy, while retaining the good parts of Asian culture. Regretfully, such a perfect balance does not yet exist in Asia, at least to the best of my knowledge. Where I come from, a comfortable life still requires the trappings of the paper-chase and high-strung corporate life. And all at the expense of a simple and happy life.

The natural cycle of life

A few days after I published my recent blog entry “On Ageing – Age is just a number”, I received comments from friends (both verbal and written), heaping praises on me that I had finally seen the light, that there is no need to rush through life as if there is no tomorrow, and that I should finally stop putting pressure on myself to get on with ‘the important things in life’.

Now, while I still hold onto the opinion that age is just a number, I believe some of my readers have misconstrued my words to mean “take your time with life, there is no rush”. On the contrary, if you read and understand carefully what I wrote, what I meant was “live life to the maximum, as if there is no tomorrow”.

I believe there is such a thing as a natural cycle of life. There are periods in life where you do certain things. And if, for any reason, you did not get down to doing those things during that period as allocated by Nature, then you bite the bullet and let it go. Attempting to “live out your youth” when you are already in the adult phase, is an invitation for disaster. You know why? Because it all starts to stack up and snowball on you. You drag your youthful lifestyle all the way into your physical adult life. And then when you have entered your thirties, you suddenly realise, “Oops, I have not actually gotten down to living my young adult life yet, because I was so caught up being blissfully youthful back in my twenties”. And them you struggle to live out your twenties life when you are already in your thirties. The result is, you end up playing a lifetime of catch-up, never actually living your natural age.

What I am basically saying is this: There is a time to be a kid. There is a time to be a teenager. There is a time to be a yuppie. There is a time to date. There is a time to get married. There is a time to have kids. There is a time to watch the kids grow up. There is a time to grow old. To live those phases or life too early or too late can be really jangling to the soul. You feel as if you are totally out of sync with your physical and psychological self.

You start to look around. You see your friends happily married with kids, and you wonder what the f**k you were doing in your mid-to-late twenties, blissfully squandering the years on youthful endeavours that, no doubt life-enriching, should really have been out the window when you were in your teens or in college. And then you take a good hard look at the last ten years, and realise that you have allowed your life to go on auto-cruise, and the boat has gone way off-course.

By all means, live your life to the full, experience all that life has to offer. But while you are doing all that, it is worthwhile to keep regular tabs on what phase of life you are in at the moment, and what are those basic things you should be doing. And if you have already missed out on any of those phases, perhaps it would do well for you to just let it go, move on and get with the programme.

On ageing

Age is just a number.

Close friends sometimes marvel at how, at my age, I still continue to flog my body with less-than human workout regimes as if I were still in my twenties – carrying a backpack with aluminium pallets up a steep hill, running on the treadmill with a steep incline, and doing pull-ups and dips with a dumbbell dangling from my ankles – and ending each workout session with drool from my lips, gasping for breath, and looking as if I were about to pass out.

I take mild offence whenever friends, relatives or the occasional passer-by tells me, “Ah, but you are not as young as you used to be, so you should not expect your body to perform the way it used to when you were in your twenties.” Now, I am not saying that I am blissfully denying and ignoring the unavoidable fact that I am physically ageing. But at the same time, allowing that fact to be the damper that retards my determination to push the envelope of my physical limits will allow and cause my body to atrophy and deteriorate according to my biological age. On the other hand, if I condition my body to consistently withstand the physical strains, it will remain at an above-average performance level belying its true biological age. Let the vast number of veteran marathon runners in their sixties, who leave the mediocre folks who are a full generation or two younger than them panting in the dust, bear testimony to this.

Ageing is not limited to the physical. A lot of it has to do with the mind, too. And by that, I mean attitude. By their mid-thirties, most people tend to stop exploring new horizons. By their sixties, many would have completely ceased even learning new things. They become risk-averse and unreceptive to new ideas, preferring to remain within their comfort zone and life-long habits. And because it results in laziness of the mind, those little grey cells stop working and start degenerating.

I marvel at the 18^th century mathematician Carl Frederick Gauss who, in his old age, kept his mind active by acquiring new languages just for the fun of it. It was his way of keeping his already razor-sharp mind – machined to perfection by years of research and analysis into calculus and algebra – active till the very last day of his illustrious life. Friends wonder why, at thirty-something, I bother to indulge in such meaningless and non value-added activities as reading mathematics books and studying archaic Chinese dialects. True, insofar as pragmatic life is concerned, they may be ‘non value-added’ activities. But to me, they definitely add value to my mind. I am keeping my mind active by allowing it to indulge in, and feed upon things that stimulate and interest me.

The girl in my life has often chided me for my occasionally acting very boyish, or even childish, especially in my expressions of love and affection. I still enjoy the simple joys of teenage-like love – pummeling with my girl’s fingers, the occasional pout, bear hugs and butterfly kisses. To me, these simple actions are a manifestation of how, at thirty-something, I still see love through rose-coloured glasses – cute and innocent, without the need for all the trappings of a jaded “been there, done that, so let’s just get on with it” adult life. A lot of the joy in love is spawned from having a pure and positive attitude towards it. People wonder why love seems to fade away and die out as married couples get older. The answer is simple: They have lost sight of what it once meant to be young and in love. For love is one thing that the harsh realities of adult life should not, and must not, be allowed to dampen and kill off.

Whether we like it or not, we are ageing by the moment. So, the way I see it, why make the journey all the more depressing by constantly reminding ourselves of it, and allowing it to dampen our mental and physical activities, when there is no reason why we cannot slow it down by constantly pushing the mental and physical envelope? It is not about being old – it is about thinking, acting and living young that keeps us truly young.

Age is just a number.

Smooth Jazz

Okay, it's confirmed – I am now a true believer in the Smooth Jazz genre. After two decades of muddling through various music genres - ranging from classical to Cantonese pop, before finally settling down to jazz – I think I have finally zeroed in on one that really stirs my loins.

I have been a jazz fan for more than decade now. It was Traditional Jazz, particularly the jazz trio ballads (piano, double bass, percussions) made famous by the Bill Evans Trio and his contemporaries, that started off my love for jazz. The soft gentle melody and mysterious chords from the piano intertwining with the pulsating staccato's from the double bass' strings, the swing beat from the drums and brushes lurking in the shadows of the music – all blending together to form a musical mosaic of romanticism.

I had always believed that traditional jazz’s trio ballads defined the pinnacle of what I sought in my quest for the music genre that I loved. However, a trip to SkyFM (http://www.sky.fm/smoothjazz/) convinced me otherwise. Therein, I found something in there that, I have to admit, the traditional jazz genre of the 1960's seemed to lack.

In just one 2-hour sitting, I had already singled out three tracks that I loved:

• Gregg Karukas – Looking Up
• Euge Groove – Just Feels Right
• Joe McBride & The Texas Rhythm Club – Oi Gata
  

If I had to choose a word to define that extra element, I would have to say it is sensuality. That perfect cocktail of harmonic mystery, romanticism and sensuality. The scenes conjured by these two sub-genres are contrasting. Traditional Jazz trio ballads transport me to a dimly-lit bar, soft cushions, a glass of port in my hand, and the woman I love sitting beside me in gentle embrace. Smooth Jazz transports me to a beach setting, the gentle breeze cascading upon the palm leaves, the waves lapping the shore, the sunset upon the horizon.

Smooth Jazz melodies tend to be more well-defined than their Traditional Jazz counterparts, their rhythms a combination of rock and Latin. Perhaps somewhere in that combination lies the middle ground I seek between the creativity of Traditional Jazz, the sentimentality of contemporary rock ballads, and the sensuality of the Latin beat.

Don't get me wrong. It is not that I no longer enjoy the Traditional Jazz trio setting where the seeds of my love for jazz were first planted. Also, not all Smooth Jazz music contains that perfect combination of harmonic creativity, mystery and sensuality that I seek. But as and when I stumble upon the occasional smooth jazz track that brings that added touch of sensuality, it evokes the kind of passions that pulsate through my veins. Without sounding titillating in any way, if ever there was a music genre that could truly be called music for making love, my vote would go to Smooth Jazz.

I suspect this is but a transient phase in my lifelong journey of music. In all probability, I will eventually settle down to a steady state where my love for jazz will straddle between both Traditional and Smooth – and which one I prefer will be temporal, and governed by my mood and surroundings.

Duets (Part#2)

Okay, I realise this post is quite unoriginal, given that I am plagiarising song lyrics off the Internet. However, since this particular song has gotten me captivated in Loveland for a full week now, I thought I would share it with my readers. The lyrics bear an uncanny parallel to my love-life at this moment. :)

Plus, I have thrown in a link to a 30-second clipping of the song for good measure (in order to listen to the full track, you have to sign up with Imeem.com... don't worry, it's free).

Till I Loved You
(Don Johnson & Barbra Streisand)

Nothing lived, nothing grew
Till I loved you
Every sky ever gray, never blue

You were my friend, good friend
And sometimes I would wonder
Could the one to save me
Possibly be you?

I was lost, I was blind
Till I loved you
Wouldn't see, couldn't find someone new

You were my friend, dear friend
I held you close to my heart
But I never thought that I'd feel the way I do
Until that certain moment when I loved you

And now I can't ever imagine
My living without you
It seems I spend all of my time
Thinking only about you

Once I dreamed in a dream I would find you
Never thought that the dream would come true
Until that curtain lifted, parted, drifted from you
Until that certain moment when I loved you

Until that certain moment
Certain moment when I loved you
When I loved you

Nothing lived, nothing grew
Till I loved you
Every sky ever gray, never blue
Empty days, empty nights
Sometimes I wonder
Could the one to save me possibly be you?

Ooooohh… I was lost, I was blind till I found you
Couldn't see, couldn't find someone new
You came along, stole my heart completely
And I thought, could the one to save me possibly be you?

http://orman.imeem.com/music/IctVIgaB/barbra_streisand_don_johnson_till_i_loved_you/

Duets

Friends who know me and my taste in music consider me a die-hard mainstream jazz/swing lover, with an occasional craving for classical music. However, I do actually listen to and enjoy contemporary pop. From time to time, there is the odd modern love song that I would hear on the radio, and it would capture my attention for that entire day.

Within this fairly broad genre of modern love songs, it is the male-female duets that take centre stage. I think it is the intertwining of the male and female voices in perfect harmony, crescendo-ing to the climax of the upper registers, as they passionately and unreservedly express their love for each other, that really stirs up the romantic mood in me.

Admittedly, not all love duets retain my attention and interest. The tune, the instrumental arrangement, the lyrics, the voices of the singers – they all have to blend perfectly into a kaleidoscope of musical colours, throwing me into a hitherto-unknown otherworld of romance.

Here (in rough chronological order of the first times I heard them) are my all-time favourites:

1. Cliff Richard & Olivia Newton-John “Suddenly”
2. Neil Diamond & Barbra Streisand “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore”
3. Andrea Bocelli & Celine Dion “The Prayer”
4. Gary Valenciano & Regine Velasquez “The Perfect Year (from the Broadway “Sunset Boulevard”)”
5. Russell Watson & Cleopatra Higgins “Someone Like You”
6. Danny Chan & Sally Yeh “等 (Waiting)”

Well, okay… I admit not all of them are what one would categorise as happy love songs (e.g. “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore”) – or even love songs (e.g. “The Prayer”), per se! A couple of them are slowly starting to fall out of my favour (I recently dropped Michael Jackson & Siedah Garrett’s “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You” from the above list, as I eventually found the lack of harmonic creativity rather stultifying to my romantic senses), as they are overwritten by new discoveries (which may not necessarily be new songs, but songs I newly-discovered).

Recently, I heard another lovely duet on Light Radio. It’s not a new song, but this was the first time I had heard it. The music and lyrics was captivating enough for me to seek out a recording of it (thanks a million for finding it for me, Kevin!). And listening to it always brings to mind that special woman present in my life today.

The song was “Till I Loved You” by Don Johnson and Barbra Streisand. It’s from Barbra Streisand’s title album.

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.