Life to the Full

Condomnation

2011-10-23T11:11:00.000+11:00

Maybe it's because I'm Asian.

We were down to the last roll of toilet paper in our house, so I ventured out to get some more. I live about five minutes from the nearest Coles, and so I headed there and bought a roll of 18 Kleenex rolls because they were on sale.

The moment I left Coles, my head started plotting my journey home. The main criteria for my path of choice? As little human contact as possible. So that I don't bump into anyone I know.

Why is that?

Imagine if you bumped into a friend at the supermarket. After the cursory greetings and small talk has dwindled, your bored mind starts to wander down to their shopping basket.

"Hmmm. Milk. Cereal. Bread. Eggs. Oh, instant noodles. And laundry powder." - and because we are all secretly insecure bitches inside - "Look -*snigger* - he bought Home Brand."

(I love Home Brand. Some of my best buys are from Home Brand.)

Then suddenly you see the toilet rolls. The slightest scrunch, discreet yet noticeable, appears on your face. Eew, he poops.

Your friend now notices your eyes trailing into their shopping basket, judging their private life. They see you imagining them on the toilet bowl, going about their big business. They try to close the door on you, but they can't because the door is in your mind.

There is a subtle nervous swing of the body and basket away from you, and they put on their best fake smile and then hurriedly say their goodbyes, quickly heading to the checkout counters, abandoning the rest of the things that they were actually there to buy.

At least that's how it goes on in my head.

I don't know what it is. Everybody poops. That's natural. Yet somehow to me, being found buying toilet paper is like, I don't know, being discovered buying condoms. By your strict Convent nun school teacher.

Karen tells me that the Australian men here buy their condoms with a swagger. Yup, they will think, the smug smile on their faces obvious as they looked around the shop and then at the cashier, I am getting some. Look at me, everyone, I am getting laid.

Where as if I were to buy condoms, I think I'd be more like, I'm sorry I'm having sex, unknown checkout chick. Please don't judge me. Come on credit card, swipe, swipe, swipe! No, screw the plastic bag, oh wait a minute, double bag it!

(Okay, so that's actually not true. I won't actually be using my credit card at all. What, you'd think I'd leave an electronic trace of me buying condoms?)

Random Memories: Eight Years Old

I'm not sure if you've experienced this as a child, when your parents send you into the shops to get the groceries?

I mean, day-to-day items are fine, right, but, you know, certain other things are not.

I remember going into the local convenience store in our Taman (suburb)and amongst the other things I was sent to get, were some urm, sanitary pads.

I remember the Indian checkout auntie glaring at me when she picked up the box of Sanitas - "Oi, boy, you no shame ar you, buying all these things?"

I looked at her blankly, not quite understanding what there was to be ashamed of. I had no idea what were in the boxes, or why I should be embarrassed about the contents.

**********************************

And then there was the time when I was buying condoms from a 7-Eleven in Malaysia as a medical student for a tutorial on Sexual Health. I was with a guy friend and my sister then, and I nervously eyed the selection on display before choosing a few, hurriedly putting them on the counter.

The tudunged (head-scarfed) Malay girl behind the counter stared at the condoms first and then blinked at me incredulously for awhile, before picking them up like they had AIDS, to swipe the barcodes.

"Eee... jijiklah..." (Eew... that's gross) she said, just loud enough for the people in the next street to hear.

Her service with a scowl said it all. Rapist.

Now you see why I am scarred?

Sunday Night Stragglers

2011-10-03T20:37:00.002+11:00

We were all out to see C tonight at a Veludo's in St Kilda. I arrived too late to witness the set as I was coming in from work, but we hung around and downed some drinks while listening to the artist he was opening for.

We walked out into the pleasant Sunday night on Acland Street and were deciding where to go next.

Karen suggested Claypots, a seafood restaurant. There was the slightest of hesitations amongst the six guys there, as the conservative China man in all of us went "Really ah? Another expensive dinner ah?"

We trudged to the restaurant, and C and a few others peeled off to put their instruments away. M and Karen and I went ahead of them into Claypots.

Claypots was an interesting restaurant made up of two shophouses - one shop housed the restaurant proper while the other was a bar/waiting area with cushioned benches lining two sides of the room.

I was surprised as my door was opened for me, but even more surprised when I saw the man holding a clarinet. A drum was set up in the small space next to him, and a piano abutted the bar.

We were told that there would be a twenty minute wait because there were seven of us, and so we sat in the waiting area. Secretly, I was quite hungry and a little impatient.

I sat down next to Karen, and then the magic happened.

The Magicians

Allow me to describe the magicians. The clarinetist had matted grey hair, with a Charlie Chaplinesque moustache and was almost as slim as the instrument he held in his hand. The drummer looked like a wise old principal - his half-moon glasses dangling precariously over his doting grandfatherly face. The pianist and main singer was a lady with a smoky voice who reminded me of a female Rod Stewart. Only more talented.

They all looked in their sixties or seventies and we thought they had nothing to say to us. Boy, were we proven wrong.

They were such a tight three piece band - the clarinetist seemed to have the lungs of an Olympic swimmer as his fingers danced along his instrument, sounding out celestial notes; the drummer hit his snare, top hat and cowbell with the assurance and fluency that bordered on arrogance, and the combined dexterity of the pianist's finger and her distinctive husky voice stirred something in our souls that night.

The rest of the gang finally joined us and we all sat on the benches, tapping our feet and slapping our thighs to the blues/swing music that was permeating the bar. The magicians then each took their turn to wow us with their tricks - they all broke into individual solos in the middle of their songs. The drummer in particular was jaw-droppingly impressive. Each confident strike against the many clangs and crashes of his drum set resonated something almost primal in us - their captive audience that night.

We were so mesmerised that when our waiter came to told us our table was ready, we remained glued to our benches, waiting for the music to finish.

The Good, The Better And The Ugly

We reluctantly left the waiting area into the restaurant, and can we just say - the food was mind-blowing as well. We had a choice wine with our fusion-style seafood - the chilli crab was really delicious and the shell surprisingly soft, the laksa-styled Malay seafood claypot was good to the last drop and the walnut-crusted duckfish was the ugliest, largest, most satisfying (I'm running out of superlatives here) fish I've eaten in a while.

Chilli crab and mussels.
And expectant hungry boy.

Big Fish. Small Fist.

Here's how much he loved the fish.

The Aftermath.

J summarised it best when he said 'This meal is going to haunt me for the rest of the week.'

Punctuate that with a fine wine and company that were not beyond making grotesque fish-eyeball related jokes and you had the ingredients for a memorable night.

We walked away from the restaurant, contented and buzzing from dinner. We walked past the waiting room, now filled with after-dinner guests, for one last hurrah from the jazz band, of course:

Here's to the Sunday night stragglers. What a night it was!

Caring. Intensively.

2011-09-28T09:37:00.001+10:00

He reminds the doctor of Stephen Hawking, his head leaning unsupported against the large chair. They were sitting him out of bed to avoid pressure sores.

He was a graphic designer before all this happened. Ten months of inexplicable, progressive weakness had brought him to a neurologist in country Victoria who decided he needed an MRI.

It was the radiologist who picked up on the MRI scanner that this gentleman was so weak he was not supporting his airway, and who knows how long he was obstructing for before they found him and put a tube down his throat and hooked him up to a breathing machine.

He had been in intensive care for many days now, his breathing dependent on the ventilator working faithfully next to him. A tracheostomy tube sticks out of his neck awkwardly, and the rest of his body is like a roadmap with lines sticking out from his neck, nose, wrists and bladder, translating signs of life into measurable numbers.

The doctor looks at him and all he can see is his patient. He sees the diagnoses that is yet to be made, he sees the tests that need to be ordered, he reads the numbers on his charts that tell him the patient does not have a fever, that his blood pressure was holding and that his blood counts were all normal.

The patient was quite drowsy for the first few days, but he was more awake now. In a terrible way, he was alive, yes, but he was being kept alive. The tracheostomy tube keeps his lungs working, his nutrition is delivered by a nasogastric tube going into his stomach, his bladder drains into a bag without him having to stand up in a toilet. He is unable to communicate because of the tracheostomy tube - breathing takes priority over speaking for now.

He is understandably frustrated, a prisoner to the illness keeping him here, but instead of bars, there are hospital curtains and railed beds; instead of prison wardens there are the watchful doctors and nurses. He has pulled out his nasogastric tube countless times in protest, much to their dismay.

********************************

The doctors and nurses have tried to be creative in helping him communicate. There is an electronic board with all the letters of the alphabet, and objects ('Doctor', 'Nurse', 'Toilet') and also a small whiteboard and marker when the electronic fails.

The gaggle of doctors stood over him patiently yesterday evening as he looked like he was desperately trying to communicate something to them.

'Count. My. Head. 1. 2. 3. 4.' was the repeated message after half an hour, almost eerie in its mystery.

The doctors tried to probe for a meaning, but the patient finally dismisses them with a roll of his eyes and a wave of his hand when he realised he wasn't getting through to them. It soon became apparent to the doctors that he was confused, and so they started him on some anti-confusion medications.

*********************************

"He's pulled out his nasogastric tube while I was at dinner," says the nurse, exasperated.

It was a Sunday evening. Big band music crooned gently from the radio that they had placed next to him to drown out the monotonous beeps and bells of the machines surrounding him. The morning nurses had reported that he seemed less confused to them today.

The doctor walks up to him and says "Look, Michael, I know that it is a terrible thing to have that tube put into your nose and down the back of your throat, but while you're on this tracheostomy tube, there's no other way of getting some food into you. Do you understand?"

Michael's eyes pulled up almost defiantly at him. He motions for the electronic board.

"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. I. C. O. S. T." came the message from his weakened arms.

The doctor is puzzled by this almost existential question. "I'm sorry Michael, how much do you cost? As in how much does it cost to keep you alive? Well, you are in intensive care, Michael, and it is quite exp..."

No, he shakes his head.

"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. U. C. O. S. T."

He taps on the 'Doctor' button.

"Oh, how much do I cost? Well. Michael," the doctor starts, uncertain how to answer him, "The government pays for me to look af..."

Michael starts pointing to himself and then to the doctor.

"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. U. C. O. S. T." Point. Point.

The doctor thinks he is still a little confused, and sighs - "I'm sorry Michael, I don't quite understand what you mean. I know it's fr...."

Suddenly it dawns upon the doctor what Michael was trying to say, and he breaks into a smile.

He turns to the nurse and says, "Sister, I am not sure if I am reading this correctly, but I think that Michael here is trying to bribe me."

Michael's face bursts into a large smile, nodding he had guessed right. The nurse bursts out into laughter and the doctor is taken aback by this unexpected joke.

"Well, Michael, I don't think you can afford him really," chirped the nurse, mock-chidingly.

Something shifted in the air that evening. The doctor notices out of the corner of his eyes the subtle movement of Michael's foot tapping along to the rhythm of the big band swing. The nurse even managed a little jiggle to the music as she walked past him, causing him to smile widely again.

Although his face scrunched a little from the discomfort, there was minimal resistance from Michael this time as the doctor fed the tube through his nose again.

The doctor waits for the nurse to leave, looks both ways and then leans down to Michael, and whispers conspiratorily into his ear - "For 50 dollars, I will break you out of this joint. How about that?"

Michael gasps a silent chuckle, and nods enthusiastically. For a few minutes, he feels human again.

The Plane Heard Around The World

2011-09-11T14:00:00.000+10:00

I was at work yesterday, and a big part of our work actually involves documentation. A few times during the day, many workers - be they doctors, nurses, ward clerks or visiting policemen - would write down the date, and suddenly reel a little in realisation, almost all eerily saying the exact same thing -

'Oh, has it been ten years already?'

September 11 2001. A day forever etched into our collective memories, as citizens of the world.

Whether American, Australian or Malaysian or wherever it is we call home, everyone remembers where they were the day the two planes crashed into The Twin Towers.

My consultant remembers how he had just welcomed his newborn son into the world a week ago to the day. He knew that something was wrong when he switched on the television that morning and every single channel was showing the same thing.

Some of us were kids when it happened. A policeman remarked how he was in Year 8 (fourteen) when it happened, and woke up oblivious to how the world had changed as he slept, but knew something was wrong when he heard all his classmates talking about the 'terrorists'.

We were sitting at home that day, the family watching TV over dinner. Dad was in charge of the remote control and was lazily surfing the channels on our satellite TV when he stopped on CNN. We watched curiously as there was breaking news about how a plane had accidentally flown into one of the Twin Towers in New York.

We all sat up, curious window onlookers of what was happening halfway around the world from us. We had assumed all we were seeing was some misguided pilot who had flown a little too low, into the path of a tall building. An unfortunate accident.

We were still trying to process what we were seeing from the cameras trained upon The Twin Towers, when the second plane hit.

We couldn't believe our eyes, and curiosity gave way to fear as it dawned upon us that what we were seeing was no accident.

We continued watching, mouths wide open, as the buildings started to collapse slowly. The images of people jumping off the buildings or the gray cloudstorm of destruction engulfing the fleeing New Yorkers below will be forever etched in my memory.

Everyone at work remarked how surreal it was - as if they were watching a movie.

I remember my little sister, sixteen then, watching the TV, her fearful tears streaming as the carnage unfolded before us, helpless witnesses to a day that changed the world forever.

Hope and Security seemed to crumble along with the two towers. It seemed that today, some ten years ago, the bad guys had won.

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

2011-09-09T09:23:00.008+10:00

One of my favourite habits as a young teenager before afternoon school session started was to lounge around the house in the morning reading the newspapers over breakfast.

We used to have the New Straits Times (NST) delivered daily to our doorstep. It was the more serious of the available newspapers in Malaysia, kind of like The Age or The Australian, and about the same layout and size.

There is something nostalgic about the feel of the newspaper spread in your hands - the rustling noise as you turn the pages or fold it over your lap, the way your thumbs darken by the ink rubbing off on your hands and, of course, that oh-so-satisfying crackling noise it makes as you snap-straighten the paper.

Reading the newspapers was a habit we picked up from Dad. It was a morning ritual for him - Dad in his wheelchair, newspaper in hand, breakfast at arms' length. He would always be reading the main news while we picked up the lifestyle and sports sections.

One day, out of nowhere, Dad made this stunning observation of our newspaper reading habits.

'You boys ah! Only read comics and stories about people being raped or sex stories only! Read something else lah!'

I glanced up slowly from my newspaper with a disinterested Yeah, whatever, Da-a-ad look but deep down I was like Shit! He's got us figured out! Quick! Read something important like, uh, the financial news!

I must say it was a scarily accurate description about what we were actually reading in the newspapers, but hey, what would you expect from an apathetic teenager whose only concern were his raging hormones and his second childhood?

****************************

The comics were the only reasons for newspapers to exist, as far as we were concerned. Sometimes I wish we could just throw away the rest of the newspaper, or that it was just one big comic newspaper.

I had a peculiar habit when it came to reading my comics. After familiarising myself with the comics in the NST through the years, I would always read what I thought were the less-funny comics first and saving the funny ones for the last. So my eyes would travel in a rehearsed way, first over Peanuts, Ferd'nand, Blondie, Bringing Up Father and a few others, before finishing up with Baby Blues and The World of Lily Wong.

Sunday was always our favourite newspaper day because it meant an entire pull-out of comics - all in colour! Luxury!

We switched over to The Star a few years ago, a more compact, easy read (think Herald Sun, but classier) and I think they have a better collection of comics, epitomised by the one I will always save for last:

Random Memories: Twenty Two Years Old

I remember distinctly the trip to the hospital for the MRI – I was sitting outside the MRI room, and all my personal belongings which would interfere with the functioning of the MRI machine were taken away from me (apart from my magnetic personality).

The waiting area for the MRI had all the cheer of your typical hospital – immaculately white walls, the token potted plant (which had the effect of brightening up the place like a weed in a graveyard), and the severely expired magazines which sat on the single table next to the mass of waiting chairs.

One warm soul however, had brought an item of hope into that reading table – there was a scrapbook filled with the eternally optimistic comic Rose is Rose cut out from the weekend editions of the local newspaper.

It looked to be a labour of love, as it must have taken someone months to years of patience to compile it and to leave this little gesture in the hospital to cheer the hearts of worried patients.

I read it with a thankful heart, discovering love and hope in this time of uncertainty.

Sugar. Honey. Honey.

2011-08-25T13:54:00.005+10:00

We were gathered around the table last week for our usual Thursday night gathering, when the subject of comic books came up. Our faces lit up with recognition as we named some of our favourite comics - the all-American sweetheart Archie and his motley crew of friends, the Beano comics headlined by Dennis the Menace and his sidekick dog Gnasher, Dandy comics with Bananaman! and so forth.

Comic books were a constant companion to us - we read them under the blanket with torchlights, or on our toilet bowls or sprawled out over our couches on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Uncle R was saying how he wished he had kept his comics from last time, because they would be worth a mint now. I thought about my well-loved Archie collection and about how brown, creased and dog-eared they all were from repetitive reading and wonder about how much they were worth. Perhaps to an old newspaper vendor.

If you go up to my bedroom in Malaysia, you will actually find a row of translated-into-Malay Japanese comics like Slam Dunk and Doraemon and some tattered Archies.

Call it a refusal to grow up, but whenever I am home on holidays, it's always fun to just reach out for a comic, and then lie down to read it.

For the brief few moments before sleep claims me, I can escape this world into one where the American redhead tries to figure out his love triangle between the rich brunette or the homely blonde; where the Japanese redheaded rebel finds his place on the basketball court and a little Japanese boy's everyday problems are solved by a futuristic cat with wonderful marvels from his fourth-dimension pocket.

Random Memories: Nine Years Old

The cupboard stands before him in his Auntie's house, towering twice the height of his nine-year-old self. Sitting among the many decorative paraphernalia from their family's various trips overseas were rows of books neatly lined up - detective stories, choose-your-own adventure series and an entire row filled with Archies.

Double Digests, Single Digests, Betty And Veronica, Lil' Archie, Jughead - an entire bookshelf row of Archies.

He thinks about the four or five copies he had at home and how he had read them so often he knew them by heart. At RM 5.95 for a Single Digest, these were luxuries his family could ill-afford.

He is only allowed to read the comics when he is there, and never dared to ask if he could borrow one home. The visits are often not long enough for him to get through a single digest.

Take one home, the Little Lawyer whispers.

But that's stealing! the Sunday School voice says.

They won't notice it's gone, and then, you can put it back the next time you're here. Little Lawyer was pretty convincing.

The two voices bickered for awhile. His eyes trailed over the toy cars from the Netherlands, the intricate fans from China and the kimono-ed dolls from Japan, carrying echoes of foreign lands, which in his nine year old mind, he will never be able to visit.

He makes up his heart and he reaches for two Archies, and, quickly peering over his shoulder, he stuffs two of the books into his gawdy yellow button-up shirt.

He turns around and his heart stops in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his auntie in the distance, standing at the bottom of the staircase leading into the landing, a silent witness to his brazen theft.

Head bowed, he quickly walks past his auntie, thinking magically somehow that if he pretends not to see her, then she wouldn't be able to see him.

He walks to the couch downstairs and plops down next to his Mum. His bowed head stares at the telltale boxy corners angling from his too-small shirt, poking directly into his nine-year old conscience.

His auntie walks slowly down the second flight of stairs, deliberating how best to deal with this situation.

She starts of by continuing a conversation with her sister - his mother, as if nothing had happened. He is relieved. Maybe she didn't notice.

Just as they were standing to leave a few minutes later, his auntie looks at him and says, 'Maybe you'd like to return me the comics before you go.'

His Mum turns to him -'What comics?'- initially quizzically and then with horror as it dawns upon her what he had done. He unbuttons his top buttons and pulls out the comics one by one, his ears and cheeks burning with shame. He half expects the ear-twist or slap but it never comes.

Instead he follows her sheepishly to the car, and she is strangely quiet. It is only when the doors are closed that she turns around and raps him smartly on the knees.

'Why did you do that, hah? Haven't I taught you better than that! You bring shame to the family, you know!'

She is furious, and continues to lecture him on how stealing is wrong and how he should be ashamed of himself. The drive home is a tempestuous one. 'If you wanted one, just ask and then we will buy for you lah!'

He knows she is just saying it to placate him. He knew comic books, amongst other luxuries, were never going to be a priority in this household. Just for once he wished that he could have something when he wanted it. Through his tears, he yells out in exasperation, 'Liar! As if!'

They are quiet for the rest of the drive home, each still seething from guilt and shame.

He is surprised when she turns into the shop houses on the way home. She stops outside the local stationary shop in his Taman (suburb) which sold the comics.

'Nah,' she hands him a red ten-ringgit note. 'Go get your Archie,' she says quietly.

He sits there stunned for a moment, unsure how to react.

He slowly reaches for the note and manages a thanks mum, before bursting out of the car and racing up the steps to buy his comic book.

Close Encounters in Melbourne

2011-07-24T04:30:00.004+10:00

Had a great catch up with a friend tonight who was here from NSW for a conference. Unfortunately, he had a busy schedule and we could only catch up around midnight, so I brought him to Oldtown Kopitiam in QV.

I had not heard from him for about eight years now, so it was good to see where life had taken us and how we had both grown up in ourselves and our relationships as well.

At around 1 am we decided to go for a spontaneous tour of the city of Melbourne. It was wonderful walking in the city in Saturday twilight, and I had forgotten how magical the city could be at night.

We gazed up at the imposing fluorescent-lit cathedrals, dodged the drunken late night revellers and walked past the post-party queues at KFC. There was a busking band playing Latin music on Swanston Street and a group of people had started spontaneously dancing along.

I showed him Fed Square and Flinders St station, and we saw the upside down neon ice-cream cone that was the National Arts Centre in the distance.

I walked him back to the hotel, and then we said our goodbyes, promising to catch up again soon(er than the eight years it had taken us to catch up this time).

As I turned the corner away from the hotel, I lifted up the hood of my jacket over my head. I exhaled - hands in both pockets - and then steeled myself to take on the treacherous road home through Melbourne's CBD.

******************************

You must be thinking, what on earth are you talking about, Heng Khuen? Melbourne's a safe city!

So I thought until I heard this story a couple of weeks ago where a travelling friend-of-a-friend's was mugged by two guys in front of the State Library while he had gone to get some kebabs from Stalactites.

All he wanted was some supper, and he ended up $500 poorer (he had only brought cash for his short trip) and a Welcome-to-Melbourne, Please-Come-Again bruise to his left eye while trying to fight off his assailants.

And so it was with this story fresh in my mind that I quickly paced through the streets of Melbourne by night. I kept to the brightly lit areas, tried to stay where there were crowds, and sussed out whoever was walking my way. I followed my gut instinct - couples are usually safe, groups of friends with at least one girl in it are safe and girls are safe. Beware the lone male or a group of two.

I had made it past Russell Street, walked down Bourke, and made my way past the Latin buskers on the opposite side of Swanston Street. It was a wonderfully festive atmosphere - the music was infectious and the dancing group had now increased three-fold.

I afforded myself a little smile at how people were having a great time enjoying Melbourne on this beautiful Saturday night. The air was carefree and footloose.

It was at this exact moment when I approached the Swanston St Church of Christ on a quiet corner of Little Lonsdale Street.

I caught the eye of this big Caucasian guy loitering there with who I assumed was his girlfriend. It took me all of two seconds to realize that his 'girlfriend' was actually a skinny male with a hood over his head. My guard, which had been let down just a second ago, leapt up immediately.

My Spidey senses screamed out as the fat guy made a nod in my direction, and the both of them suddenly sprung from their relaxed positions and walked purposefully towards me. I picked up my pace, leapt onto the kerb and walked as fast as I could towards the nearest people about twenty metres in front of me.

I was about an arm's length away from them, and heard the skinny one say 'Damn, a jumper,' whatever that meant, but I sure as hell didn't hang around to ask.

I waited nervously on the corner of La Trobe St, my heart racing, looking out of the corner of my eyes to see if they had followed me. Luckily for me, their pursuit had ended as quickly as it had begun.

It wasn't until I got home when I could finally breathe a sigh of relief again; hearing the door lock behind me, keeping the city at bay for one more night.

Whether true or perceived, I must say this encounter has shaken me. I'd like to believe that it was not mere coincidence but Providence that I had heard the story the other day, and had been more vigilant tonight.

A split second too late, and this story may have very well ended differently.

Kung Fu Panda 2: A Movie of Awesomeness!

2011-07-12T16:13:00.003+10:00

Went with Karen to watch my second favoritest movie of the year after X-Men: First Class - the irrepressible Jack Black reprising his role in Kung Fu Panda 2. This was a fun-filled movie for the whole family, with laugh out loud comedy and also touching scenes that brought you to the brink of tears.

(Okay, so I cried. Uncontrollably.)

(Like a real man.)

It was one of the better 3D experiences I've had this year as well - breathtaking scenery, in-your-face action and a clever use of artistry to display flashback scenes.

I have never heard Karen belly-laugh so frequently at a movie, which is a good indication of how good it was!

Go watch it in the cinema!

Random Memories: Fourteen Years Old - Not The Karate Kid (aka Wax On, Face Off)

It was a very exciting Saturday in my school. It was the inter-school Interact Club meeting, and we know that all boys join the Interact Club for only one reason - a chance to meet girls!

Being an all-boys school meant that girls were a rare treat (okay, so we had the sixth form girls, but they were four years ahead of me at that time, and I didn't have the necessary cougar-taming skills required back then).

We were all dressed in our whitest shoes, our olive-greenest trousers and carried our winningest smiles that day.

It was an amazing day - we were split up into groups for discussions, and I was finally in a classroom with - gasp - girls! I was so excited I almost forgot to breathe.

The day was going well, with me talking to my friends trying to look important while peering out of the corner of my eye to see if a girl was checking out my extra olive green pants today.

I was walking up the stairs with a friend out of the canteen during a break, when I noticed two sky blue-pinafore uniformed girls approaching. This was my chance to impress! I talked a little louder and gesticulated a little more with my hands, not noticing the step as I tripped over it and landed right on. my. ass.

My friend stood over me, just as surprised as I was. The girls had stopped to look. It took me all of two seconds to recover from my stunned surprise/embarrassment and so I decided to do the most cool thing I knew then - do a judo leap from my supine position up to a standing position, and then walk away as the girls stared in awe and clapped in wonder.

Clap, I tell you!

So with all my years of judo training, I...oh wait a minute. I have never had any judo training. In fact, I've never had any kind of training. Not even brain training.

Which would explain why my attempts to get up looked something like a miserable tortoise trying to get back on all fours again after falling onto its shell.

My friend stood over me as my legs were flailing in the air trying to make some contact with the ground. His concerned look was somewhere between "What the hell are you trying to do, Heng Khuen?" and "Oh my gosh! He's having a seizure! Someone grab a spoon to ram into his mouth before he bites his tongue!"

It was only by the fourth spoon did I finally decide that my kung-fu leap back to coolness was a stupid idea, and I finally stopped kicking around like I was possessed. I calmly stood up, dusted my self off, gave the step my best disapproving "You've won the battle, but I will win the war!" look, and then walked off past the two giggling girls, my head held high, my friend laughing as he caught up with me.

I certainly taught that step a lesson, and I am sure it will think twice before tripping the next fat fourteen-year-old boy that crossed its path.

Ah, my mortal enemy. We meet again.

Voices In Harmony

2011-06-17T18:04:00.001+10:00

What is it about singing that moves us? What is it about putting words together with music that resonates deeply within our soul? We sing when we are happy, we sing to mourn, we sing in our showers, we sing through our tears after a break-up.

My brother and I have (unwisely) been taking singing lessons for the past week. It has been really interesting standing before our singing teacher, who could pick up immediately what was wrong with our singing.

The main problem, she says, is the fact that we were singing. Our singing should be outlawed, she said. We should be arrested by the Singing Police and locked up in a soundproof prison. She then ran away screaming with her hands over her ears, never turning to look back at our dejected faces.

Hahaha!

I remember one of the things I was doing while pretending to be oozing mystery as a teenager on my school bus was that I would be softly singing to myself at the back of the bus.

"Oi, Heng Khuen!" came the jeering voice of the St John's boy behind me. "Trying to sing ah? Afterwards the snow come then you know!"

Often in Malaysia, when we are trying to insult someone's singing, we say that their singing, like the frogs', would bring the rain. This insult brought it to a whole new level. Bastard!

Back to the singing lessons. She taught us how to warm up our voices by running through the scales while blubbering our lips. We sounded like singing motorboats....

*leaves his blog writing to write his To-Do List: Make A Children's Programme About Singing Motorboats. ABC Kids will love it!*

.... and then we went through other vocal exercises. What was interesting was seeing how our voices started out thin and strained, and by the end of one lesson, she made it a lot more rich and resonant, surprisingly. Can't wait to see what the other lessons will bring!

Random Memories: Fourteen Years Old

One of the things of having a brother two years older than you going to the same school with you are the inevitable comparisons.

My brother was often labelled a little eccentric while I was the sensible younger one. Don't get me wrong, I love my brother as he is and I wouldn't want him any other way. When you are an awkward teenager growing up, however, the temptation was always to distance yourself from your brother at school.

This distance carried on at home as well, and it was often difficult being two different individuals under the same roof, which often led to arguments and fights.

One night, however, I was standing at the study room door, while he was sitting down on the swivel chair. He started singing a church song, and I added in the harmony. Our fraternal voices blended together in golden accord, and I must say, there was a little bromance right there.

We tried a few more songs in simple harmony, and there was something inexlicably bonding about singing with your brother. As we grew older though, I find our voices became a little more discordant.

Hopefully these singing lessons will help us rediscover a little lost love.

I'm the thin one. of the group, of course. With the feminine shirt.

In Justice

2011-06-14T03:07:00.001+10:00

I walk into the room and she is on the phone with her partner. She just wanted to hear his voice, to know that he was okay, and the kids were okay. Because right now, she wasn't okay.

I catch traces of her voice '...turn off ventilator...' '... out in the sun...' '...it was expected, but still...'

I take my seat next to her and try to be unobtrusive.

'Everything okay?' I finally ask when she puts down the phone.

'No, everything's not okay,' she says. 'My friend's sister died today.'

I offer my surprised condolences. How old was she?

'39. She had porphyria, but like a really severe attack, you know? They did everything they could at the A for her - they kept her in ICU, she had continuous immunoglobulin infusions, they even rang experts in Europe for advise but no one could offer any answers.'

'They turned off her ventilator today at 1 pm. I knew it was coming, but still...'

Her voice drifts off.

'My friend asked me if I could be somewhere nice at 1 pm, just for her sake. So at 1 pm, I just walked out of here for awhile, you know? And just as I stepped out, the sun came out.'

Did she have any children?

'She had two kids, 4 and 6.'

The mention of kids unlocked the floodgates.

She pulls off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose and allows herself a small cry.

'It's just not fair, y'know? She was a doctor, she was such a bright, lively character... Some dickheads live to be a fucking hundred, and...' she breaks down. 'It just isn't fair,' she protests.

I put my hand on her, and learning from an auntie who did the same for me during my father's death, said absolutely nothing.

She sniffs her tears dry and years of Emergency Medicine training takes over as she suddenly snaps out of it. 'You know, I'll be alright. That's just life, isn't it?'

She straightens out the pile of paperwork before her and forces her pen to start writing the patient's notes again. There was very little room for proper grieving at work in an Emergency Department.

******************************************

There is great injustice in this world, naturally. All of us intuitively react against it - as kids we will go 'That's not fair!' or 'That's cheating!' without ever needing to be taught.

I think about this fallen world, filled with injustice, and about how if there wasn't the promise of a new heaven and a new earth, all this would be meaningless.

And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death' or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” Revelation 21:3-4

Get A Haircut

2011-06-10T19:34:00.122+10:00

BSS | Straight Razor from Bruton Stroube Studios on Vimeo.

Karen showed me this video from the same guys that brought you Breakfast Interrupted.

It also got me thinking about that wonderful scene from Gran Torino.

Indeed, it is a shame that we are losing our old ways. There are some shops in Malaysia where you get a number by vending machine, and then a silent hairdresser efficiently snips away your hair in under ten minutes. No idle chatter, no friendship. Just business.

Whenever I am home in Malaysia, I will always visit good ol' Johnny for my haircut. It may be cheap and tellingly so, but at least the trip is interesting.

Random Memories: Haircut through the Years Part 2

I remember when Dad lost his ability to walk, the church were swift and eager to help us through our first few difficult years. A member who owned a music store donated a box full of music cassettes to us, while the church donated a RM400 exercise bicycle to my father for his initial physiotherapy needs.

One of the many helpful aunties in the church decided that she would ease our financial burdens by giving the family a haircut. Her intentions were noble, God bless her soul, but the outcomes were often... interesting.

She would bring her hairdressing gear to our house - a pair of sharp stainless-steel scissors and a somewhat interesting manual razor. This razor was made out of plastic and shaped like a clam. You could separate the two halves of the clam and then insert a razor at either end, depending on whether you wanted a rougher shave or a finer shave.

Instead of a cloth thrown around our necks to keep away stray hairs from our collar, we improvised instead by cutting a hole in the middle of a newspaper foldout, and fitting it around our heads.

Inevitably all our haircuts would end up looking like this:


Minus the funky earrings, of course

One more reason why I have no illusions of having expensive haircuts.

****************************

There were always murmurs among married women that you should never let women hairdressers touch your husband's head. Too many stories about how Mrs X's husband ran away with the hairdresser after she 'put a spell' over his head. I suspect that the head was not all they were touching, to be honest.

Fuelled by both raging adolescent hormones and curiosity, I made my way up the stairs to one of the dodgy looking hairdressers in my Taman (suburb) one day, my heart pounding with each step that I took up the stairs.

I got an enticing lady, all right. All fifty-five years of her. Curly grey haired and gruff, her sleeveless underarm dingle-dangles (that's a term I learnt from Karen) wobbling as she snipped away at my hair.

It was an ultimately anti-climatic moment in my teenage life, but hey, it wasn't a half bad haircut.

*******************************

I think most of my later years before I ended up with Johnny were spent mostly at Indian barbers.

If you wanted old school, this was old school, man. Swivelling barber chairs, chequered floors, candy stripe out the front. The works.

The Indian barbers themselves were pretty adept with the electric razor and scissors. Most of the time, however, everyone who walked in for a haircut (inevitably men) would always walk out with the same hairstyle - a buzz cut to the sides and back, and short at the top.

Haircuts at the Indian barber would set you back by RM10. Added to that value for your money was the wonderful 'head cracking' service at the end of it. The barber suddenly turns amateur chiropractor - steadying your head at the top and at your chin with both his hands, he twists it one way and then the other to give a satisying 'crack' as if you were cracking your knuckles.

Except that, you know, it was the spine of your neck.

That's us Malaysians, living on the edge of danger - walk in for a haircut, and a 5% chance of paraplegia.

Edward Barberhands

2011-05-20T02:18:00.005+10:00

"Please," she says. "Try it! You won't know unless you try it!"

"Heh," I smile a Maybe but my heart actually says Nah.

My fiancee is trying to convince me to get my hair cut at a proper hairdressers.

There is a ten dollar barber shop near the city which I have always frequented since I was a student. Which I still visit, much to Karen's dismay. Prices have crept up as high as $13.95 at one stage, but fierce competition has kept the haircuts at a very reasonable ten dollars for the past two years.

Walking in to the barber shop is always a roulette. In my case, I may either walk out looking like a frumpy twelve year old schoolboy about to be beaten up, or some semblance of a dashing thirty one year old adult. Usually it's the former.

There is no luxury of choosing your favourite barber in a ten dollar shop.

It is a roll of the dice - do I get the Cypriate barber today who knows only one hairstyle for all his male clients (who also somehow eerily has the same hairstyle - which makes you wonder, who the heck cut his hair?) or do I get that Vietnamese lady who somehow understands my oddly-shaped head? Maybe it will be the Iranian woman who oozes of teenage angst, chewing her gum apathetically while chopping away with disinterest at my hair?

I remember my final year of medical school, and how I needed to look decent for two reasons - I was hosting a wedding for a couple who were good friends of mine and I had my final graduation. Important times. The girl who the shop deemed equal to this monumental task looked like she was sixteen; the way she used her scissors had undercurrents of criminal intent.

Needless to say, her untrained fingers took too much off one side, which she then had to correct on the other side and by the end of it, I looked like I was signing up to join the army. "Well," she says, rubbing as much gel as she humanly could to disguise her error, "at least you look interesting," she said, her face betraying the slightest of cringes.

It was only after two blocks and a whole lot of curious stares when I noticed the clump of hair she had neglected to brush off my left cheek, making me look like I was growing something cancerous (or groovy).

Today's result? Somewhere in the middle.

Maybe I should take Karen's advice and go to a proper hairdressers to get myself a 35 dollar Korean-teenage-heartthrob-look-alike haircut.

Nah.

Random Memories: Haircuts Through The Years Part 1

"This Heng Khuen ah, hairstyle everyday different one," my friend once commented.

My earliest recollection of a barber is at the age of five, when my brother and I would be brought to the same father-and-son Chinese barbershop near where we lived. This place was old school, man, complete with the fluorescent lit candy-stripe sign outside the shop.

While awaiting my turn, I would always watch in awe at the uncles before me, who willingly surrendered their lathered necks to the reusable razorblades of the barber (sharpened on a leather strap hanging by the mirrors); or how they grimaced in pain as their stray nostril hairs were ripped out at the roots with gleaming tweezers.

Almost a true depiction of barbers

I would always pray that I would not get the father - a bald (never trust a bald barber?), toothless man with his mischievous slitty eyes hidden behind thick black frames. I hated him because his haircuts always came with the unwelcome added service of a tweak of your nose before and after your haircut.

I swear, if I had mastered the Jason Bourne-ian art of killing someone with whatever was ready at hand, this man would have been bleeding from a thousand razorblade cuts before his wandering hand even reached my nose.

Instead, my five year old self sat there helplessly, having my nose tweaked purple.

Today, I Want To Be A Baker

2011-04-27T09:31:00.009+10:00

He knew he should have stayed in bed that morning.

He gets up and he stumbles into the shower and then dresses up for work. An orange vitamin pill is all his breakfast, and he drives to work, still half dazed. It is a Saturday morning on a long Easter weekend and the roads are clear. As he approaches the hospital, he notices that his tank is almost empty and he pulls into the nearby Shell station.

He pays for his petrol with his credit card but in his half awake state he pulls out the card too quickly. TRANSACTION CANCELLED. He tries the card again. CARD DECLINED. He smiles apologetically to the counter girl and pays by eftpos. 'Looks like you could do with more sleep,' she laughs.

And So It Begins

No sooner had he hit the department, waiting for handover when an overhead announcement is made. 'Level 2 trauma, Resus 2, Emergency Department.' He pokes his nose into the cubicle and sees that his boss is already there with another morning registrar and some lingering night staff.

The patient is a young gentleman who had been T-boned by a car on the highway when he was pulling out. He was in a neck collar and the consultant was moving an ultrasound over his tummy to see if there was any internal bleeding.

The boss quickly confirms no bleeding, and tells the doctor to take over from there while he runs handover. The doctor quickly checks the patient over, and confirms that he is stable before getting bloods from him. The nurse hands him a syringeful of blood which he proceeds to fill the tubes with. He is still waking up, and pulls the plunger a little too eagerly, which disconnects from the syringe. The blood goes everywhere onto the trolley.

He lets out a curse and somehow manages to salvage some enough for all the tubes. The nurse with him is a friend, and kindly cleans up the mess without telling him off. The blood is all over the trolley, and had made its way into the trolley, staining the packages holding the cannulas with blood. She disposes of the contaminated packages and cleans up the trolley.

After The Blood Bath

The ambulance warning system beeps through. A young guy was coming in, who was found by bystanders to be running down the streets half naked, screaming his head off before collapsing into a heap. The department prepares itself for the arrival of the patient, and he is soon wheeled through. He is in a drug daze, and barely rousable. His pinpoint pupils suggest that opioids may have been involved.

They give him some reversal for the opioids but he does not wake. His level of respiratory depression means that they need to put a tube down his throat to protect his airway while waiting for whatever drugs he had taken to naturally work its way out of his body.

You comfortable to do the tube? his boss asks.

His mind says no.

Yup, he says.

They get everything ready for the intubation. The patient was going to be a difficult one. Short neck, retracted jawline, overriding teeth. The patient is put into an induced coma. The intensive care team arrives, and there is suddenly an audience of about ten people.

Have a look now, his boss says.

The doctor brings the laryngoscope into the mouth of the patient. He attempts to find the patient's vocal cords, but is having a little trouble finding it. Pull back, says the intensive care consultant. Take your time, says his boss.

He sees the tip of the vocal cords but couldn't get it to lift. Nope, not seeing it, he says, his hands shaking with the weight of the laryngoscope blade.

The boss steps in and takes over. A few experienced maneuvers with the laryngoscope and suddenly the tube is down the throat, and the chest rises and falls as he bags the patient.

You just needed your blade to be more secure, the boss tells him gently in front of his audience. The doctor knows he is still learning and will keep getting better at this, but couldn't help feeling deflated for not getting this tube.

******************************************

The day passes on with a few more dramas, a sixty year old man who had collapsed out the front triage after having a huge vomit of blood and a few more overdoses and road accidents customary to the long weekend. Among them all were the minor irritations of the arguments with the radiology registrar about getting scans, trying to convince sick patients wanting to self-discharge that they needed to stay, and trying to juggle all the patients under his care and remember what he needed to do for who next.

He is due to leave at six that evening. A new patient was coming in after an overdose. He was drowsy and combative, and he was huge.

Two policemen and another two ambulance crew were in attendance, as the patient was struggling in his half drugged state, potentially a threat to his own safety and that of others. He had written a clear suicide note that evening and had taken eighty of his antipsychotic medications wanting to end his life.

They put him into a resuscitation cubicle and strap his arms and feet down so that he doesn't hurt himself. His evening boss walks in and decides, We need to tube him.

The doctor tries to find a vein to put a cannula into but has little luck. Everything he touched that day was turning to whatever the opposite of gold was.

His colleague finds a vein on the other arm, and they place the patient into an induced coma. Another colleague, a registrar slightly junior to him manages to intubate the patient successfully, and the doctor watches with a mixed sense of pride and a tinge of envy.

The Opposite Of Gold

The patient is prepared for intensive care. A catheter is put in to measure his urine output and his evening boss puts him in charge of putting in the nasogastric tube - a tube that goes into the patient's stomach in order to drain out any secretions and prevent it from going into his lungs.

The doctor struggles with the nasogastric tube. It goes down a distance but not as smoothly as he would like. You sure you in the stomach? his evening consultant says with a querying smile.

Well, it's gone in a distance... the doctor says, but he knew that the resistance he had felt with the nasogastric tube going down was not a reassuring sign.

They try and check if they are in the stomach. They take a huge syringe and try to aspirate out some stomach content. Nothing. They try and blow in some air while a nurse listened for sounds in the stomach. Nothing.

Well, an experienced nurse offered, we can check if it's bubbling. It was old school but it sounded like a plan. They brought a kidney dish of water and place the other end of the nasogastric tube into it to see if it would bubble, suggesting that it is in the lung.

It does not bubble.

Still not convinced, the evening consultant calls for an X-ray which would show them for sure the position of the nasogastric tube.

The X-ray returns. The nasogastric tube... is sitting in the right lung. Somehow it had made its way past the ventilation tube straight into the right lung. See? said the consultant, smiling. Told you it wasn't in the stomach!

They pull out the misplaced nasogastric tube and the consultant has a go at putting it in. He struggles as well, and gives up after a few attempts.

Let's get an art line in, he says. They try to get a needle into the patient's radial arteries to see what his blood pressure is doing. The doctor can feel a good pulse on the left wrist and has a go at it, but misses despite several attempts.

His consultant tries on the other wrist and misses as well. All this time the emergency department is still running and getting busier behind the curtains.

This is not a good day for lines, his consultant says, looking a little deflated himself. I'm going to have to come back and try a little later. I've got a department to manage.

He walks away and leaves the doctor to himself, whose bleary eyes looked up at the fuzzy numbers reading 7:45 pm, one hour and forty five minutes after he was supposed to have finished, and sighs while he stubbornly tried to find an artery on the patient's right wrist to put a needle into.

Another senior registrar walks in after he has had a few more attempts. H has told me to come in here and see if I can help you with this art line, she says. She puts on a pair of sterile gloves, feels for a pulse, inserts the needle and suddenly there is a satisfying gush of blood into the needle. She effortlessly threads the needle, secures the line and attaches the monitoring.

Guess he likes girls more, she smiles.

The doctor stands there and smiles in return, shaking his head a little. He cannot believe how easy she made that look, but was more relieved that the line was finally in.

She waltzes out of the room and leaves the doctor and the two nurses who are bustling around the resuscitation cubicle getting all paperwork sorted out, preparing the equipment to move the patient into intensive care.

The Road Not Taken

The doctor leans against the table in the cubicle, and stares blankly into space for awhile. His stomach rumbles as he finally remembers he hadn't eaten all day.

He smiles to himself and to a day that has defeated him, and he says aloud, to no one in particular, Today, I want to be a baker.

The nurses, who have worked with him so long that they were more like friends, let out a laugh in agreement as they knew exactly how he felt about the day he was having.

He leaves the department with a sigh. He will take the long drive home and he will tell his loving partner about the unbelievably long and crap day he's had, and then he will sleep, because tomorrow he must return.

*******************************************

He thinks about his previous Emergency Department director, who was like a mother to him in his workplace, and who was instrumental in him choosing Emergency Medicine as a specialty.

He remembers her hand on his shoulder after another particularly difficult day like today, and her voice still rings clearly in his ears - Just remember, you're gonna good days and bad days, young Dr. Heng, so don't take it too personally, all right? Press on, because you are a good doctor and don't let it get to you.

Tomorrow he will be better.

I've Got A Proposal To Make.

2011-03-25T01:01:00.090+11:00

I have had the ring for eight months now.

She organised my surprise 30th birthday party and I was kicking myself that I didn't have the ring to counter-surprise her. It was there where I asked a friend if she would accompany me to buy the ring.

I have had the ring for eight months now.

I was thinking about how to propose to her. I toyed with the idea of skywriting, but luckily a friend talked me out of it. What about putting it up on a billboard just like the Malaysian guy did? But I felt that was just a little toopublic.

On and on the thoughts streamed about how I was going to ask Karen to marry me, and finally the words 'Say Yes' popped into my head.

How about a video proposal, and getting our friends and family on board? My heart raced with the thought of the one idea that could finally work, and so the wheels started churning.

This is the beginning of what I call the 'scheming for good.' This was the two months spent in secret e-mails to family and friends asking them if they would take part in this project. Two months of private browsing in the Firefox windows, pretending to be hard at work with Karen sitting unwittingly opposite me, suppressing the smiles inside with every new picture that came along.

And then the last few days of telling untruths about being at study groups with friends or with my brother when I was actually shooting my photos for the video, and going over to a friend's house to put the video together, which she kindly and patiently did.

This is what two and a half months of planning culminated in:

That's all it is. Me making a stupid face!

Thank you to all who have helped out in this video with your photos, encouragement and love. The road ahead is exciting and scary all at once, and we need your continued love and prayers as we walk down the aisle towards the rest of our lives together.

P.S. She posted a response as well! She never ceases to amaze me, this woman!

Random Memories: Thirteen Years Old

It was a huge centerpage in our local newspaper, The Star. It was the story of this loving couple who were in the dance ministry at their church and talked about how he proposed to her in a really special manner.

They were walking in the KLCC park one evening, when he led her to a bridge. Six friends, all dressed as mimes were standing along the bridge, and soft music started playing in the background. All of them were holding plates, with napkins sitting over them.

A card read on the first plate reads 'I love you because...' she uncovers the napkin '... of your smile that could light a small city.' The mime starts to smile widely and invisible light bulbs were going off everywhere.

She turns to her boyfriend and smiles, his plan becoming apparent.

'I love you because...' the second plate read as she pulled away the napkin. '... you laugh at my jokes even when they are not funny.' The mime doubles over in silent laughter at a bad joke that you couldn't hear.

'...your fried rice makes the hawkers jealous.'
'... you love my family, and my dog.'
'... of your beauty and grace when you dance.'

The mimes cooked, petted invisible dogs and twirled continuously as she came to the final dish.

This napkin was covering an object.

The last card read - 'But most of all, I love you because...'

The mime is motionless. She pulls away at the napkin and gasps.

It is a mirror.

'...of who you are.' She is surprised by her tears as she feels him tap her on the shoulder. She turns around to find him on bended knee with the open box containing the ring that would join her to him for the rest of their lives.

Through her tears, she says yes.

Something in my thirteen year old heart wanted so badly to one day have a special wedding proposal of my own.

I Want To Run Through The Halls of My Primary School

2011-03-05T10:15:00.006+11:00

Coming out from an evening shift yesterday, I walked in the cold dark night towards my car. I was trying to think warm thoughts (hot cocoa, a blazing campfire, a thick padded jacket, a refrigerator, a polar bear, ice cream, air-conditioning, the North pole, ... thinkwarmthoughtsthinkwarmthoughts) and bravely walk to my car, when my shrunken manhood decided to run. like. hell. for the car.

And so I ran - the wind against my face, my heart pumping in my ears, my stethoscope swinging threateningly close to my jaw and my keys jangling in my work trousers. I couldn't help but smile as I finally reached my car, feeling as exhilarated as a five year old who had won first prize in the egg-and-spoon race in his kindergarten.

It was times like these which reminded me to love my knees while I still have them. I think about how one day at sixty, when my back will betray me and my knees will be nothing but a distant beautiful memory, I will surely miss them dearly.

Random Memories: Eight Years Old

I was never very athletic. I couldn't sprint, I couldn't jump, my shot putt was more like a short putt. I couldn't kick a ball straight to save my life, and always return the shuttlecock straight into the net. My favourite swimming style was kicking your feet randomly while holding the edges of the pool, or drowning. Basketball was more like under-the-basketball.

And so every little victory counts. I had won a silver medal once when I was eight during my school's Sports Day. I remember wearing the medal proudly around my neck as my little feet staggered up the bus, the medal gleaming as it swung across my tummy.

Hey Everyone! Look at me! Mr. Second Place in the Egg-In-The-Spoon Race.

I walked past two boys, one from St John's, and the other one from a Chinese school.

Oi! Give us a look! the bespectacled Chinese boy reached for my medal as I stood before him, beaming proudly.

Wow! Second place in the egg-and-spoon race! Not bad ah! he seemed genuinely happy for me.

The 13-year-old St. John boy came up and then looked at the inscription on the back. Cheh! his mouth sneered in disdain. It's not even a proper race. It's for primary school kids one lah!

I continued smiling but inside I was crestfallen.

Eh, okay what, their field is quite big one, you know, the Chinese boy said in my defence.

The secondary school boy turned his head away, his condescending sneer taking the shine off my highest ever achievement in sports.

The Lessons of Lorong Haji Taib: Part 3

2011-02-15T20:31:00.007+11:00

"We're going to the police."

"What?!" said Siew Tat. "We've just been to try and tiu kai (visit prostitutes), and you want us to tell the polis that ah? Won't we be arrested or something?"

"No, they won't lah!" I started the car, gripping the steering wheel.

I sounded way more confident than I felt.

At the Balai (Station)

"Lu orang buat apa?!" ("What did you guys do?!")

The police officer stared at us with incredulity in his eyes, and started shaking his head slowly.

It was a busy Friday night. Someone was sitting in the corner with blood on his head, and someone there wanting to report an accident, and there had been a couple of stabbings that night to boot.

They had just conducted a raid as well, and the station was teeming with about fifteen illegal prostitutes, some from China, some Cambodian and some ang moh looking chicks, don't know from where. They were all squatting with their hands over their heads. I could see Jeremy and Khong Nam checking them out while Vincent and Siew Tat were with me explaining our plight to the police officer.

We felt a little stupid with our problem but the more the story went on, the louder our voices became as more and more we felt wronged.

Another police officer came out.

Apa bising bising ini? (What's all this commotion here?) he demanded.

Oh, sarjan budak semua ni (Oh Sergeant, these kids)... and he explained our plight.

The sergeant turned to us, his face indecipherable.

Hish! Bodoh betullah kamu ni! Kalau mau main pergilah hotel, hah! Cari gadis gadis macam ini lah best! Kenapa pergi Lorong Haji Taib? (Hish! You're a bunch of idiots, you know that? If you're looking for a little fun, go to a hotel, and look for hookers like these lah! Why the hell did you go to Lorong Haji Taib for?) his eyes widened, as he pointed to the prostitutes behind us.

We were initially shocked at his outburst and then looked a little sheepish, and his glare soon softened after his little diatribe.

Okey, apa kamu hilang? (Now, what did you lose?)

Half an Hour Later

We are sitting at the sargeant's office. He had disappeared somewhere 'to make a few phone calls.'

All five of us turn as he walks into the room.

"Handfon yang kamu hilang tu, apa model dia? Warna apa?" (What was the colour and the make of your missing handphones?)

One black Samsung, flip phone. One Silver Nokia.

Like a magician he pulls both the phones out of his pockets. Our jaws dropped as we quickly reached for our phones, thankful beyond words.

Duit kamu hilang berapa? And how much money?

Dua ratus tuan. Two hundred ringgit, sir.

Nah, kita hanya recover seratus. Like a dubious trickster he only hands us a hundred ringgit, but we were just happy to be seeing any of it back, to be honest.

We left his room, our heads bobbing in profuse thanks, as he left us with these parting words.

Ingat, okey, lain kali, pergi hotel cari pelacur. Remember to only use the hotels for prostitutes next time, you hear me?

We smiled weakly as Vincent lead the team to get the hell out of there. We walked past the cowering prostitutes again.

"Jeremy, you hamsup (dirty) bastard! Stop looking at them already lah! You've already got us into trouble once tonight!"

"Okay, who wants to go to mamak?"

"Where ah?"

"How about Lorong Haji Taib?!"

"Shut up lah, you idiot!" we laughed.

The Lessons Of Lorong Haji Taib: Part 2

2011-02-06T01:12:00.000+11:00

Pap! Pap! Pap!

The aunties obviously had no idea what a massage was. What we got instead was a modified slapping of our backs.

There was a few times she came dangerously close to my ass, but I manged to bump her hands away just in time.

After ten minutes, I just wanted to get the hell out of there - 'Eh, cukuplah, cukuplah. Kita mau pergi dah.' (Enough, enough, we want to go already.)

Tak bulih. Tak bulih. Bayar tiga puluh minit musti mau habis semua. (Cannot, cannot. You paid for thirty minutes).

It's hard negotiating when you're lying in bed, almost naked, with your backs to two Indian aunties.

We heard a sound in the room behind us, but couldn't turn to see. A few minutes later, we could hear a motorcycle being started in the distance... Pap! Pap! Pap! The Indian aunties kept up with their backslapping.

This massage was far from relaxing. It felt more like being caned. For being hamsup.

Now Where Did I Put It?

Thirty agonising minutes which felt like forever later, I pulled my face from the stained mattress, and Jeremy and I hurried to the cupboard. As I put on my pants, there was a silence where the jingle of car keys should have been. Jeremy also noticed that his handphone was no longer in his jeans' pockets.

'Eh, where the hell's my car key?' I asked Jeremy.

'I don't know. Where's my handphone?' He rummaged a little more in the empty cupboard which had nothing more than a few pieces of torn newspapers inside.

'Eh, maybe we left it with the three downstairs before we came up, issit?'

'I don't know lah... We go and ask them lah.'

We left without thanking our service provider aunties, and went down to our waiting friends.

'So how was the ma-?'

'Eh, did I give my car keys to you guys ah?'

'No!'

'No!'

'No what - you didn't give us anything - you went straight up, remember?!'

'Eh, shit lah. I'm damn angry already. These fuckers have gone too far.'

I turned around, with a newfound anger. They have screwed us enough tonight. They're not getting the car.

'OI! Come out here uncle!'

The Indian uncle suddenly melted out of the darkness into the scant light.

'What?' he growled.

I was too pissed off to be scared. 'Give me back my car key! You guys have taken our money tonight - enough already lah! Give me back my fucking car key! I call the police then you know!'

'What? You think you shout I scared ah? You want - you go and call the polis lah! But before you start accusing accusing all... make sure you check the cupboard properly first!'

'I didn't leave it in the cupboard! I checked already before coming down!'

'Are you sure? You go and double check again first!'

I stormed up the stairs, into the room. The two aunties had magically disappeared, and I slammed open the cupboard door, fuming to see -

- my car key.

I took the key and went down.

'Where's my friend's handphone?' I yelled.

'Eh, how the hell am I supposed to know? How I know your friend even bring his handphone inside?!'

Jeremy was looking at me, his eyes pleading for me to forget about it and to just get the hell out of here. 'Eh, don't worry. It's a handphone only lah...'

The gate was unlocked, and the five of us made our way out past the three Indian men. The night was cool with a light breeze; still and uninterested as if nothing terrifying had happened to us at all for the past hour. It took us another ten minutes to walk back to my Dad's

Car

I walked around the car and inspected it from the outside, making sure that everything was okay. Scratch marks - none. Wheels - all there. Hubcaps - also all there.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I pressed the central locking button and the knobs came up, and the lights flashed.

We all got into the car and opened up the glove compartment.

Phewf! All our wallets were still there.

We each took our own wallets, and then noticed that the other handphone was missing. Shit! We opened our wallets - all our cash had been taken. Fuck!

We sat in the car, angry and yet too scared to confront the three men dividing up our money and handphones somewhere in the shophouse at the end of the alleyway somewhere in Lorong Haji Taib.

"ARRRGH!" I banged my steering wheel, impotent. When I looked up, I saw my friends in the streetlights streaming through the car windows. There was an air of defeat, regret and anger mixed in all their faces.

"So, how now?"

The Lessons of Lorong Haji Taib: Part 1

2011-02-02T04:17:00.011+11:00

You want a story? I've got a story for you.

There were five of us - Vincent, Jeremy, Siew Tat, Khong Nam and myself.

We were eighteen then, bored and restless one night. Let's go clubbing, said Siew Tat.By the time we got to the clubs, it was already about three a.m., and they were closing for the night. Sien ah.

We were sitting in my car, wondering what to do next when Jeremy pipped up- 'Hey, what about we go and see Lorong Haji Taib?'

Five teenage boys. Whose ears perked up at the mention of Lorong Haji Taib - a place only whispered or laughed about in school in hamsup (lewd) conversations about sensual massages, transvestites and streetwalkers.

We swallowed hard. Our goosebumps raised at the thought of doing something so dangerous, our hearts raced and our penises throbbed at the thought of the forbidden fruit.

I looked around at the other four boys. Loud braggers who had always described how we would 'do' it with this or that girl, one day - the usual big talk for five virgin boys. Always.

After a few wrong turns, I finally got us there in my Dad's car. We did the smart thing and parked our car far, far away from the actual street itself. Being the cautious Malaysians about to wander into a potentially dangerous situation, we took out all our wallets and the ones who had handphones bundled them all into the glove compartment, although Jeremy brought his, just in case.

Fifty ringgits in each of our pockets, with two hundred sitting safely in the car. Steering wheel lock - on. Car alarm - on.

Set.

We looked at each other, guilt flashing in our eyes briefly before we broke out into smiles and headed off into the night in search of adventure.

Lorong Haji Taib

was everything we imagined. The shops below had their metal shutters drawn for the night, but the stairs leading up to the second and third floors of the old shophouses were lit with cheap fluorescent lights, drawing customers like moths to the many prostitutes/transvestites standing at the entrances below.

We motioned each other to the single cars parked with their brake lights on in the distance, their windows open, the driver haggling a price with the hooker leaning against his window.

We sniggered. We swallowed harder.

'Oi, brudder!' we suddenly heard a call to our right. "You want massage ah?"

We stopped and turned to look at the Indian man calling out to us.

"You want massage?" he repeated.

We hesitated. "Er no lah, uncle, thanks very much." I brought up my hand and weakly smiled my declination.

"We got all kinds of girls... You don't have to try. Just see first lah... Can choose anyone."

I didn't like the look of the seedy Indian man, and quickly glanced at Siew Tat, Vincent and Khong Nam, motioning to them to keep walking. When I turned around, I saw Jeremy's back, following that man into an alley.

Ah, crap.

"Eh, shit lah... Jeremy!"

Jeremy briefly turned, his big head of hair covering his chubby, enthiusiastic "Come on, guys, this is our chance!" face. I ran after him, and the rest of them ambled along unsurely towards the alleyway.

It was a really narrow and dimly lit alley between the shops, and we walked past these two Indian aunties who looked briefly up from their newspapers at us. I could have sworn I saw them shaking their heads.

I caught up to Jeremy, and both him and I followed the man into this dingy shophouse. There was a solitary lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and nothing else. No furniture. Nothing else. Not a single damned thing. This was bad news.

We suddenly heard the steel shuttered gate slam behind us. And then the uncle locked it. This was really bad news.

Two other Indian men suddenly appeared, and all our initial excitement was now replaced with a more recognisable emotion - fear. Their eyes were redshot from the mix of toddy and whatever drugs they had been taking, and my knees suddenly went weak with the very real thought that we could get hurt tonight, or worse.

"So kamu mahu massage ah? (So you want massage ah?)" one of them smiled leeringly at us, his features accentuated in the scant light offered by the bulb.

"Er... No lah, brudder. I, erm... we're actually quite tired already... I think we're going to go lah.... No need massage already."

"Masuk sini, mesti mahu massage. (Come in here, must massage)" He had lost his smile, and I was about to lose my continence.

"N--n--no lah, brudder," I stammered. "I'm really quite tired. Anyway, my three friends are waiting outside..."

The Indian uncle who had lured us in motioned to the other drug-addled sidekick, and within a minute, we were joined by Khong Nam, Vincent and Siew Tat. The steel gate slammed shut sickeningly again, and I looked at the three of them apologetically.

All three picked up the fear in both our eyes, and it was contagious - their nostrils started flaring and they started breathing shallower as well.Our fight-or-flight response kicked in, and we were ready to take our chances with these three Indian men. Number-wise we were on top, but if you compared our sizes, despite being five on three, I would say, we were pretty even.

"So, who wants the massage?" the uncle growled, interrupting the virtual fight that we were taking on in our heads.

Our pupils dilated, our heads almost shook in unison.

"Eh, uncle never mind lah. We give you money. Forget about the massage."

"Eh. Fuck you! You come in already. You must have massage. I don't care."

I looked at my friends, and felt responsible for getting them into this situation. My mind worked overtime. Maybe it wasn't time for mortal combat. Maybe it was time for diplomacy.

"Eh uncle, okaylah, okaylah. Just me and my friend here. We'll go for the massage."

I pulled Jeremy with me and we turned around to look at the rest briefly before the uncle led us to

The Second Floor

Imagine two beds side by side. Imagine two beds that've been used by many men over the years, that's never been cleaned the whole time. See the rust collecting on the steel frame, see the stains showing up by the fluorescent light above, smell the years of bodily fluids crusting on the mattress.

"Okay. Take off all your clothes. Your girls will come soon."

"Pay first ah. Fifty ringgit."

What?!

"Each."

Shit lah. I knew we were being taken for a ride, but the menacing uncle had convinced me one hundred ringgit was a small price to pay compared to, oh, say, a slow painful death, our bodies never to be found again.

Let's get this over with, I thought. Jeremy and I quickly undressed, and we folded our clothes into the only other piece of furniture in the room - a bare cupboard at the back of the room a distance away from the bed.

We barely had time to pop ourselves down onto the rickety bed before our 'girls' arrived. You guessed it - the two Indian aunties who we had passed on the way in. I am being kind here when I say that one of them looked like she had been run over by a truck and never really recovered from it, while the other one looked like her uglier older sister.

"Okay, baring depan (Okay, lie face down)." We fearfully did as we were told as I had the strong sense of the uncle lingering outside the room.

Jeremy and I lied next to each other on the bed, almost naked. The night was turning out swell. I looked at him, and whispered,

"Hey, Jeremy? If we survive this, I'm going to kill you."

Green Thumbed

2011-01-09T18:32:00.000+11:00

I woke up this morning after four hours' sleep and decided that I would do something that I had put off for a long time - cleaning the backyard.

The last time I remember cleaning the backyard was for my brother's 30th birthday celebrations, oh, let's say two years ago.

Okay, I am not your typical slob... I do clean the house when inspired (every few months) and I like a relatively organised space. I am not a neat freak, though - it's not like I have colour-coded my underwear (anymore) and I am happy to leave certain things unwashed in the sink until there is a critical mass (or until the leftover food on the plate starts to grow legs).

My previous housemate, Li and I took up the enormous task of cleaning the backyard two years ago. Like explorers, we took our gloves and machetes (read: meat cleaver) to the jungle that was the backyard and started pulling away at weeds and hacking away at overhanging branches. I had the added advantage that Li worked part time as a gardener in one of the local houses to supplement his student income.

Several hours later we stood over the empty courtyard, victorious once more over all that nature had to throw at us - some poor defenceless grass and a few helpless branches.

This time, however, I have had to go at cleaning up two years of accumulated mess alone. I lifted up a garbage bag of leaves that had been sitting there for some time to reveal a tiny ecosystem of earthworms and a hundred silvery wriggling things (which I thankfully did not recognise) as well. Gross.

As I pulled away at the grass and weeds with my rubber-gloved hands, the number of creepy-crawlies amplified - here a spider pregnant with eggs, there a fluttering moth, and mosquitoes everywhere.

The tree in the back had overgrown again, and I looked pensively at it after an hour or so of clearing the weeds and dead leaves below. I finally got my brother to bring the meat cleaver again, and I whispered a quick apology before hacking away at the branches.

You know that scene in ninja/kung fu movies where the hero cuts through a forest deftly with his sword and bamboos and branches fall around and behind him as he takes a stance and faces off his enemy coolly?

That was so not me.

The meat cleaver was blunt, and after hacking at the green branches for ten minutes, the branches had barely a graze. The tree shook in the wind, as if laughing at me, and saying 'Is that all you got?' before smacking me around with some of its branches.

I remember all my training in my sporadic years as a Boy Scout (Tenderfoot extraordinaire) and took to the branches but this time at a 45 degree angle and then pulling as hard as I could as the bark showed. It started to work, and soon it was me laughing at the tree, cutting off its multiple low lying limbs and clearing the pathway for the sunlight so that the weeds below could grow healthily once more.

Oops. I think I just undid a morning's worth of hard work.

Random Memories: Eight Years Old

I remember when we were still kids, we used to have a garden outside our home in TD. We had a mango tree and a papaya one as well, with a healthy layer of grass underneath to complete the Home of The Year look.

Every few months, the grass would grow to a point where we were sent out to go and 'pluck the grass'. We would grab at it with our bare hands, throwing it into a pile in a corner, wishing all the time that we owned a goat that would eat our work away.

The reward after two hours of hard work was that you got to set the grass on fire. This was before the days of hazes and environmental consciousness and pollution. We would set a newspaper on fire at the kitchen stove and then run through the dining room, walk gingerly past the living room and then try and stuff it into the stack of grass.

I remember as kids we were entrusted with the task of blowing up the fire - we would huff and puff until our faces went blue and we staggered a little from the hyperventilation - it was then we decided fanning it with newspapers were the smarter option.

I would laugh gleefully as the flames finally consumed the grass, sending puffs of smoke and dancing pieces of charred newspaper up into the air. All that was left in the end was a mound of ashes which we used to fertilise the trees, and the... grass and... weeds again.

Oops. I think I just undid two hours worth of hard work.

A New Year. A New Resolution.

2011-01-04T00:58:00.000+11:00

Happy 2011 to all my friends, family and readers, who have given up reading this blog entirely for the sole reason that they have married and remarried, have had four babies and moved into nursing homes waiting for me to put up another post since my last one!

Haha! Indeed, this blog has been forsaken for the far quicker gratification of the mistress that is Facebook. Add to that the iPad and hanging out at Karen's and there you have my year in a nutshell.

But no longer. This will be a year of returning to my first love - of writing, and telling stories. Terribly.

Random Memories: Nine Years Old

Karen and I were walking along Box Hill aka Asian Central after dinner yesterday, and out of curiosity, we strolled into what looked like a candy and snack shop.

The shop itself was a curiosity - it sold your average snacks and drinks, but then there were display cabinets displaying soft toys (understandable) and bras (what the?!) for sale.

We sauntered around the shop a bit, picking snacks at leisure. As we were checking out, my vision strayed onto these little square boxes sitting enticingly along the counter, and my eyes suddenly lit up with nostalgic recognition!

These bubble gum boxes were the stuff of my childhood - sold everywhere, from supermarket counters to the old grandfather-vendor who used to sit outside my primary school.

They were sold for the measly price of 10 sen each, and brought me much happiness as a child. Four little baubles of bubble gum, bursting with fruit flavours! My favourite was the grape flavour, and so I bought a box with little hesitation.

For the mere price of 30 Australian cents I suddenly held a key to my childhood again, as I have not seen this bubble gum for a very long time.

I remember how as a child of nine, this very box of bubble gum taught me a very important life lesson - inflation.

The cost of living had gone up, and trying to keep the price of the bubble gum the same, the manufacturers had taken instead to the sneaky task of removing one bubble gum, so that only three balls of pleasure were left in the box.

I remember when I first opened the box with three gums in them. I stared blankly for awhile at the three purple balls and turned to look suspiciously at the supermarket that sold it to me.

My little mind raced to the factories where these magical bubble gums were made, and I imagined this poor Japanese auntie, tired from overwork, accidentally miscounting the bubble gum quota per box, making the life of this nine year old particularly miserable for the day.

It was only later, when my second and third boxes all had only three gums in them as well, did my mind finally compute that my nine year old life was never going to be the same again.

It was a harsh lesson for a young kid to learn, and I recounted my story to Karen, who laughed and we made a little bet on how many this box would contain.

Karen, the eternal optimist, said four, while I - all illusions broken at the tender age of nine - said three.

My fingers fumbled clumsily with the outer plastic wrapping and I popped open the box to find - four! little bubbles of joy!

I actually let out a little laugh of disbelief, my childhood self restored once again. Sure, they cost the equivalent of 90 sen today, but even hope has not escaped the claws of inflation.

Every bite still burst with (artificially flavoured) grape flavour, and I did what my nine year old self would have done - two gums first, then wait for the flavour to run out, then one, wait for the flavour to run out, and then the last one.

It's amazing how the mouth remembers.

The God Of Parking Lots

2010-11-16T14:18:00.002+11:00

"I have come to the conclusion that I am God's favourite son."

Everyone gathered around the table looked curiously at him as he declared those brave words with his trademark toothy smile.

What do you mean? someone ventured.

"Well, when I was doing the shopping for the Halloween party for the kids, right, I was going with A to the city. And you know how hard it is to park in the city, right?"

"A was telling me that there was no way in the world that I would get a car park in the city at 5 pm. I told A not to worry; that I was God's favourite son!"

"Guess what? As soon as I reached the city and started looking for a car park, suddenly a car indicates right and pulls out of its parking lot."

"Yes!" I looked at A, who lifted a corner of his mouth in a smile to congratulate and curse me at the same time for just being lucky.

"We were walking away from the car when A suddenly remembered that we had to pay for parking, and so we hurried back to the parking space. And guess what? The parking meter was spoiled! Hahaha!"

"I turned around to A and shouted 'Yes! Woo Hoo! See? I told you I was God's favourite son!'"

Everyone at the table laughed, although some were a little bemused.

The God Of Small Things

I was with K the other day looking for a park in Victoria Market, when a car space suddenly opened up. As we drove into the car park, I joked, "No, I am God's favourite son."

K laughed a bit, remembering the above thanksgiving meeting, but then raised this point - "I think that we don't truly understand who God is, I think we trivialise Him if we think He is at all interested in finding us parking lots."

"I mean, God was never a God of covenience, what. Think about it - if anything He is a God of Inconvenience."

I think about Abraham, who was told to sacrifice his son Isaac at the altar. Or Noah, who had to endure the ridicule of everyone when he was told to build the Ark for the flood that no one thought would come. Or Daniel getting thrown into the den of lions, or Joseph being sold to the Egyptians.

I thought about my friend from the Overseas Christian Fellowship last time who was convinced that God loved her because she was desperately looking for her favourite brand of instant coffee in the Asian grocers, and there was one last packet remaining.

I truly don't know what to think - is God truly interested in the small everyday things of our lives? The Omniscient Micromanager? Or is God interested only in the Big Issues at hand - world poverty, wars, the environment, our sin and salvation?

I love that after being a Christian for some 23 years, I'm still trying to make up my mind about who God is, and to know His heart. He remains enticingly mysterious, as that day some two thousand years ago, when he came down as man, and spread his hands on that cross for our sins.

Other People's Love Stories: All Dressed in White

2010-10-27T21:05:00.000+11:00

She stands in the darkness, arms and legs poised, her rapid, shallow breathing betraying her anxiety.

Anxiety was better than tears, she decided. One hand reaches to smooth the ruffles of the wedding dress.

Come on, God, she says under her breath. I don't know why You're putting me through this, but You'd better see me through this.

Please?

The lights come on.

***************************************************

They were together for three years before he finally popped the question. She remembers it well - they were at the park where they had first met. He had walked ahead of her, which she thought a little rude, but her head suddenly lifts up as she hears him turn abruptly. She is shocked to see him on his knees.

He is stuttering his proposal youknowwe'vebeengoingoutforalongtimenowandIthinkwhat ImeantosayisthatIwantyoutoWillYouMarryMe? She brings her hands to her face, and nods vigorously, surprised by her tears.

***************************************************

"I'm saying sorry in advance, 'cos this won't always go to plan..."

The music starts, and she is trying to keep time with her partner for their hip hop performance. Her body moves in memorised rhythm but her mind is a million miles away.

Her partner does not seem the least bit bothered. He is in his bridegroom vest, and dancing like he was the only one on stage.

They are dancing to Guy Sebastian's Art of Love (ft. Jordin Sparks), and it talks about the bliss and pain of relationships. The words of the song are knives which cut away at her heart, and her legs.

"... and we're all about giving up..."

**************************************************

It was two weeks before the wedding when she gets the phone call.

He is stone cold as he speaks over the phone. I'm sorry, I'm calling off the wedding. I can't go through with this.

She is stunned. Sure, there were arguments about the venue, and who they were going to invite, but they could talk it through, surely...

Something snaps.

Why? What do you mean? she protests. What do you mean you can't go through with this? We've had everything planned - the invitations have been sent out and the venue booked, for fuck's sake!

I'm sorry, he fumbles. I'ma... I... uh...

I'm sorry.

Sorry?!! Sorry??! Sorry is not what you say to someone to call off a marriage! Sorry is what you say when you accidentally bump into someone or when you're going to be late to something. YOU DON'T FUCKING SAY SORRY WHEN YOU'RE CALLING YOUR FIANCEE TO CALL OFF THE WEDDING!

She drives over to his place, her mind racing faster than the car, and she almost kills two cyclists who scream profanities into her unhearing ears.

She races up the stairs to his place, and it is only after a few minutes of angry knocks that he lets her in.

Her arms are folded, and she storms in. He is silent while she unloads on him. Her heart's content is emptied of its discontent.

Her tears are hot, and her mascara trickles down as she seeks to understand his change of heart. He is a wall, and she does not understand where she had misplaced the key to the heart of someone she thought she knew.

His silence frustrates her increasingly, and she throws himself at him, her arms flailing. She didn't know what she was hoping to achieve. Maybe she could beat a reason out of him.

He is caught off guard by her sudden charge at him, and he reacts by pushing out, and she lands hard on the floor.

***************************************************

He picks her off the floor.

"Sometimes I'm going to miss, I'm still learning how to give..."

Her body launches into the chorus with sharp, angled turns, and her choreographed body quivers a little in the wedding dress, but betrays nothing.

***************************************************

Why? She asked a friend. Why is God doing this to me?

Maybe, says her friend quietly, Maybe it's a chance for you to finally let go.

***************************************************

She stands before the thunderous applause of the crowd, and nods a tiny nod of acknowledgement. Her partner is lapping up the ovation of what he was convinced were new members of his self-established fan club, and gives a peace sign as they run off stage.

Her heart is beating in her ears. Her heart. Which scabbed over clumsily when he stabbed it in all the different places. She had pulled off a big scab today, and prayed that it would now begin to heal properly.

... I'm gonna get it sometime, 'cause I'm still trying to learn

Still learning (art of love)

The art of love.

Not Florence Nightingale

2010-10-26T16:59:00.006+11:00

"You've got to be tough as nails to be an Emergency Nurse," he says, recounting his time in Liverpool. "They're a special breed."

********************************************************

"There was this one time there was this girl lying on the waiting room floor, right? Screaming hysterically. Everyone had come out with the trolley and were standing over her."

"Get up!" the Emergency Triage Nurse screamed at her, exasperated by how melodramatic this teenage girl was behaving.

"GET UP!" she yelled again. "I've just had my hernia operation and if you think I'm going to lift you up, you're fuckin' mistaken, so GET UP!"

The others around her lifted the girl up and threw her onto the trolley before they wheeled her into the department.

"We found out later that the young girl had this massive frontal lobe brain tumour when we scanned her head, and that was probably why she behaved the way she did. I went up and told the Emergency Triage Nurse about the result, and you know what she said?"

"Well," she just shrugged unapologetically, "the rest of them are fuckin' dickheads anyway."

He laughs while recounting the story.

"Tough as nails," he shakes his head. "You've just got to be tough as nails."

A Dog Named Pebbles

2010-10-17T00:28:00.010+11:00

The maid is walking out with the urn in her hands. She is wailing inconsolably, indifferent to the annoyed stares of curious onlookers.

There are some things just worth crying for. Especially if they've been a part of your life for the past 17 years.

Not every one lives to be 119 years old.

******************************************

Pebbles, when she was just a tiny stone

She remembers the time when Pebbles saved the house from fire. It was in their old house, where an altar sat facing the door.

One of the candles had slipped and caught fire.

Pebbles' keen sense of smell brought her to the fire, and she immediately yelped in panic, and the family rushed out to see what the commotion was about. They put out the fire just in time, and Pebbles was treated like a hero.

******************************************

Too cool for doggy school

There was a time when they had let Pebbles' fur get a little out of control... Pebbles looked like it had a big white afro on its head and its body - a walking, yelping doggy cloud.

Her friends who came to visit often exclaimed "Wah, this dog lie down that time ah, like Persian rug ah!" or "Man, it's like a fluffy tissue box holder!"

Pebbles the tissue box and Lucky

******************************************

Pebbles loved her durians. They had just finished eating some one evening, and had thrown away the seeds into a basket. Pebbles duly rummaged into the bin for the seeds with bits of flesh remaining on them, but she didn't have them herself first.

She nudged the first piece to Lucky, their other dog, first. Because Pebbles is all about sharing.

*******************************************

Doggy style

Pebbles had taken part in various competitions with Karen. Sure, she was not a pedigree to enter into the proper competitions, but little Karen didn't care.

She walked past the judges for the Most Cuddly Dog, and a collective "Awww..." arose from the judges as little Karen doddered by, with a fluffy Pebbles clinging around her neck like a little baby. They won that one, hands down.

*******************************************

"Come here, Pebbles!" the maid said, holding the bowl with the mid-sized folded papers in her hand. They were numbered from zero to nine, and Pebbles would pick a number, which the maid would quickly snatch before Pebbles could chew it, and then replaced it into the bowl.

Pebbles was right on four occasions, and Karen's grandmother and maid won up to a hundred and fifty dollars each time. Pebbles was good luck, it was.

*******************************************

To the Batkennel!

There was this other competition where they had dressed little Pebbles up in a Batman costume. It was cute beyond belief. But Pebbles was a shy dog. Instead of strutting proudly like a superhero dog should, it whimpered fearfully instead, its supertail between its superlegs.

Lucky was also in the competition, decked out in sunglasses, a beach shirt and a scarf around its neck, like a doggie Sophia Loren on a day at the beach. Lucky walked past the judges like it owned the place, and won first place while Pebbles came in second.

They went home and told everyone that Pebbles had won instead.

********************************************

This was a dinner routine - the maid would finish cooking dinner, and then lean down and say to Pebbles - "Pebbles, go get mama and nana."

Pebbles' four little feet would scurry to the bedrooms of Karen's mother and grandmother, and it would leap on their beds, its eyes looking intently with its mouth half open, its tongue half sticking out as it breathed heavily in anticipation. Karen's mother and grandmother would stop whatever they were doing and make their way to the dinner table.

*********************************************

Karen had a pair of yellow and orange Garfield slippers which fascinated Pebbles no end.

Whenever little Karen wore those slippers around the house, Pebbles would snap at her ankles - trying to catch the cat that was pretending to be a pair of slippers.

Dog-napping

One night while little Karen was studying at the table in her bedroom, she felt something tugging at her feet. A telltale little puffy tail was visible from the edge of the table.

"Pebbles!" Karen scolded.

Pebbles caught Karen with its guilty puppy eyes, before running away into the living room. It stopped once it was at a safe distance, its doggy mind planning its next attack on the feline slippers.

*********************************************

"Ohh... My poor gou gou is dying," Karen tells me, looking twenty-eight but feeling all of five.

Pebbles was a grand seventeen years old, and age was catching up with her. She had lost her eyesight, and was going around being guided by her weakening sense of smell. She had lost her furry coat - her proud puffy coat - due to skin problems, and her worn out knees had lost their spring.

She had only enough energy to eat, and pace around the house a little before falling asleep again.

One day, Pebbles fell into a sleep she never woke up from.

They came home with her remains, the family weeping as if they had lost a child.

Now there is a vacuum in the little corner of the house - and of their hearts - which Pebbles made all her own, and only echoes of the familiar pitter-patter of feet which would come to call them to dinner.

Rest in peace, Pebbles. I'd like to believe all doggies do go to heaven.

Nights Like These

2010-09-26T19:24:00.007+10:00

It is a madhouse in the Emergency Department. The corridors were filling up with ambulance trolleys carrying the Saturday night specials of drunken assaults and suicide attempts. Somewhere in all that chaos were nursing home residents waiting to be seen, and the thousandth chest pain, abdominal pain or sick child.

There was a gentleman they had to intubate and move out of their Emergency Department to a tertiary hospital. He had been assaulted that night and had blood in his brain, with a fluctuating conscious state. That meant one less senior doctor in the department, as the other registrar had to accompany this man on the ambulance.

And then there was the lady, who was on blood thinning medications, who had come in a little confused with blood in her urine, and so the doctor had quickly seen her and ordered a brain scan, just to rule out a bleed into the brain. Which was exactly what she had, and he sighs as he picks up the phone to make the necessary calls to move her out of the department.

Even Though I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow

In the midst of all this comes a man, in his fifties, on a trolley. From all the way across the department, you could see that this man was dying. He was all skin and bones, his eyes were rolled heavenwards, and his gasping breaths suggested that he had not very long left to live. There is a woman standing next to him, her tears and eye bags suggesting that she is probably the wife.

He was given a Category 1, which meant he needed to be seen immediately. There was a bit of a delay finding him a cubicle, but the nurse-in-charge expedites the process, trying to save this man the indignity of dying on an ambulance trolley.

"The wife wants everything done for him," whispers the nurse-in-charge once they place him in a cubicle, as the doctor reels back at the suggestion.

"Go have a quiet chat with the wife," says his consultant, who had kindly stayed back to help manage the extraordinarily busy Emergency Department that night.

He hesitates a little, and tries to distract himself with other less urgent tasks at hand, as he envisioned a lengthy discussion with the wife about why they shouldn't be taking blood tests or performing scans.

The nurse in charge of admissions sees his hesitation, and calls him to task - "You'd better see him, now, doctor, or he might not be breathing when you do get to him."

He stands up and taps the table twice in frustration, as there had been nothing easy about tonight. Sick patients all over the department, and he was about to lose another senior staff for a few hours.

He is about to walk into the cubicle when he sees the teary wife, whose weary eyes spoke volumes about the awful journey she has had to endure these past few months. He finds out that this gentleman was on the palliative care team for metastatic gastric cancer, which means that the cancer had traveled beyond the stomach into other parts of the body.

I've been sleeping on the floor just to be next to him you know he was having trouble breathing tonight and he had coughed up blood and he's just not himself you know and he was telling me yesterday how his mind was absolutely perfect but it was his body that was weak...

He puts an arm around the wife, and a nurse sits her in a chair outside the cubicle. The doctor pushes past the curtains, to be greeted by the sight of this man. His cheeks were sallow, and his eyes looked as if they were bulging out of the sunken sockets around it. There was barely any fat or muscle, as the skin hung limply around his arms and legs - signs of cancer ravaging his body, greedily stealing nutrients from him.

A quick assessment reveals that this man was dying. He barely responded to the doctor's questions, and one of his pupils were bigger than the other, suggesting that there may have been undiagnosed cancer going to his brain, and the way he was breathing - the dying gasps - suggested this man didn't have very long left.

He walks out to the wife and he kneels beside her. I'm sorry, he says, and stops there.

Should I call the children? is all she asks. He nods quietly.

To Be Surrounded By Loved Ones

After a mad scramble around the department, the doctor returns to the cubicle on request of the nurses. The gentleman's passed on, they said quietly.

In this tiny room were now cramped this man's four children, overflowing to the outside. He walks past the red eyes, nods his condolences to the family, and gently offers them a few more minutes with him.

The doctor walks away, and tries to suppress the memory of losing his own father about that age. He wanted to tell the family that they would be all right in the end - that life would work itself out - but now was not the time.

Now was the time to grieve.

The Lucky Ones

They move the body into a quieter room, with enough space for family to surround him. The Catholic priest is called in to pray over the gentleman.

The doctor and the nurse-in-charge walks in to the family, almost intrusively into this very private space of sadness, and offer their condolences. They explain what needed to happen from this point, and handed out a brochure to the wife.

He's so young, protested the wife, lovingly brushing the head of the man she will never wake up next to again.

Well, at least he's one of the lucky ones, says the nurse-in-charge.

Everyone's head in the room looks up, including the doctor's. What an odd thing to say. What was so lucky about dying young?

At least he's surrounded by family who loves him. Most people don't even get that, says the nurse-in-charge. The doctor is not sure what scant solace this must offer the family, but they seem to nod their heads in agreement.

This is not the man we know, this is not the man we know, the wife cries, her face grimacing in tears, as she kisses him on the forehead. Her words bring fresh tears to the eyes of all those present.

The doctor steps away quietly, trying to ignore the lump forming in his throat.

*********************************

He sleeps like the dead when he returns from his night shift. He wakes up and sees the evening sun through the drawn blinds in his room. He gets up and takes a much needed walk in the park opposite his house. It is a pleasant spring evening, and there are dogs running around the park, chasing tennis balls catapulted by their owners into the air. The park is filled with joggers, and friends kicking the football around, and five year olds stopping their bicycles for a quick drink by the water coolers littered around the park.

He breathes in the evening air, and watches the tiny new leaves springing up on the naked branches of trees stripped bare by winter's cold touch. He thinks about the cycle of life, and death, and his heart holds on to the promise of spring.

Begging to Differ

2010-08-30T21:35:00.001+10:00

I am a ghost.

I haunt the city in the day time, walking through the weekend crowd. Rubbing shoulders with the busy, busy living people living their busy,busy lives.

They look into their purses for money to pay for the groceries they’re buying, they’re sitting around the food court tables laughing over their sandwiches and sushi. They are looking into their bags, searching with their eyes for the train ticket that will bring them to their two o’clock appointment.

I have nowhere to go, and no one expecting me there.

You don’t see me. You don’t see me as I walk over to the half-finished food you have left on your food court tables. You don’t see me as I grab hungrily at the remains of your lunch; the thought of tasting a stranger’s saliva overpowered by the gnawing hunger in my stomach.

I wander the library halls and use their toilets. This is the only warm place that will let me in. The security guards catch me sleeping in there and tell me off. I look at them emptily, as they weren't up the whole night shivering in the cold.

I come out occasionally to scare the living. I lift my voice and ask if you have some change to spare, or five dollars for a pack of cigarettes. You do not hear me, you do not see me, but you are afraid of me, and your feet walk a little faster.

I am already dead. You just don’t know it yet.

(observations on a Saturday afternoon at the State Library)

Why Did The Fly Fly?

2010-07-07T14:26:00.018+10:00

A: Because the spider spied her.

One of the most annoying things about winter here in Melbourne is the amount of creepy crawlies that come into your room looking for a little warmth.

Now don't get me wrong. If you're a moth (and maybe a reincarnation of my deceased father) then you can stay as long as you want. If you're a little ladybird looking for a little warm nook from the harsh winters, feel free to share my room.

On the other hand, if you are:

Then get the **** out of my house!

Oh man, I hate spiders. I don't mind the small house ones that you see in Malaysia, and I have even played with some trapdoor spiders in their natural habitat in Fraser's Hill (they are really cool - Google them!).

But when a large spider enters my bedroom, asking if he can be my roommate, that's where the friendship ends.

My previous housemate Li had the exact same spider in his bedroom last year, and I was laughing at him, telling him to man up and deal with it. He eventually reluctantly used the vacuum cleaner to suck up the spider.

This time, I was just minding my own business, surfing Youtube, (er, I mean, studying hard, Mum) when I looked up at my window blinds, and here was this big ass spider.

This spider was huge. With fangs. Seriously. If Spiderman was bitten by this spider at the start of the show, he be dead, you know what I mean?

I did what every man in my situation would have done - I screamed like a little girl.

When I finally woke up from my faint, I first checked to make sure that the spider wasn't on me. My mind then started to try and figure out how to get this spider out of my room.

A few options popped up in my mind:

1) Kill the damned thing.

I looked at the gray brown spider and imagined the kind of splat he'd make against my white walls and decided against it.

Also, if I didn't do a good job of it, who knows if it'll scuttle off into some dark corner to plot its revenge.

2) Leave it in peace.

I mean - it's doing me no harm, just sitting there, enjoying the warmth, and the view.

And waiting for me to fall asleep so that it could spin me into a sticky cocoon and then eat me slowly!

3) Catch it.

I go downstairs and grab a leftover Chinese New Year cookie plastic container. I hold the plastic container against the wall and spider, willing the stupid thing to move into the plastic container.

The spider didn't climb into the plastic container. I was trying to calculate how long it would be before the oxygen (do spiders breathe oxygen?) would run out in its plastic prison, before my arms gave way from tiredness thirty seconds later.

So I finally decided on option

4) Reach for the vacuum cleaner.

Fact of the day: Spiders don't get sucked in easily. At least this one didn't. This mean eight-legged freak must have super glue for legs 'cause it didn't budge a single inch when the nozzle of the Vacuum Cleaner of Death approached him. Instead, it just crawled lazily away, and gave me the spider's equivalent of the middle finger.

********************************************

Having failed Option 4, I ended up deciding on Option 5 - do absolutely nothing. I was going to wait this little bugger out, and we'll see who'll crack first.

Two minutes later, I am screaming at the spider for no apparent reason.

I opened a window and tried to flick the stupid thing out of my window. Instead of flicking right and out like the motion of my magazine-wielding hand, it flicked towards me instead, and I had to jump back, waking the neighbours once more with my delightful Girl-Scout-being-stabbed scream.

The spider almost landed onto my study table before it shot a web up to the wall behind it, and clambered quickly back to where it was before. This time it scuttered up to the corner of the ceiling and tried to force its way through the cracks, unsuccessfully.

My heart was racing as quickly as his, and I had to sit down and regroup, to think of where to from here.

I was deep in sketches of my ingenious Spider Removal Machine (tm) and when I next looked up, it was here:

Above my freaking bed. Waiting for me to sleep. Just to fang me very much for trying to kill him.

It soon scuttled above my bookcase, and I had decided enough was enough.

I took the plastic container again and held it up against ceiling. I tried knocking on the ceiling to make the spider fall off, but damn its sticky super glue legs.

I finally had a brainwave, and I reached for a piece of paper, and I slid it between a tiny gap in the plastic container, and then underneath the spider, flicking it off the paper into the container.

Victory is mine! Almost.

Now came the crucial part - closing the lid.

Quickly. Before Spidey here has a chance to jump out when my other hand reaches to put the lid on, and then scuttle up my arm to bite me on my nose.

One swift move later, and I had a spider hanging off my nose.

No - I caught him. I caught him good.

Aww... so cute... not.

The spider's eight legs tapped sickeningly against its plastic chamber as it ran around, trying to break free. I held the container gingerly in my hand, wondering if its fangs could penetrate plastic.

I was trying to decide whether or not to introduce him to the wonders of my toilet bowl, but decided instead on doing the right thing - saving it for later to show Karen.

No.... I set it free in the lawn outside my place, where it would be free once more to roam its natural habitat, and be eaten by birds.

Which goes to show you who's boss in the animal kingdom... I mean it's not like that stupid spider is smart enough to make it all the way back from the front garden into the room, and then climb up my shoulder slowly to dig its fangs into my neck to paraluyh7[6;gwgf/

Oh, Crap.

2010-07-06T17:35:00.002+10:00

Just doing a little studying of the anatomy of our body, and just marvelling at how amazing a body we have.

Our body deals with 9 litres of fluids in a day, of which only 2 litres are from our daily intake.

That means you have seven litres of fluid being produced from everywhere else inside you, from your saliva down to your intestines.

Which makes me surprised how quiet we actually are for fluid producing beings. Imagine if you could hear every slosh of your tummy as it secreted acid juices or your liver churning as you produced bile, or maybe a whirring noise as your small intestines digested and absorbed your food.

Instead, we only hear the growling of the tummy once in a while and let out the occasional fart or burp for all that goes on inside of us.

Isn't creation Intelligent?

P.S. Just found out that it takes food four hours to go into our big intestines, and only 70% will be passed out within three days. It takes it a week to pass out 100% of all that you've eaten.

So just think about what you had for dinner last week as you meditate on your Toilet Throne, because it might finally be coming out completely now.

This Is The Game That Never Ends

2010-06-24T22:28:00.005+10:00

Remember these two names: John Isner and Nicolas Mahut.

This US and French player are (still) playing the longest match ever in Wimbledon history. Like longest match ever. Like, I'm sorry, you're not listening to me. Like looooooooongest match evvveeerrr.

They played four sets on the first day, tied at two sets apiece, and the game had to be suspended due to failing light.

They then played the fifth set on the second day, and are now tied at 59-59. And the game was suspended for a second day due to failing light.

59-59.

And they're still going.

These other remarkable facts that I had to borrow from here:

Among the other remarkable statistics from the match:

— It's the longest match in tennis history: 10 hours. The previous record was 6 hours, 33 minutes.

— Longest set in tennis history: 118 games.

— Most games in tennis history: 163 (previous record was 112).

— Both players broke the ATP record for most aces in a match. Isner had 98, Mahut hit 95. The previous record was 78. Combined, the two had 193 aces, more than double the old record of 96.

— Mahut had just three break points during the entire match.

— The first four sets took 2 hours, 54 minutes. The fifth set is at 7 hours, 6 minutes and counting.

— Mahut won 448 points to Isner's 428. Isner had more winners: 333 to 318.

— The final set is longer than the previous longest match in tennis history. That was 6 hours, 33 minutes.

— Isner had four match points, one at 11-10, two others at 33-32 and another at 59-58. The first and last match points came nearly six hours apart.

— At 50-50, Mahut had two break points and Isner promptly served a 134 mph ace.

— With Mahut serving at 52-53, the pair exchanged a 16-shot rally which ended with a Mahut forehand winner. It was the longest rally of the match. On the next point, Mahut dove for a backhand at the baseline following another long rally.

— The players took their first bathroom break at 58-58. While walking in the tunnel, they exchanged pleasantries, the first time they had spoken all evening.

— Mahut only qualified for Wimbledon after winning a qualifying match in a 24-22 final set.

— The match is almost two hours longer than the longest Major League Baseball game in history (an 8:06 game between the White Sox and Brewers in 1984).

— The scoreboard stopped working at 47-47.

We'll never see the likes of this again.

I remember watching the Andy Roddick and Younes el-Aynaoui match in the quarter-finals of the 2003 Australian Open with my Dad. The match was a minute short of five hours, after an epic fifth set.

We knew that we had seen something historic that night, as it was the longest tennis match of all time, at that time. At one point, Roddick gave his racquet over to the ball boys to take over and play, and el-Aynaoui followed suit, one of the classic "Awww..." moments in tennis.

That record was bested in the 2004 French Open by two Frenchmen, but it has now been obliterated by the ongoing match between Isner and Mahut.

And so if you can look away from the World Cup for just a little moment, and turn your TV station instead to one of the most momentous occasions in tennis history.

Sate, Sate, Sate Ria, Sate Sungguh Lazat

2010-06-18T00:53:00.003+10:00

As usual, my procrastinating mind would wander during my periods of 'intense' studying into the realms of childhood, where the only thing I ever had to worry about was whether I watched He-Man sitting up, lying down, or with my head dangling upside down from the edge of the couch.

Random Memories: Seven Years Old

School kids are evil. There is no limit to their creativity in finding new ways to make you feel uneasy.

Take for example my eleven year old friends who used to think that reaching out to grab your crotch as they approached you was an acceptable way of saying hello.

But I'll save that story for another day.

I remember the one thing that we used to do as seven year olds was to creep up behind an unsuspecting friend in school, and then making a fanning motion with one hand over the open palm of the other while singing "Sate, Sate, Sate Ria, Sate sungguh lazat!" ("Satay, Satay, Satay Ria, where the satays are delicious!") as if you were barbequing your friend's ass.

The normal reaction from your friend would be:
1) Thrusting his pelvis forward to get his butt away from your stupid fanning hands.
2) Making a disapproving noise, somewhere between irritation for dropping his guard and being crept up on, and being annoyed by your childish stupidity (Wooi! Tcht...heeesh!)
3) Turning around to chase you as you scampered away to safety, laughing like a maniac.

Sate Ria was a franchise where they sold satays in proper air-conditioned restaurants. The concept didn't go down very well with local Malaysians, who thought it ridiculous to pay twenty or thirty sen more per stick of satay just to eat it in a fast-food like joint.

Satays were always meant to be enjoyed in the open air, on plastic hawker stall seats, with the smoke billowing over your head as you bit into the juicy grilled chicken or beef bits dripping with peanut sauce.

The business quickly tanked, and now it remains nothing but a nebulous childhood memory.

At least we got some stupid juvenile fun out of abusing their jingle for awhile!

Mamak Terminology

2010-06-14T12:50:00.000+10:00

So here I am trying to study, and Karen is being really supportive and helping me make a drink to keep me awake. It is a combination of Milo and Nescafe.

Here's the question: for the life of me, I can't remember what I would say to the mamak in Malaysia if I wanted this drink?

I know that:
1) Teh + Kopi = Cham
2) Teh + Milo = A scolding from the mamak - Lu gila ka? (Are you mad?)
but what do you call Milo+Kopi?

Thanks for helping me put this annoying question out of my head, once and for all!

Mamak, teh tarik tak mau tarik satu! (Mamak, one pulled tea, but hold the pull, thanks!)

Not Myself

2010-06-11T10:03:00.000+10:00

Would you want me when I'm not myself?
Wait it out while I am someone else?

- John Mayer, Not Myself

To all my friends who click on this blog ever so often to check if anything new is up, let me apologise that these next few months will be fairly scarce in terms of blogposts as I am (desperately) trying to study for exams in September.

All my years of last minute studying are now coming back to haunt me, so I would appreciate all your prayers as I push through to these exams.

Just to give you an indication of how little I actually love studying, let's just say I preferred a visit to the dentist yesterday than to actually picking up my books.

That's right folks - I would actually prefer a lifetime of having my tooth drilled rather than study.

Just when I had thought that I would never ever have to touch another textbook again, here I go again, unfortunately!

Time to listen to my popo (grandma), and kan lik tit took shi ah (study hard ah)!

P.S. Karen has suggested that I snap blog - no pictures, just a few words to update. I'm not sure - is it worth it?

Exams - Kill. Me. Now.

Farewell, Rafa.

2010-06-04T13:37:00.003+10:00

There is a man in many boys' (and girls') lives who yields a certain undeniable power over their emotions and wellbeing. That man dictates the mood of the said boy (or girl) for the rest of the week, based on his words and actions and leadership.

That man is not their father.

That man is the manager of their football club.

Greater than any star player in a team, a football manager is the man who is judged at the end of the day with regards to how a team performs. He is the conductor of the Soccer Club Symphony, the man who lifts and drops games with a wave of his hand, the ever-changing hero and villain from week to week depending on how the game eventuated.

Rafa Benitez exploded onto the English soccer scene with a breath-taking, seemingly impossible Champions League final win for Liverpool in 2005, making them the only English team to win the Cup five times. His tenure as manager has vacillated between the brilliant and the bizarre, buying outstanding performers while squandering money on a fair few duds.

No one can deny that he has orchestrated the emotions of millions of Liverpool fans worldwide, and I can remember at least three times where my heart had literally stopped when we managed to grab victory out of the wretched jaws of defeat:

1) The 3-1 win versus Olmpiakos which brought us into the group stages, leading to:
2) The 3-3 draw in Istanbul in the Champions' League 2005 final, where Liverpool had come from 3-0 down during half time to win the Cup on penalties.
3) The 3-3 draw in the 2006 FA Cup final, where Liverpool had to come back from 2-0 down and then 3-2 down to win the Cup, again on penalties.

There are many more moments like that which I can recall, watching soccer live at home by myself at 3 in the morning, my leg shaking uncontrollably from excitement, yelling at the TV screen for no good reason, and then jumping around the room like a delirious puppy whenever we scored.

Lately, though, it has been a more resigned slump as I reach for the TV remote to switch off the TV in disgust way before the game is over, knowing that defeat was inevitable. And then switching on the TV again right at the end to confirm my worst suspicions, secretly hoping against all hope that Liverpool had pulled a miracle out of nowhere to win.

Too many subsequent losses, and fingers start to point, and they always fall on the manager in the English game. Apart from Arsenal and Manchester United, managers are only as good as their last season in the English Premier League, and so, after six years, we have finally had to say goodbye to Rafa Benitez after a disappointing season last year.

Like a soccer orphan now, we are searching for a new father figure to lead the club to greater heights, and to the Holy Grail that is the elusive Premier League title.

Farewell, Rafa - Mr. Benitez sir - who has meant so much more to me and millions of other Liverpool fans than he will ever know.

Anda Bersyair, Aku Berpantun

2010-05-21T00:14:00.001+10:00

When we were in high school, the official language used in our textbooks were in Malay. The government has been trying to push the use of English in Mathematics and Science subjects in order to make Malaysians more competitive in the global market. Which I think is fair enough, when potassium for example, is still kalium in our language and the salt sodium is natrium to us, which can be a little confusing.

I love the Malay language, however, and I was lucky enough to be in a school where they encouraged the holistic development of our students, and the Science students all had to do a literature subject, be it English Lit or Sastera Melayu (Malay Literature) since we were thirteen.

Some of the things that I remember doing was listening to my Malay friends sing out the syairs - their lilting voices singing out the words to the poem that contained a story or words for living wisely. I mean, how cool is that - it's combining my two favoritest things in the world - music and poetry!

(I doubt that they would make a crossover movie, though. Like all those crossover dance movies you see nowadays.

*begin announcer voice sequence* This Summer. Two dance forms will collide on your screen. Like Never Before. Hip-hop, and Ballet. We call it BallHopping.*end announcer voice sequence*

*begin announcer voice sequence* This Summer. Two art forms will collide on your screens to Blow. Your. Minds. Music and Poetry. Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts are - the Pusicians. *end announcer voice sequence* )

What brought about all this nostalgia, though, was the fact that I somehow dug up an old Malay four-line stanza, or the standard pantun, which I concluded a friend's e-mail with recently, and I just realised how much beauty there was in the language.

The standard pantun consists of four lines, the first two being introductory, almost nonsensical lines, just to introduce the heart of the poem, which is in the last two lines - which can either be a word of advice, or a request, or even a riddle.

Berakit-rakit ke hulu,
   Berenang-renang ke tepian,
Bersakit-sakit dahulu,
   Bersenang-senang kemudian.

(Row, row to the start,
   Then swim, swim to the banks,
Suffer, suffer at the start,
   Then later you can relax.)

The earliest pantun that stays in my mind as a favourite till today was one we read as seven-year-olds:

Buah cempedak di luar pagar,
   Ambil galah tolong jolokkan,
Saya budak baru belajar,
   Kalau salah tolong tunjukkan.

(A jackfruit sits outside the gate,
   Grab a long stick and let's go get it!
I am a new student at this subject,
   If I'm wrong, help correct it!)

Okay, please forgive how badly I translate the pantun into English. I am, after all, not a Pusician.

(P.S. Can anyone else remember anymore pantuns?)

Mellowdramatic Turns 30

2010-05-20T00:06:00.003+10:00

Remember how I said that Karen's special gift for my thirtieth birthday was my very own book?

Well, we've finally sent it to be printed, and you can view the preview here!

If you're crazy enough, you can buy a copy too ! It makes for gripping toilet reading, and is also the right size for making origami cranes!

Thank you, Karen, again for this wonderful, thoughtful gift. I love you!

In the Mooood For A Birthday

2010-05-16T11:39:00.003+10:00

I had just come over to Australia, and was living the life of a squalid student. There was no television at home, so we often just watched the oven, we had a dinosaur of an iMac with no internet connection, and we didn't even have a telephone.

We would brave the dark winter nights in the dangerous suburb of NM where we were at the time just to call home from a payphone booth.

It was in that payphone booth that I spoke to my family, the brief fifteen or so minutes spent trying to summarise what had been going on in our lives throughout the week.

"So, Grace took her driving exam today," Mum says.

[open folder_Grace]

[open folder_ Driving Lessons]

"You know, ah," my sister said, complaining, "My driving instructor was damn bad ah, today!"

"Why?" I asked, remembering my painful driving lessons and how my brother had to take the test five times, and I had to take it twice, and just luckily passed. Driving instructors could be a nasty lot.

You would be too, I suppose, if your whole life was spent letting novice drivers gamble with your life daily so that they could finally drive the car that Daddy bought them.

"Yeah, he said my clutch work was damn bad!" she frowned, recalling the day.

"We were driving around the taman, you know," she said, a smile creeping over her face, "and then when we stopped at the traffic lights, I was having trouble with the clutch lah, you know, so the car was shaking like mad the whole time."

"You know what that bah-gger say to me ah? He said, 'Chan, chan chan, chan to see te chut lei ah!' (Shake, shake, shake, shake until my sh!t also come out ah!)"

At this point she bursts out into her trademark laughter, and brushes the day off her shoulders. I can't help but laugh, too, imagining the driver in incontinence pads as a result of one too many clutch-related vibrations.

[Close folder_Driving Lessons]

[Close folder_Grace]

"So, how did she do?" I braced myself for the worst.

"She passed!" came my mother's excited voice.

"Sure or not?" I say. "Got pay kopi money (bribe) is it?"

"No lah," Mum said. "She's very goood...."

My little sister has trumped us on so many occasions I've lost count. She had done really well in her SPM (O Level equivalent) as well that year, and although the road of medicine has been tough, she battled it with the passion of someone on a mission.

She remains one of my favourite storytellers as well, giving stories the life they deserve.

So here's to you, my little sister, who is bigger than us in so many ways. Happy birthday!

Happy Mother's Day!

2010-05-09T21:58:00.002+10:00

I think that parenting is one of the hardest skills in the world. It's not like parents figured out how to be parents right from the word go - in a way, it's almost a process of trial and error. Yes, we can read guide books and yes, we can attend seminars or even watch Super Nanny to try and figure out how best to raise a child, but in the end, both the parent and child are unique individuals trying to live out life the best way they know how.

I think about my Mum, and how she is a great mother right now - a good friend who sees us for the adults that we are, and allows us to choose for ourselves our own paths in life, as long as we are happy. She does not make demands of us, or guilt us into anything, and we can speak like friends rather than parent-to-child now.

*****************************************

In the midst of trying to love us by providing for us (and we were fairly well provided for), Mum had to take on the many roles of mother, career woman, teacher and wife. I cannot begin to imagine how she managed to balance the four roles.

I remember how when we were younger, she would call home from work to check that we were okay, and she also handwrote mathematics assignments fo us, which she later marked. I think that was quite instrumental in us doing well at school.

I'm not saying that she was perfect in all her roles. Yes, we argued a lot when we were younger, and we got Asian kid-appropriate doses of "Somebody's-Going-To-Get Hurt-Real-Bad" when we were out of line at home. Let's just say that when things weren't going well at work, things weren't going well at home as well.

Every Asian kid wants to believe that they had it tough. In some ways, so do I.

I want to regale stories about the various caning instruments that we had at home, the times when promises were broken, or the explosive arguments we had that used to carry across into the neighbour's houses.

But then I met a good friend not too long ago, and her mother used to literally almost drown her in the water cistern in the backyard used for collecting water, whenever she was naughty.

My friend would call out in between the times her head went underwater - "Mrs W___! Help! Helpblurbblurbblurbblurb!!... *GASP* MRS W___!MRS W___blurbblurbblurb!" and then her neighbour would come out, and try to gently talk her mother -

"Eh, Mrs C___ ah, enough already lah... She learnt her lesson already... Hah... Stop punishing your daughter already lah!" while Mrs C___ continued the dunking treatments.

My mouth went agape as my friend recounted stories of her Mum throwing things at her in her anger, including erm... kitchen knives - and here was I, thinking that I had had it rough!

My friend has turned out really well, though, and has a good relationship with her mother today. Looking at her today, you wouldn't have guessed that she spent her childhood dodging knives or fighting water cisterns.

So who knows what the secret is to parenting? Who knows why some children turn out well despite a difficult growing-up while some don't?

I look back at my life, and I thank God for the many good things that my Mum has taught me - to forgive quickly and to never bear grudges, to value family, to have sympathy for the disadvantaged, to look after our health, not to take life too seriously, and to laugh easily at things.

And then I think about all of Enid Blyton's books, whose children never got caned, whose mothers stayed at home and baked cookies for them and was only occasionally 'cross' with them.

I think Mrs. Blyton can take her plastic ideal mothers and choke on them, because, as far as I am concerned, I would rather have my Mum, in all her humanity, any time of the day.

Mother's Day is a wonderful celebration of mothers everywhere, in all their imperfections, because we recognise above all, that although not everything was perfect, they loved us in a way that only mothers can. Pure and simple.

I remember how Mum would say after scolding us, "You think that I would scold any random children on the street, ah, hah? I scold you because you are my children and I want you to grow up well, okay?"

I would like to believe that the three of us have grown up well.

Happy Mother's Day, Mum. We love you!

Smell The Cheese!

2010-04-25T13:28:00.005+10:00

Karen and I have been spending some wonderful evenings with H and V, a married couple from Karen's church who have been good friends and great mentors to us, guiding us in this period of our relationship. These nights are precious to Karen and myself - we are invited over for cozy home-cooked dinners, and then spend the whole evening talking and chatting like old friends until the wee hours of the morning.

It has been eerie how well H and V and Karen and myself have hit it off - I have known them for under a year now, and Karen maybe double that, but it feels like we have been lifelong friends. Karen always says that H is like an older version of myself, and I tend to agree, while I can see in V what Karen will be like later in life. It's like God giving you a glimpse of your future, and how wonderful married life can be!

One of the many joys that we have spending time at H and V's is the chance to play with their three kids - the very well adjusted twins Jus and Josh, and little Nikki, who is about the cheekiest four year old I have ever seen.

Her eyes twinkle with mischief, and her chubby cheeks flank an impish grin as she thinks about the next best way to grab your attention, as kids her age do.

She is the apple of her father's eye, and I must say that I am really proud of her brothers, who have become more protective of her over the years, allowing her to join in and even helping her win at our favourite card game - Snorta! - which involves us making animal noises while turning over cards.

I know, I know, I should know better at my age than to be making animal noises. In my defense, I will say this - "Oink, oink!" "Rrrbiit!Rrrbitt!" "Tweet!Tweet!" "Cock-A-Doodle-Do!"

The defence rests its case, your Honour.

In many ways, the three siblings, Jus and Josh, and little Nikki remind me a little of my own family - the two brothers who feign annoyance at the antics of their little sister, but who secretly love her to bits.

********************************

Anyway, last night, while the four of us were chatting away, little Nikki comes up to us and grabs on to the dining table chair, swinging her right leg vacantly, her mind ticking over at how to grab our grown-up attention.

She recalls, with a sudden light of inspiration, something that had tickled her father pink over the week.

"Hey Dad!" her little Australian-accented voice calls out. "SMELL THE CHEESE!" she says, beaming a smile.

H bursts out laughing and V is all smiles as we look on, bemused.

H turns to us, and then explains that little Nikki had learnt this new trick at school. He was about to explain it to us, but then turns to her, instead, and asks Little Nikki to kindly show Uncle (sobsob) hK how to

Smell The Cheese!

1. First, open up the palm of your left hand.
2. Place your closed fist of your right hand onto the left hand, forming what looks like a cheese on a plate.
3. Invite the clueless Uncle hK to "Smell... The... Cheese!".
4. As he brings his silly nose near to smell your 'Cheese!' punch his nose with your all your cheesy right hand might and then run away, laughing.

I stare in disbelief initially, but then burst out laughing at the cheeky little Nikki, and tried to pull off a trick of my own on her.

"Hey Nikki," I say. " Do you know," I begin earnestly, "they say that if your right hand is bigger than your face, then you are really smart, you know?"

hK's evil plan:

< /formulating ingenius plan >

1. Little Nikki puts her right hand over her face, seeing if indeed she is Really Smart.
2. I smack her hand quickly, effectively causing her to slap herself on her own face.
3. Cruel laughter ensues.
4. Victory is mine.

< /end ingenius plan >

But instead this is how it turned out:

Little Nikki looks at me for a moment, her bright eyes piercing mine, and her little lower lip curled up in deep thought as she considers my proposition.

"SMELL THE CHEESE!" she says, her right hand missing my nose by inches, and the whole house erupts into laughter as they watched me being given the four-year-old equivalent of the middle finger.

And so it stands - Little Nikki 1 Uncle hK 0.

The Opposite of A Birthday

2010-04-18T20:56:00.006+10:00

When You Least Suspect It

The doctor is sitting at his desk, in the area designated to quickly review the less urgent patients.

It has been a relatively quiet day, being a public holiday. He glances at the computer screen and marvels at how decent the patient numbers actually look. Nothing like a public holiday to put into perspective which pains and aches truly could wait.

*BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!*

An alarm shatters the relative silence of the department. He looks towards the alarm and rises from his seat.

Someone had triggered the Emergency Alarm button, calling for help. It was either a doctor, or a patient, and usually a host of doctors and nurses would rush with the resuscitation trolley to wherever the emergency was.

Often times it was a false alarm - a patient would have accidentally triggered it in the toilet or in their cubicles. Often, a nurse would step in and cancel the false alarm.

This one kept alarming.

The doctor keeps walking and looks up at the alarm monitor display. The number 1 flashed in red.

1 spelt trouble. 1 was the resuscitation cubicle.

How To (Desperately Try To) Save A Life

He rushes to the cubicle, and the first thing he sees is A, a fellow colleague who was pumping away on the chest of a patient. Another doctor, J, is feverishly trying to put in a needle in order to give the patient fluids and medications.

There were just the two doctors there as the other doctors were all in handover.

The doctor joins the other two doctors, and the two nurses - one is trying to get a second needle into the other arm, the other one is assisting the patient's breathing with a bag and mask.

The doctor walks up to the head of the bed. His pupils dilate and his pulse quickens. The patient looked young, and fit.

The defibrillation pads are on, and it showed that the patient's heart was beating in an erratic and ineffective manner. A is doing CPR like a man possessed, massaging the patient's heart artificially so that his vital organs remain perfused.

There are shouts in the flurry of chaos for adrenaline, and for fluids to be put up, The nurse are scuttling to and from the drug cupboards, getting the medications. Another nurse is standing in the corner, whose sole purpose is to document everything that is going on.

The doctor takes over from the nurse and helps to ventilate the patient with the bag and mask.

Someone rushes to alert the other doctors who are in handover, and soon, more senior doctors pour in, and take over. Within minutes, the patient is relaxed, and has a tube put down his throat to help us ventilate him easier.

In between the shots of adrenaline and other emergency medications that are called out, we defibrillate the patient, delivering an electric jolt into his body to try and force the heart back into its correct rhythm.

"Charging!" shouts the nurse manning the defibrillator. "Stand clear!" comes the shout once the charging is done. There is a surreal moment of inactivity and silence as we all drop what we are doing and stand away from the patient.

His body jumps of the bed as 150 Joules of electricity course through him.

We looks at the monitors. His heart is still displaying a poor rhythm.

Doctor after doctor, and nurses have taken turns to pump away at the young man's chest. We have used up a whole array of life-saving medications in our arsenal to try and will this young man back to life.

The senior consultant walks in, and she takes the ultrasound machine to the patient's heart to quickly see if there is a collection of fluid around his heart to explain a lack of response to all our efforts.

There isn't any.

The History

A walks out to the family quickly to try and get a story, and comes back to report that this man was actually here visiting his sister and cousins from F, and he had been here for a month.

He was playing soccer this evening when he had collapsed on the field, and had what looked like a seizure on the field. He was then brought to our department where he was initially conscious and talking before he suddenly lost consciousness.

We give our best efforts in trying to save this man, especially because he was so young. We continued CPR, but a host of medications and multiple shocks to his heart did nothing to bring him back.

The Most Difficult Thing In The World

It was about the hour mark when we called in the family, three male cousins who had just been playing soccer with him that evening.

Loud exclamations of prayers leave their lips as they walked into the cubicle. They struggled to understand the sight before them - their cousin, who was laughing and kicking goals all evening was now lying limp in the bed, dying - lines and tubes coming out from him everywhere.

We continue CPR for another fifteen minutes in their presence, and the senior consultant reaches for the ultrasound and checks his heart again.

She looks up. "I am sorry," she says. "We have tried everything that we could - we have given him multiple shocks and a whole heap of medications and called the specialists about him. We have done everything that we can for him, and he is not responding to our efforts."

"What do you mean?!" one of them protests, a little too loudly. "You can't stop now!!"

"People whose hearts stop beating for a long period of time will suffer brain damage, and even if we do bring him back now, we will not make a meaningful recovery."

The other two cousins look on, unsure how to react.

"Oi,_____!" they call out his name, and shake his left leg. "(Wake up, ______! Can you hear me, woi?! Stop fooling around, man! It's time to wake up! Wake up _____!)" they shout in their native tongue.

It was an act of disbelief and desperation as their minds struggled with this new reality.

"He is no longer alive," the senior consultant says gently. "I am really sorry for your loss."

""You can't give up now! You CAN'T give up now!"

The younger doctors and nurses step away from the patient, their heads bowed.

There is an uneasy silence in Resus Cubicle 1. It is almost a sacred silence.

"He's still breathing, but," they say as they watch their cousin draw in deep dying breaths.

"Yes, dying people do that sometimes," says the consultant again, gently.

The doctors and nurses trickle out of the cubicle as the consultant explains to the family what needs to happen from this point on.

The three cousins then push past the curtains, and begin the eternal journey back to the interview room full of other waiting family members to tell them the bad news.

********************************************

What Happens After

The doctor walks past the interview room back to his working area, and his steps are interrupted as a primal cry of grief escapes the doors as the news is broken.

He gulps.

He sits down, shaken. This young man's parents, who were several continents away, were about to receive a life-changing call that night.

There is a different atmosphere in the Emergency Department - a mournful, respectful air - as the department quietly grieves for one who had died so young.

The family in turn visit Resus 1 to say their final reluctant farewells to him, and the grief is most palpable in the plaintive sobs of his sister.

******************************

The doctor goes out to the front desk again. A is standing behind him.

He and A goes back several years now, and A is a top-notch doctor, fully committed to his job, and had brought many patients back from the brink of death.

Not this one, however.

The doctor turns around and sees the vacant stare in A's eyes as he considers what else we could have done to save this young man's life. He can see A's eyes glisten with moisture, and he cannot be sure if it is tears of grief, anger at the helplessness of the situation or resignation.

J is nearby, and sees A, too.

You want to go for a drink after this? asks J.

Hey, A, you want to go for a drink after this? asks J again, as A does not reply.

A snaps out of his meandering ruminations, and manages an Okay. There is little time for what-ifs right now, as A has to tie up the loose ends with all his other patients before leaving work tonight.

The patient was twenty nine.

*************************************

I think about my thirtieth birthday, a week ago to the day. And I am at a loss as to why some of us are allowed to live on, and others don't.

I think about medicine, and I think about the doctors, nurses, and paramedics who have to deal with death at work, and then grapple with living once more when they get home.

Who knows when our name will be called home again. May we brave and honest enough to look at our lives, and be completely happy with how we are living it today.

Flipping Your First Digit Part 3

2010-04-16T05:08:00.019+10:00

3) The Dinner

If there is one thing that I pride myself in, it is this - although I may not be the smartest man in the world, I am pretty good at sensing out surprises, and reading people.

After deep thought and careful consideration, with a crack team of specialists and consultants to dissect what went wrong with hK's iNtuition 2.0, here was why I didn't see it coming:

1) My brother was away in Brisbane. There was no way that he would have made it for my party, I thought.

2) I thought I knew Karen really well, and she was a fairly private person, fond of small parties, and one-on-one catch ups.

3) There was no clue or indication from any of my friends that this was going to happen. No sms went astray, no e-mail accidentally got sent my way.

This was done by professionals.

4) Karen kept telling me that we were going away to a special place for dinner, and whenever I pressed her throughout the whole day she would stonewall and say "I'm not telling" or "Stop guessing already!". She would subtly drop hints that it was a candlelit dinner for two at a fancy restaurant. Cheeky.

5) I didn't think I deserved any of this.

Which explains this:

My name is HK, and I am here today to audition for the role of The Deer in Headlights. Take 1.

It was a glorious surprise birthday party, and one that I completely did not expect.

It was only in that split second, at the top of the stairs in Animal Orchestra as I approached the room when I saw the darkened room did my tiny brain finally compute - Wait there's something wrong here... The lights are off because...

By which time it was too late, of course.

My brother had come all the way from Brisbane for my 30th, and friends from different times and parts of my life showed up as well.

I was really touched. In fact, thinking about it, I still am really touched, and a little unbelieving that so many friends had taken the time to come and celebrate my 30th birthday.

Five minutes later, when they had finally resuscitated me after I had collapsed from overwhelming joy, there were hugs all around, and a good deal of catching up over the great spread that Animal Orchestra had prepared for us.

I got toasted and roasted that night - some people said some very nice, sweet things about me, and reminded me of certain random acts of kindness, but a majority took turns to bag me, telling me I was a bad doctor, a sleepover parasite, a terrible guitarist, a pantry raider (it's pantry, Mum, not panty) and an all around grown-up child.

Thanks, you guys. :)

But the pinnacle of the presentations was one that my brother had painstakingly prepared for weeks in Brisbane, which contained some very revealing childhood pictures courtesy of my Mum and sis.

Now, thanks to them, all my friends have seen the photos of baby hK's tiny kukucheau [err... the Cantonese equivalent of s*h*o*g or p*e*n*i*s (oops, I have to fire my censorship editor)].

Unfortunately, I can't show it to you here on the blog because it's a Powerpoint presentation.

In fact I don't think I want to show it to you here on the blog even if I could, in case your kids are reading this (and laughing at my small kuk... Never mind.)

But even that couldn't stop me from having a good time, to be really thankful for friends who cared, and who showered me with gifts.

Me birthday bounty... arr!(talk like a pirate fail)

Then came the cake - oh the pretty pretty cupcakes! They had thought of everything!

The cupcakes actually say "HUNK" but they didn't have enough space. Haha!

The cupcakes were an elegant masterstroke by Karen - they had the letters 'HK' and '30' on them, and were almost too pretty to eat. But eat them we did, and the sugar high led to a glut of photos being taken as the night dwindled to a close.

I was still buzzing as I left Animal Orchestra that night. Karen laughed as she recounted the amount of lying and sneaking around she had to do in order to get my friend's contacts, and to plan the party. I laughed and I chided her mockingly, but I couldn't have loved her any more than I did right then.

She breathed a sigh of relief that it was finally over, as well, because the preparations had taken its toll on everyone involved in the planning, including my brother, who wanted to make sure that the party was perfect.

Thank you all, for taking the time to share today with me; for a love so richly undeserved, and for friendships and relationships that bring me so much joy just thinking about it.

For someone who thrives on words, none will do justice to how happy you have made me feel as I turned the decade.

And if I haven't said it enough already, I love you all. Truly, I do.

Flipping Your First Digit Part 2

2010-04-08T10:13:00.015+10:00

2) Lunch and A Very Surprising Gift

After the spa, K joined me again, and we were both beaming - me, radiating with my post-spa glow, and K, glad to join me again after two hours.

We walked along the beach and then made our way to Donovan's where we had a really yummy lunch.

We decided that seafood was the theme of the day, so we had oysters, crab bisque (an atas way of saying soup), prawns and barramundi fillets (an atas way of saying Filet-O'-Fish).

We then went home to get some rest, and this was where Karen surprised me with this:

Surprise! Mum, if you're reading this, congratulations!

Okay, okay - as you can see, thirty years body does not equal a thirty years brain.

Eat your heart out, JK Rowling.

Karen actually took excerpts from my blog and she's making it into a book! How cool is that, eh? Soon you will be able to see my book on all the bookshelves and there will be book signings, of course, and it will be made into a huge motion picture starring my major movie-lookalike:

The resemblance is uncanny.

But in all seriousness, I really appreciate the time and effort that Karen has taken to make something really meaningful for me, making a lifelong wish come true. This is how thoughtful and special Karen is, and I love her for that.

All this, and still, nothing prepared me for the night.

Flipping Your First Digit Part 1

2010-04-07T21:38:00.017+10:00

Since I had the absolute pleasure of working fifteen hours on my birthday, K decided that we would bring forward the celebrations to the Friday before.

Here's how the day unfolded:

1) This is Spa-rta!

So where are we going? I ask Karen in the morning.

I don't want to tell you, she said, a much repeated phrase throughout the day.

We made a wonderful roundabout trip to end up in St Kilda Baths, where I was treated to this:

Yes, that's right folks, K hired me my very own topless woman.

No, no, I was treated to a (very manly) spa treatment session, which was an absolute luxury for me. This was my first time ever in a spa, and so I walked really uncomfortably in the provided cotton bathrobe and slippers, feeling very much in my birthday (haha!) suit.

I spent the next half an hour in a jacuzzi, by myself, thinking about life while jets of hot salted water made its way to every nook and cranny of my body. (My apologies to my readers who like to visualise as they read).

There was a soft knock on the door half an hour later, an indication from my massage therapist Irene that she was ready whenever I was.

And so I dried myself, and opened the door to the awaiting Irene, who brought me to this other room where I was told to make myself comfortable on the table, face down.

I have never been so comfortable face down on a table before.

She started off with the Back Polishing, where she literally sprinkled sea salt over my back, and then started spreading the salt with her hands and kneading it into me, marinating me as if I were a huge piece of thirty-year old meat about to be cooked for some giant's dinner.

Fe Fi Fo Fum,
I smell the blood of a Chinese bum.

(Once again, apologies to my readers who take everything literally and like to visualise as they read.)

After half an hour of scrubbing, she then proceeded to my hour long massage, where she began to work firmly on every part of my body. And by every part of my body I mean...

...excluding my private areas.

(My apologies to all my rea... never mind.)

It was a really good massage, although I think I will need it every week for the rest of my life, but I don't think I can ever afford the luxury. And luxury it was indeed, as I was spoilt that morning in a way that I haven't been spoilt until...

Well, until... that night.

Thoughts On Turning Thirty

2010-03-25T09:25:00.003+11:00

Then and Now: You can't see it, but in my adult picture I am actually just wearing shorts tucked in the same way.

There are places I remember,
All my life, though some have changed.

***********************************

In several days' time, I will be turning the big three O. I will be spending it in the best way possible - fifteen straight hours at work, and the only cake I'll be getting is a big slice of reality.

I will no longer be able to refute any more little children when they call me Uncle from now on. I will just have to smile and accept it as I grab their Pokemon toy from them and throw it into the bushes with my thirty year old arms.

On our travels to Europe, as we rubbed shoulders with people from a different culture, the one thing that struck me most was how many people there were on this earth.

Six billion people. God did promise Abraham in the Bible that his children would number as many as there were stars in the skies, and if we're not there yet, let me just say that we are well and truly on our way.

It is in this sea of people that I stand, a drop in the ocean, a single alphabet in the telephone directory of life. It is easy to feel overwhelmed by how small I actually am, and to question my worth in the context of this world.

The eternal questions surface - Why am I here? What is my purpose in this life?

And then in the midst of all the searching and self-doubt, there is an answer, small, but clear, a tiny bell ringing out in the silence.

I am my mother and late father's son. I am my sibling's brother. I am the nephew and cousin of my relatives. I am hopefully a good enough friend to those I have the privilege of calling friends. I am K's lover, confidant and soulmate.

All my life I have been identified as such, Mr. Cheok's son, Joseph's or Grace's brother, ____'s friend, Karen's boyfriend.

My life is defined by the people I matter to, who matter to me.

And as such, I want to thank all of you for loving me through the years, and watching me grow from that little boy to the big child I am today.

Thank you for sharing your stories with me, and being part of my life story as well. I hope I get to keep writing our stories for another thirty years to come, at least.

*************************

In my life, I love you more.

Like No One's Watching

2010-03-21T23:33:00.009+11:00

Yesterday K and I attended a friend's wedding.

It was a really nice day for it - the sun was out in all its glory, pleasantly warming up the garden as we bore witness to their matrimony.

It was then on to the reception, and we laughed hard at the speeches over our meals.

It then came time for the bridal waltz, and the groom kept apologising as he stepped all over the blushing bride's feet. No one cares how well a couple dances or how well the groom sings at a wedding. Everyone is just brimming with overwhelming love and well-wishes for the couple, and were there to have a good time.

There was an invitation to come on to the dance floor to join the wedded couple, and so we did, after a little hesitation. The other guests followed suit, and soon the dance floor was filled with semi-drunk relatives and friends, who were eager to prove that their non-existent dance lessons had paid off.

I love dancing. I may not be good at it, but I still love it. I never dance to impress girls, because my good looks, charming personality (and unparalleled modesty) would have won them over long before the need to hit the dance floor. Hahaha!

But seriously, I think that dancing is a great way of celebrating the body that God has given us, and it should be done as often as possible, either at parties, weddings or in the solitude of your own home.

Like no one's watching.

Random Memories: Seven Years Old

I am at a friend's 7th birthday party, which his Dad is throwing at a pub. Don't ask me why a seven year old's birthday party was held in a pub. Ronald McDonald was probably in a corner, hitting the Tiger beer.

There is a DJ hired for the occasion, and we are playing Dancing Statues. The idea is that when the music stops, we all freeze in our positions, and whoever moves or smiles is kicked out (not literally) until the last remaining child is declared the winner.

Tubby seven year old HK was burning up the dance floor.

"Check out this boy, yeah! Look at him go!" exclaims the DJ over the booming music. "Breakdancing like Michael Jackson, yeah!"

It wasn't even breakdancing. Hell, it wasn't even dancing. It was me flapping my fat little arns like how I had seen them do on television.

I looked like a lost beached whale trying to get back to the ocean, but the DJ's encouragement has spurred me on through the years, and that's why I keep dancing until today.

Which is the lesson for today - always say encouraging things to children.

That way, you can keep them going and laugh at them for a longer time to come.

***********************************************************************
Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't.
Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't.
Maybe you'll divorce at 40.
Maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary.
Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either -
your choices are hald chance, so are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body, use it every way you can...
Don't be afraid of it, or what other people think of it...
It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance... even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room.

- Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunshine), Baz Luhrmann

Sudah Jatuh, Ditimpa Tangga Pula (It Never Rains, But It Pours)

2010-03-14T11:10:00.005+11:00

Sorry about the lack of posts recently. Work, you know. And friends visiting from the US.

Which is why this story has resurfaced.

It Never Rains...

The start of university was like the start of any school term in a new school. You quickly identify who are the cool ones, the fun ones, the Mandarin speaking crowd, the sporty crowd, the geek crowd, the Christian crowd. And then you make your friends.

I must say that as a batch of medical students, though, we were fairly friendly with each other across the cliques.

S was one of the nice guys in our batch. So nice in fact that we made him our batch representative. He was jovially plump and friendly to all, and his gentle nature and ready smile made him well-liked by all of us.

The private university's medical students were divided into two groups at that point of time - those who were really well off; and those whose parents had to slog their way through life in order give their children more opportunities than they ever had themselves. S fell into this latter category.

Which was why it became difficult for him when his Dad passed away unexpectedly in our first semester.

We tried to be there for him and to offer him words of consolation, but there was an obvious cloud of grief shadowing S during those dark days.

His smiles were now sparse and brief, and seemed forced when they did appear.

Sudah Jatuh

It was one of the small written tests for first semester , and both S and I were a little late to the test. It had been raining a little that day, which accounted for an unusual amount of traffic.

We rushed past the security guard at the door, giving a fleeting greeting as we ran hurriedly up the stairs. I was up ahead when I suddenly hear this crash behind me. It was that sickening dull thud of skull hitting tiled floors.

I turn around and I see S sprawled on the floor, his eyes grimacing in pain, his lower body lying up the steps while the upper half of his body was still on the landing.

I rush back down, my pupils dilating, my heart rate quickening. The security guard is at her feet, and some of our lecturers are streaming in to the sight of S lying on the floor. They all rush to his side, and kneel, checking his pulse and breathing.

An ambulance was called and arrives about half an hour later. He was brought to one of the hospitals in Cheras, and I followed in the ambulance. The test would have to wait. They would understand.

Ditimpa Tangga Pula

I stood next to S in the Emergency Department, trying to make light of the situation as nurses bustled around me. He groans but does not make any meaningful conversation. Someone attempts to call his family.

It is about twenty minutes before he is seen by the doctors. They say that it is probably just a concussion, and would just observe him for now.

I stand at his side, holding his hand, and trying to make him laugh. He smiles at one or two things as he begins to wake from his concussion.

"Hey, S, how many fingers?" I show him my middle finger.

He smiles.

"Do you know where you are?" I ask.

In a hospital. He says.
Which one?
I don't know.
What year is it man?
Nineteen... nine... ten... eight... no, nineteen ninety...
Do you know who I am?
He looks at me a little blankly as he struggles to find my name in the jumbled jolted recesses of his mind.

Slowly his memories start to trickle through, and he recognises me five minutes later.

... But It Pours

"Kor! (Older brother!)" I hear this cry from behind me. His younger sister rushes through the doors and pushes past me.

She grasps his hands, the worry and the strain of her Dad's recent death evident on her face, and now - this.

How are you? What happened? she asks, alternating between sympathy and annoyance at his carelessness.

He barely recognises her, and is still trying to find his words.

I... er... fall... down the steps...

I stand in a corner. He remembers that, at least, I think to myself.

Once she starts to see that he is not in any grave danger, she lets out a tiny relieved laugh and coaxes him into conversation, trying to keep him awake. She reminds him who he is, and who she is, and talked about Mum.

Er... where.. is... Pa? he asks, suddenly.

She is quiet.

I draw a sharp breath.

He thinks his father is still alive.

Er... Pa... is... not around for the moment, kor, she lies. Don't worry about that... he's... er... coming a little later.

Oh... okay, he says.

I try not to cry.

She continues to talk to him and distract him, when suddenly he remembers.

Pa is dead!! the tears start flowing. Pa is dead!! he cries. His body shakes with his sobs.

She hugs him and starts crying too - It's okay, kor. I'm sorry. It's okay. It's okay. I'm sorry, kor, it's okay. We'll be okay. We'll be okay.

I stand in the corner, and no amount of willpower can stop my tears from flowing. I step away through the door, and the last sight I see is her hugging S, who has had to grieve for his father's death a second time.

Here Kitty. Kitty. Kitty.

2010-03-05T01:03:00.003+11:00

If there is anything that will get a normally shy, reserved Singaporean man to talk non-stop, it is encapsulated in two alphabets.

NS.

(Today's Sesame Street has been brought to you by the letters N and S).

Love it or hate it, rose tinted glasses or red, there is no denying that the National Service is a vital part of a young Singaporean (from boy to) man's life.

This was the topic we had over dinner tonight, and a friend of ours was animatedly recounting his experience in NS. He talked about the long trekking trips through the jungles of Borneo, handling weapons with live rounds and the risk of friendly fire, and flying helicopters. He talked about overturned tanks, and overbearing superiors and the great friends he had made.

Somehow the topic drifted into the subject of how Singapore would soon be looking at drafting women into NS, and he remembers the handful of women during his time in Basic Military Training and how they were as tough as nuts.

Apparently they give them dolls to keep up their feminine side, he blurts out.

We jointly laugh around the tables - Malaysians, Singaporeans, Australians alike.

We weren't sure how true it was, but the idea was an incredulous and hilarious one.

Here's your rifle.
And, here's your Barbie.
You know what to do.

*a shot rings out in the air as Ken watches, horrified*

One of the girls in the group took the idea and ran with it - if there is such great concern about women maintaining their femininity in the army, why don't they just supply them with this:

I twot I killed a puddy tat.

Say Hello to my little Kitty... Rat-tat-at-tat-at-at!

Whatever men can do, women can too, and sometimes better. But people should really be allowed to opt in to these things, you know?

Oh What A Night!

2010-03-01T21:46:00.010+11:00

We were not your typical group of medical students.

We were all placed in groups and numbered. We ended up being Group Six, but unofficially, we later changed our name to Group Sex, which gives you a slight indication as to where our minds were.

(So far down the gutter that sewer rats were nibbling on it.)

We were not your typical group of medical students.

I remember that we were on a country rotation up in Albury, and, bored out of our minds, we decided to shoot a video, titled "Kidnap 101".

We had a video camera and seven amateur but willing medical students/actors and we had a great time.

The hospital security guards drove up to us midway through "shooting" because the nurses had reported a noise coming from the back of the hospital. It was basically R, the most petite member of our group, kicking and screaming as we threw a blanket over her head and hoisted her over our shoulders before throwing her into the boot of our car.

*************************************

We were not your typical group of medical students.

We were waiting for a tutorial in class one day. Our tutor was an Orthopaedic fellow who appreciated our sense of humour. We decided that it would be funny if one of us hid in the closet and then literally just walk out of the closet ten minutes into the tutorial and then join the rest as if nothing had happened.

And so the tutor comes in, and takes a roll call, noting that K is either missing or late. He begins his tutorial, and then five minutes later, K just walks out of the closet nonchalantly, and said, coolly, "Oh hi, guys. Sorry I'm late."

We try our best to hide our smiles while K takes a seat and takes out his notepad from his bag. Our tutor is stunned for the briefest of moments before shaking his head ever so slightly, smiling, and then continuing his tutorial.

*************************************

We were not your typical group of medical students.

Whenever we had time between classes, we would duck down to the nearby McDonald's on B__ Street.

We would sit there with our fries and Cokes, amongst the young mothers and their children running around them in between bites of nuggets.

Our conversations would start, and then one of us would then make a naughty comment or pose a totally inappropriate-for-family-restaurants "What if?" scenario out of the blue. We would all burst out in laughter, and inevitably, one of us would raise our forearm, and look at the non-existent watch, and then say "Now, how long did that take us that time?"

********************************

We are not your typical group of doctors.

We were sitting over luscious pieces of steak and chips at The Meat and Wine Co. yesterday, the five out of the seven of us reunited after not seeing each other for months. Some of them were meeting K for the first time.

They were eager to show K how she had chosen wrongly. Very wrongly.

It was a truly magical night. We talked and laughed like the good old times, and spoke of our trips abroad. It wasn't long before the very first inappropriate comment and the ensuing "Now, how long did it take us that time?"

Our conversations weaved between the inane and important as we talked about technological advances and teleportation(!), medical ethics, the latest movies, laughed over inside jokes and brooded over our jobs. We laughed, sometimes irreverently, at the things that we had seen or done at work. It was a delayed cathartic release at what would have seemed at the time an unhappy moment or an almost insurmountable moment for us as doctors.

Not wanting to end the night early, they came over to my place, and the conversations continued over hot tea and Youtube clips. We fed off each other's humour and insights, and although we were tired, and work was waiting the very next day for most of us, we wanted to make the most of the here and now; tonight.

Words cannot express how much I truly enjoy sharing nights like these together. I know that it is more than coincidence that we have ended up as groupmates, and I thank God for their presence in my life. I have had the privilege of seeing three of them get married, and I know that this is a friendship that will last throughout the years.

I know that some of my group members who are reading this will be smiling and silently thinking to themselves -

"Man, HK is so gay..."

Ah well, whatever it is, my friends, it needed to be said. :)

So here's to you, Group Sex, atypical medical students, great doctors, and even greater friends.

*************************************
Oh, what a night!
Late December, back in '63,
What a very special time for me,
'Cause I remember what a night.

- Oh, What A Night! Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons

A Time To Drive

2010-02-26T14:30:00.008+11:00

I remember sitting in my university one day, and the lecturer was talking about reflexes.

There are two kinds of reflexes. Firstly, there are those that are natural, which is inbuilt into us as humans. Take for example, accidentally brushing your hand against a boiling pot.

All your brilliantly designed neurones will send a message to one another in a matter of miliseconds and your hand withdraws before your brain even has a chance to say "Er, excuse me, Mr. Cheok. If I may please distract you from your girl ogling for just a moment, and draw your attention this way... this way, please, to your burning hand. Could you please, erm... PULL IT THE *(%^ AWAY!!!"

And then there are reflexes which are learnt - the ones that you become good at after years of doing something, like riding a bike for example, until you can do it without really thinking. There are four stages to this reflex:

Unconscious incompetence

You think to yourself - Riding a bike must be the easiest thing in the world. Look at your five year old neighbour, Loong Loong, happily showing off his crazy bike skills, riding circles around your teenage non-cycling ass, ringing his stupid little bicycle bell mockingly in your face. Stupid runt. I'll show him.

Conscious incompetence

You think to yourself - Oww. This bicycle riding crap is hard! I have fallen off this stupid thing so many times, I've got grass in my nostrils. And there is sand in the cuts on my legs. And in the battle of Bicycle Seat vs. My Groin, let's just say that my future generations are a threatened species.

Conscious competence

You think to yourself - I'm finally doing it! Look Mum, I can finally ride! Whoa, steady there, Mr. Bike. Steady! There, there (pats the bike handlebars calmly, whips his hair out and connects it to the bike using his Tsahaylu). Okay, left, Mr. Bike! Now, right! Now, straight!

Unconscious competence

You don't really even have to think to yourself .You are one with the bike. There is no bike. There is only me. And there is me knocking over Loong Loong while ringing my bell.

Your body learns to do it so well that you could literally "do it in your sleep."

Which brings me to my point:

One of the reflexes that most of us learn in our lifetimes is the driving reflex. I remember wishing that I could drive, finding out that I couldn't, getting palpitations and sweating at the thought of driving into KL city, and finally being able to zip past cars on the Federal Highway without even having to lift a middle finger.

However, since working nights at the ED, I have been travelling home really tired some mornings, and nodding off in the car. It is a dangerous thing, I know. You pull up at a traffic light. There are cars stopped ahead of you. You see these cars in a two-second stroboscopic effect.

Eyes open.
Car with brake lights on.
Eyes close.
Eyes open.
Car with brake lights on.
Eyes close.
Eyes open.
Crap! The light is green, and the car in front has moved really far ahead!

And then you hurriedly press your accelerator, hoping that the car behind you doesn't honk you impatiently. You turn the aircond a little colder, turn the music a little louder, and pinch your nipples. Whatever keeps you awake.

Your reflexes are dulled by your lack of sleep. Reaction times are slower, which is a dangerous thing. Which is why I have resorted to pulling over and taking a nap sometimes which helps somewhat, although not completely. Other times I foolishly try to brave it home.

I think about my sister, and her 36 hour shifts and driving home after that. All I can say is, dear God, would you please look after us.

Amen.

The Hospital's Littlest Pharmacist

2010-02-22T05:42:00.000+11:00

One of the stories from my time in the little town of M:

The doctor picked up his file and looked at his name on the screen. The diagnosis sitting under his name stated that he was "anxious, agitated, thinking bad thoughts."

He was the doctor's first patient that night, and as he walked into the room, he saw the patient sitting on the bed, holding his head in his hands, leaning against the metal plating that reached halfway up the wall.

He was dressed in a dirty white singlet, looking all of his twenty nine years, with a baseball cap covering his cropped hair. He looked like he hadn't showered in days, but the doctor decided that he had seen (and smelt) worse.

The doctor asks the perfunctory questions, whether he was on any medications or had any medical problems. What do you do? the doctor asks by way of making conversation.

Oh, I am involved in you know, my own business, he replies.

Oh good, so you've got your own business eh? the doctor echoes.

What kind of business?

The patient hesitates. Let's just say it's my own business, and I do my best.

So, what's been going on, the doctor asks, sensing that the patient wanted to avoid the subject of work. He starts to talk, and he tells about the stresses going on in his life. About how he's feeling like smashing stuff up, you know, because he's sick of it all. The cops are on my case, you know, when all I am trying to do is make a living.

The doctor's face betrays his curiosity - what kind of job would cause the police to be involved. And suddenly like clockwork everything clicks into place.

The eyes.

The earrings.

The tattoo on his right arm where the doctor had stabbed a Valium needle to calm the patient down.

The metal plate which the patient was leaning against. He was the reason that the metal plate was there. The last time the patient was restrained in this very room he had kicked a hole in the wall.

This was the town's local drug dealer.

The doctor asks him what has brought him here tonight. The guy starts speaking, and as he speaks his face flushes red and his arms gestured strongly. His speech is controlled, with threatening undertones, as he tells his story about how he had an argument with his mother earlier in the day, and overturned the table outside her house. He was sorry, you know, but he can't undo what he's done.

The doctor stands at the table near the exit, listening and gently probing, as a flurry of stories continue. He talks about his past, and how he is now living in his car, and about how he wants to go away somewhere and just be away from people. Maybe lead a quiet farm life. Get away from his family and friends who are troubling him.

And then he talks about the troubled thoughts that have been plaguing him - he gets really upset when he hears from his friends about children getting beaten up or sexually abused, and a few graphically violent crimes happening in town.

He uses his drugs to escape, you know. To pass the hours while waiting for the world to change.

He talks about his ex-partner, and how he drove about an hour away to see her and his newborn child. And how she wouldn't let him in. And so he punched a hole in the door. And then the police came because he had violated his restriction order. He was sorry, you know. He is silent as his eyes well up with tears at the thought of the child he will not see grow up, apart from glimpses from afar.

The doctor ponders the drug dealer from the safe distance of his table. Why should he believe him? He knew what this guy was like the last time he came in. And when the doctor spoke to the psychiatric team, they recognised his name immediately and their response was one of resignation and blaseness.

And yet, in his heart, the doctor felt that here was someone, who was not that different from him.

Who wants to love, and be loved, and live in a world free of trouble and stories that raise questions about our humanity. But someone who didn't have the emotional maturity or resources to deal with it in an adult way.

And so the doctor, not knowing what else to do for him, does the only thing he knows how, and he offers to pray for the patient. The patient is taken aback, but accepts his offer.

The doctor knows that nothing else can save all the years of poor choice that this person has made, nor can he provide the constant support that this person will need, and in his helplessness, he can only offer the help of a higher authority who is all-knowing, all-loving and all-powerful.

I wish I could tell you there was a ray of light that night, a bedside conversion, a miracle. All I can say is, the patient walked out better than when he first came in, and maybe we must claim these small victories in life, and learn to fight another day.

What Karen Did 2: Gong Xi Fa Cai!

2010-02-20T22:53:00.007+11:00

Dear Mum,

I hope that you have had a happy Chinese New Year, and do remember that this is the sixth year of ang pau that I am still waiting on.

I am expecting a very big packet next year. Like an A4 size one.

It was a good but tiring New Year's for us... I was in the middle of working a seven day shift while Karen worked really hard to prepare us a wonderful home-made dinner for a bunch of us on the first night of Chinese New Year.

She really worked her kitchen fingers to the bone, as you can see - there's a fish, braised beef, fried chicken (which became beer chicken after we spilled some beer on it. It was a purposeful accident), some yummy soup, stir-fried asparagus, and - would you believe it - lobak (or ngoh hiang) made from scratch.

We finished off with a wonderful dessert made by Wency, her equally talented housemate. It was a refreshing lychee and mango pudding. Yummy!

Both you and Grace were missed very much this Chinese New Year, and we wish that you were here to try out all these wonderful dishes. We made it as Chinese New Year as we could by buying peanut cookies, peanuts, peanut ice-cream and every peanut thing that we could get our hands on. As you can see, no Chinese New Year is complete without the compulsory lychee and chyrsanthemum drinks from our good friend Yeo Hiap Seng.

I miss your vegetarian dish, though, Mum. It was always a sure sign of Chinese New Year - the fatt choi, the dried foo chook, and the fungi all mixed up with other ingredients I would happily eat but could barely name here. As you can see, we have not upkept the tradition of eating vegetarian on the first day of Chinese New Year. There was at least four different animals on that table that night.

Anyway, have a happy rest of Chinese New Year in Malaysia... I have heard that fireworks are now legal again in Malaysia. Could you please buy some so that we can save it up for when I come back next year in Christmas? It would surely give Santa a fright, and maybe we can steal his presents.

Your loving son,
hK.

What Karen Did

2010-02-19T09:39:00.004+11:00

The new bedroom look: New bedspread, new table, new cupboard, new chair, new facial expression

I know that this post has been awhile coming, but I have been busy with this new hobby of mine: regular work. (Give me back last year!)

But trudging back to Melbourne from Malaysia, with the chains of nostalgia still heavy around my feet, I followed Karen up to my bedroom to unpack.

The first thing that I noticed amiss was that a shelf of mine, which used to be in the bedroom, was sitting out in the landing, and gone were the boxes I kept my piles of in-case-of-emergency-break-cardboard-box trash which I was going to sort through one day.

But walking into the room, and hearing Karen yell "Surprise!", I was really taken aback by the transformation that she had undertaken while I was away.

I could finally see my bedroom floor.

All my books were neatly stacked, and there was this awesome new computer table as well! Sneaky as she was, Karen had managed to enlist the help of a friend, Charles, and my brother to give my room a much needed Extreme Makeover with the help of our good friend Mr. Ikea.

And so now my room has a different feel. The light enters in a different way, there is more space to move around, and even Lillian Too, feng shui master (mistress?) extraordinaire would approve, saying that the wind and water flow is now causing the dragon to rouse from his slumber and eat the phoenix for breakfast. (Why do people even pay money for this?)

Anyways, a very big thank you to everyone who directly or indirectly conspired with Karen to make my room that little more liveable!

Happy Chinese New Year!

2010-02-12T23:10:00.003+11:00

Year of the Memoirs of a Geisha Tiger .

I know it's a little premature, but I would like to wish you all a Happy Chinese New Year.

May it be one filled with wooden crates which give you splinters as you try to get to the kam trapped inside.

One filled with Yeo's Chrysanthemum Tea and Lychee drinks, visiting relatives, watching recent Hong Kong blockbusters on the TV, repetitive painful Chinese New Year songs in the supermarkets, new clothes, mahjong tables and playing cards, your lucky red underwear winning you heaps of money, Chinese New Year cookies, and heaps of lo sang. And enough ang paus to make your own ang pau paper fan.

Kong Hei Fatt Choy!

Someone please put me in a crate and send me back to Malaysia!

Aku Tahu Apa Yang Aku Buat Musim Panas Lepas*

2010-02-08T23:28:00.001+11:00

Well, this week, my year off has officially ended. I think that it has truly been a fulfilling year, as I have written in my earlier entry, which culminated in the trip to Europe (which I promise will be up, within the year, haha!) and Singapore, and a wonderful month in Malaysia.

It was a truly magnificent trip back to Malaysia this time, and a really fulfilling one. These were some of the things that I managed to get up to:

1) Spending quality time with the family. I truly appreciate being back home. Even if it means just sitting in the living room in the mornings, reading The Star newspaper and leisurely filling in the cryptic crossword puzzles, or talking to Mum under the ceiling fan. I also love reading a good comic book on my bed (Shin Chan!) and it's great to be able to do that when you're almost t__ty!(_0!) years old.

We also had a great trip to Genting Highlands as a family, where we got to enjoy meals together (ie. Kenny Roger's Roasters with the repetitive werewolf howl from the nearby haunted house driving us absolutely insane) and getting to watch a movie together (Bodyguards and Assassins, which was quite a good watch) and this:

Absolute utter madness for the whole day. No outdoor ride was spared as we queued up for all the rides while Mum sat patiently for us, waiting for the horrible news that her three children were stuck up somewhere in the Space Shot, or thrown off the Corkscrew. Although I must say that she was really sporting and joined my brother on the violently swinging Pirate Ship. It was a day of near-death experiences on every ride and screaming out expletives in every language at the top of our lungs!

And yes, I have officially hooked them all onto the soundtrack of Avenue Q. My brother is still waiting to kill me for permanently burning The Internet Is For Porn into his head.

There was of course, the wonderful dinner with the extended family, and also a trip to Ipoh, where we met cousins who were so-many-times-removed until we were possibly not related anymore!

Our uncle kindly took us around in his car to show us the sights of all the wonderful small towns near Ipoh - from the dilapidated and haunted small town of Papan, to the kuih-muih town of Pusing, to the wonderful seafood lunch at the mining town of Tualang and finally, to my mother's home town in the little known town of Chemor.

Oh, and guess what - we actually got to visit the famous town of Tanjung Rambutan, which till today is still synonymous with the psychiatric institute there. I remember as kids, when we wanted to say indirectly that someone had lost their marbles, we would affectionately tell them to go to Tanjung Rambutan.

My uncle tried to drop me off several times but they wouldn't take me.

2) Spending time with friends. It was a really satisfying time of catching up, from listening to a good friend's testimony in his new church, to the lunch and dinner catch-ups with old friends which I always look forward to when I go home.

I always love trading stories with all my friends in Malaysia, to find out where everyone is in this year of their life. It is like having a stroboscopic relationship where you hear and see your friends grow year by year. I feel this great sense of comfort and belonging as we weave our stories and shared memories together. In many ways, they do complete the person that I am.

3) Cleaning up the house. I have spent a tiny fortune on photo albums, such that the people in Popular bookstore have been sending me flower wreaths thanking me for putting their children through college.

I am glad to have been able to clean up our wonderful home in TD, rearranging all our photos, throwing away decades old stuff, and also getting inspired by my little sister to actually wipe away thirty year old dust bunnies. These weren't dust bunnies anymore. They were more like Resident Evil Dust Zombies. Or Dustzilla.

We sold thousands of ringgit worth of old electronic goods to an electronic scrap man for the grand total of - wait for it - ninety ringgit. Four monitors, three CPUs, one big TV, an electronic typewriter and a fax machine. Ninety ringgit. I should have welded everything together, and hawked it off as an art piece for millions instead. Or started my own haram ma kei (illegal electronic horse-racing betting) centre.

4) Movies! Unlike my last visits to KL, this time I averaged almost a movie a week while I was back. I got to watch Avatar, Bodyguards and Assasins, Tiger WooHoo and the regrettable Cirque du Freak: The Vampire's Assistant. Four movies! Four times the caramel popcorn! Woohoo!

5) Whiiii! My brother bought a Wii for my family for Christmas, and like all good presents that we buy for the family, he and I ended up playing the most with it! I have sacrficed a total of 68 hours of my life trying to complete The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, which I failed to do! Curse you Nintendo for robbing me of precious hours I could have spent playing with the computer instead!

My Mum and Mii (clockwise from top left) Me trying to show her how to play bowling. Mum tries it, and finds out she is very good. A very dejected me owes my Mum five ringgit for losing to her.

6) The Wedding. I got married, and you all missed it! Hahaha! No, it was a good friend's wedding from OCF which I got to host, and it was good fun, although, as usual, everyone thinks I am an idiot by the end of it.

And they ring the people to come with their straitjackets and bring me to - you guessed it - see number 1.

(Tanjung Rambutan, that is, not Genting Highlands. Genting Highlands is for rich mad people.)

So, a truly magical trip back home, and returning every year, I am still deeply in love with Malaysia. It's like going back to see your mistress. Only thing is, she is actually your wife.

*translated: I Know What I Did Last Summer. Not as punchy in Malay, though.

Your Grandfather's Road

2010-02-07T18:35:00.005+11:00

One of the good friends that I got to catch up with this time around was M. We used to share the same classrooms and I can safely say that he was formative in the development of my current sense of humour (ie. the type which gets me slapped by random women. Haha!).

Like all good boys, we went to the science stream and learnt about anatomy and what little chemical molecules did to each other when we weren't looking.

But it is M who has doggedly pursued his dreams of the theatre and film. Where a lot of us were spouting ambitions of becoming a writer or a singer but are now pushing papers or at a computer desk job fighting our colleagues for promotion, M has instead taken charge of his God given destiny.

He has gotten his hands dirty in the entertainment industry, first by picking up roles in local theatre productions and sitcoms, taking up theatre studies in Melbourne (I was privileged to witness some of his early works) and now producing quality films and movies in Malaysia, as was his lifelong ambition.

He is living his dream, with its incumbent days of stress and physical toll on his body, but whenever I see M, he is only a picture of happiness and true passion about his work. You can check out his directing work on this trailer, a miniseries premiered on Astro shot in the style of a movie.

Which is why I have the privilege of introducing Your Grandfather's Road, a Malaysian-first effort where the eventual movie will be based on your ideas and your comments. A movie by the people.

The premise is simple. Every day a story is published and a question is asked. Every day you get to leave your story or memories in the comment box. Later, they will put together your ideas into a script and then shoot the movie.

That's all.

So feel free, my friends, to contribute ideas, and even financially, if you so decide. It's truly your chance to be part of something great.

Tiger WooHoo!

2010-02-06T14:07:00.012+11:00

Tiger WooHoo! (大日子)

I have had very little reason to cheer for Malaysian cinema growing up. We were still watching the black and white movies of the late P.Ramlee to soothe the nagging feeling that all was not well with Malaysian modern cinema.

I remember watching this film years ago, with my good friend M, and we went to watch this painful film Dari Jemapoh Ke Manchester; the bad taste of which I had in my mouth still lingering till this very day. Hahaha!

It was poorly shot, poorly scripted and the cast were unbearable to watch. I remember one of the (horribly yucky) lines from the film:

Girl holds banana fritter in her hands and eyes it seductively.

G:Do you know what they call goreng pisang (banana fritter) in Germany?

B: No... What is it called?

G: (with fake British accent) Gaw-ring pee-sang.

[Insert incredulous (as in, I can't believe that crap was in the script) laughter here. By the girl.] [And the audience.]

I really resent how they assumed that the people watching the show had the intelligence of a group of orangutans and that if they threw this rubbish our way, we would just welcome it with open arms.

But Malaysian cinema has inspired hope of recent years - I unashamedly lapped up all of Yasmin Ahmad's works and respected her noble efforts to tell a story and impart life lessons using the big and small screens.

I also remember walking out of Spinning Gasing years ago really enjoying the show, another Malaysian love-story-and-road-trip combination. It had good production values, a stellar cast and weaved great Malaysian tradition with modern city love. Unfortunately, I don't think it did too well commercially.

Which is why I was initially skeptical of Tiger WooHoo!, Malaysia's first homemade Chinese New Year show about the rare tiger dance practised in some parts of Malaysia.

(It only hit me now that we normally see a lion dance, not a tiger one! Woohoo!)

What was interesting, however, was that when I was waiting in line at GSC Megamall trying to buy tickets for the entirely forgettable Hollywood production of Cirque du Freak: The Vampire's Assistant or James Cameron's epic Avatar, I couldn't help but notice that Tiger Woo Hoo was selling out every evening on a weekday, and completely sold out on weekends.

It was this curiosity that finally brought my Mum and I to the queue one Friday afternoon to buy tickets for the show. And we weren't disappointed. It played to a packed house on a Friday afternoon, and it was a wonderful rollercoaster of laughter and the occasional tears. The camerawork was professional, and the cast was endearing. It was really quite heartwarming!

Okay, so it may not win awards the world over, but at least it's a heck of a start. I have heard it compared to a moderate-sized HK or Taiwan film, which I think is fair enough. And the Malaysian audience appreciate the respect this movie has shown them, and they are repaying it by turning up in droves, and parting gladly with their hard-earned ringgit.

Go watch it with your family!

Sang Yat Fai Lok

2010-02-05T12:39:00.007+11:00

The Husband of My Mother's Sister

"Hey dude, can you do me a favour, and pick out a cake for him?" I hastily smsed my brother.

The rain was starting to pour torrentially, the wind wailing and the heavy drops lashing against our car as if the sky were mourning the death of her father.

We were headed to an extended family reunion at a Chinese restaurant, and we wanted to surprise my uncle for his birthday with a cake.

Tradition

As I was categorising the photos these holidays, I have compiled a whole album dedicated to the gatherings that we used to have for my Popo's birthdays.

Once a year, the three families in KL, and occasionally the ones from Ipoh would gather around a Chinese feast of eight courses, commemorating my grandmother's birthday.

This has gone on for as long as I can remember - we were little kids when this annual tradition was started. My older cousin sister - their daughter - would often entertain us three little runts by making star shapes from five pliable toothpicks, and then making a necklace out of them. My cousin brother would often tease us about how fat or dark we had become.

It was a great time of family togetherness and laughter shared over a lavish spread. Scraping by on my parent's income with the three of us as well, this would often be our only shark's fin meal of the year. And it is through the generosity of my uncle, who would always foot the bill, that we were able to have this annual tradition, one that we still cherish till today.

Although it has dissipated somewhat in our later years, what with Popo staying up in Ipoh on occasion, and the rest of the younger generation scattered all around the world, the three of us have taken it upon ourselves to carry on this wonderful family tradition. So it may not be her birthday, but it was a great occasion to meet up anyway.

Salt of the Earth

We listened as little children about how Ee Cheong was so poor, and yet very determined. He would study under the streetlamps and even traffic lights when the generators went off at a certain hour of the night in the small town where he lived.

He got his degree in chemical engineering, one of the few, if not the only person in his family with a university degree. He worked hard for one of the big petroleum companies in Malaysia, and this sense of achievement carried on in his daughter, our Piu Je, who was one of the first among our generations to be a doctor.

His humble beginnings, though, has kept Ee Cheong fairly down-to-earth. He was a man of fewer words in his younger days, but he would always smile and wave away our thanks after Popo's annual dinners. Money was secondary for the priceless memories that we were afforded.

Surprise!

The eight-course dinner ends, and the modern sturdy, sharp toothpicks (which had no star-making potential whatsoever) dangle out of one or two of our mouths tere. We are mulling over dessert after a filling dinner, and ready to leave.

The waiter brings out the cake box, and although indiscreet, my uncle peers out of the corner of his eyes disinterestedly and suspects nothing.

But suddenly the cake is revealed, and he is genuinely surprised. You could see him blush through his tanned skin, and his grin stretches from ear to ear, crinkling his face and hiding his eyes for a moment.

"You guys ah... Sneaky..." his finger wags in our direction playfully.

The candle is lit and our voices resonate through the restaurant in singing him a happy birthday. He blows out the candles, still grinning like a little boy.

As we are eating our cake, he suddenly speaks. I know that it had taken all the courage in the world for him to do so.

"Hey, guys, really ah... Thank you." He swallows. "I am a man who is rarely able to express himself, but truly, thank you."

"You know, we never really had birthday cakes growing up and when you're poor, birthdays were just another day in the year. It was a luxury that we could not afford, you know? So you guys ah, surprising me like this ah..." He grins. "I really don't have to words to tell you how truly appreciative I am."

He swallows hard again, his eyes fixed on his plate, and for the briefest of moment his smile disappears. It reappears quickly though, as he reaches for his fork and helps himself to a little more cake.

We sit in slightly awkward silence, not knowing how best to respond to this outpouring of gratitude. Here was a man who had blessed us all these years with a tradition that we cherish until this day, and yet his thankfulness was all the more humbling in that regard.

We ended the night with raucous conversation and laughter, and left the restaurant into the night.She was quiet now, tired after her sudden emotional outburst - the deep puddles of water which we skipped around gingerly the only remaining evidence of her crying that night.

*****************************************************************************

(Postscript: Driving home that night, I thought about this show I watched, based on a true story. It was called Fighting The Odds: The Marilyn Gambrell Story, and it was about a parole officer who starts up a programme called 'No More Victims' in a high school in the US. This programme was targeted at the children who had parents in jail, who were six times more likely to end up in jail themselves, in order to stop the trend.

There is this one scene, where one of the toughest kids in class in surprised by his classmates with a birthday cake. They surround him, and sing out to him at the top of their voices, and he is doing his best to pretend to be unmoved by his friends and teacher. He is frowning, and his stance is defensive, but the tears suddenly flow freely and his body shakes with his sobs.

It was the first time in all his seventeen years that anyone remembered his birthday. It was his first birthday cake ever.

I think about my childhood and all the birthdays that we had. Sure, we never had grand parties or lavish gifts, but Mum always insisted that there would be cake. The cake reminded us that we were remembered, and our milestones celebrated, but above all, that we were loved.)

The Barber and His Prostitutes

2010-01-26T19:14:00.009+11:00

I made my annual pilgrimage to my barber today at EP.

It is one of those dilapidated shopping malls near where I used to go to university. You know the one - with a Carrefour and a Fajar to anchor it, and a few small businesses run by Malay and Chinese owners. One of the smaller malls.

I parked at the same spot near the lifts from memory, and pressed the button to the second floor. I walked past the same old back corridor with its rows of little known or neglected shops.

At the first corner, there was a lady with immaculate skin, dyed hair and a little too much makeup. She is wearing a black blouse and a denim miniskirt, and solicits me in Mandarin. I shake my head, and look down and keep walking.

I am approached by a second girl about ten metres in, almost a carbon copy of the earlier girl.

She is trying to entice me to buy something, but I did not possess enough Mandarin to understand her, and I kept walking with my head bowed and my hands in my bermuda pockets.

She is persistent and follows me for a little while, but I hear her voice slowly fade in her rapidfire Mandarin as I hurried away from her.

My Once A Year Barber

I arrive at the familiar barber shop and plop myself down on one of the waiting couches. I look at my barber, who is meticulously cutting the hair of the customer before me. He looks up for the briefest of moments with a slight nod of acknowledgement.

He belonged here - his hair dyed, short at the sides but long behind (I wondered who cut his hair for him), his wide-collared workshirt made him look more like he was going to a nightclub than to work, his fake Levi's jeans held up by an equally unauthentic Louis Vuitton belt, and his boots harked back to an era where it was still fashionable to wear Doc Martens. He looked youthful for his forty-something years, although his tanned, sagging cheeks were starting to tell a different story.

The corner shop is over a decade old, as evidenced by the yellowing cover of the hot water showers where he washes customer's hair, and the cushions looked unchanged. I peer over at a pile of Mandarin and English magazines for waiting customers, some of them dating back to when the shop first opened.

There was a printed sign detailing the prices - "Adult Cut - RM13, Teenager Cut RM 10- 13, Hair Dye..." and underneath there was a sign hastily scratched in red marker pen - " Untuk Tahun Baru Cina - Tambah RM 3." (" In Keeping with the Chinese New Year Celebrations - Add RM3.")

He was a little too meticulous if you asked me, because he took a whole half hour to complete the haircut of the gentleman before me, and I had to pee once while waiting, making my way past the Chinese women who were unrelenting in trying to get me to try whatever it was they were selling.

Just A Little Off The Top, Please

It was finally my turn, and I told him how I wanted it in Cantonese - short at the sides and back, and a little off the top. And leave the sideburns alone.

He reached for his comb and started raking my hair, while making his all-too-familiar customary greeting of how I had very sparse hair for someone so young. And as usual, I grunted my non- commital Hai lo (Yeah, lah).

He wraps a tea towel around my neck to protect it from the vengeful prickly stray hairs that would fall victim to his scissors today, and wraps a colourful protective plastic sheet over my body.

He reaches first for the clippers, and begins the uphill slopes that would form the new landscapes of my side and back profiles.

He starts the compulsory chatter, and asks me if I am going anywhere for the Chinese New Year.

Not wanting to let him know that I was going back to Melbourne, in case he decides to charge me more than the RM 16 that he was going to rip off me, I tell him No, not really.

I ask him where he's from, and he said that he was from around here, although his parents were from elsewhere. One corner of his mouth lifted into a smile as he reminisced how he would never stay in one place for too long. Even as a barber, he would not stay in any shop for more than a year because of his wanderlust.

That was before his daughter came along, of course. She was about five months old when he started work here in KL, and now, over a decade later, she was almost ready for secondary school. Her younger brother, who wasn't even born yet, is now in his first year of primary school. Sap yat lin le... (Eleven years already le...), in the same shop. I did a quick calculation to try and remember how long I have been coming back to him for.

The Women

We stray into a moment of silence as he reaches for the scissors and comb, and the sporadic but persistent shouts from the Chinese women, outside jolt him -

"An mo, lau pan! Ni yau mah?" (Massage, sir, for you?)

"Tiu le ah seng ah... Hai yau kiu, mm hai yau kiu..." (Fuck you, man... these women, ah, calling all day long you know...) he complains.

He starts to work on my hair, and his eyes are intent as he manicures my head. He has perfected the art of talking while cutting hair, though, and he starts talking about the Chinese women whose voice continue to call out to every man unfortunate enough to pass within sight of the corridors.

A Foot Job

This was a very well known phenomenon in Malaysia - immigrant Chinese women from China masquerading as foot masseuse who offered "extra" (read: sexual) services for an additional fee.

Jimmy, my barber, talks about how these centres have started to sprout in the past few years. He talks about how desperate these women were for customers - usually men in their forties or fifties, who may be able to resist their siren calls maybe for the first six months, but who usually give in to their persistence in the end.

(An mo, lau pan!)

He reminisces about a father and son who ran a shop upstairs from him, and who were his regular customers. The father was in all sense a straight man - he didn't smoke or drink, and had no vices as far as the son knew. Then one day, out of the blue, the father elopes with one of the women downstairs to China, leaving his wife and children high and dry.

The last time Jimmy cut the hair of the son, apparently the father had returned several years later to KL, devoid of money, too embarrassed to reconnect with the wife or children, who refused to acknowledge him.

Love Potion Chiu Hau (No.9)

Ngo mm zhi lei sun mm sun la, pat ko ngo sun hei tei yau lok took ke... It tit lo yan yum do ke si ah... met yeh te pei sai hei tei ke... (I don't know if you believe it or not, but I believe that these women have probably put some charm into their drink or food, and once the old man consumes it, he is finished. He will give everything to them, and there's nothing the family can do about it.)

Moh, moh...

Kam lei ke sang yi tim ah? (So how's your business?) I ask him.

Ngo ke pang yau tong ngo kong, wah, Jimmy, lei yau ho le... yat yat te yau kam to leng lui pooi jhu lei... tiu lei ah seng ah... (My friends keep telling me about how lucky I am to be surrounded by pretty girls, but fuck them, what do they know...)

He tells me about how these women have been harassing his customers, even teenage boys, until his business has suffered. Their favorite targets were the polite old men, who usually succumbed after repeated requests. The women were almost a law unto themselves, unafraid to gang up, three, even four, at a time, and harass a male customer until he said yes.

(An mo, lau pan! Yau mah?)

Jimmy almost spat as he recounted how they would even wait outside the toilet near his barber shop to wait until a man had finished his business, and then harass him again. His recollection is peppered with expletives as he recounts how his earnings have gone down from two to three thousand ringgit a month to just a paltry thousand over now, as long-time customers were reluctant to return due to these female vultures.

Hair-raising

(AN MO, LAU PAN!)

Suddenly Jimmy erupts, and he looks outside of his shop and yells to no one in particular "FREE FARK KING!!" "FREE FARK KING!!" He does a little ridiculous sarcastic dance with his comb and scissors, and returns to my head, scowling.

Moh, moh, moh... Moh lei ke hai lah, moh! (Massage, massage, massage, massage your [rhymes with vagina] lah, massage!) he mutters under his breath.

I listened in silence, the rhythmic snipsnipsnip of the scissors playing near my ears, and watched my reflection in the mirror. I could see one or two Chinese women walking past my mirror, their dyed curls curtaining their dolled up faces, throwing disinterested glances towards Jimmy, who was having a great time cursing them.

Jimmy then calmed down as he continued his foray into my half-sculpted head, and then recounts how he knew of customers who were regular visitors to these massage parlors, who would get a handjob while waiting for their turn to have their hair cut in his shop.

He laughs as he tells of the men who wouldn't last five minutes, and who would have to part with RM30 for the pleasure. Some were longer lasting, though, and he recollects one person who went for hours, with both the customer and the prostitute bathed in sweat by the time they were done.

The Barber and His Prostitute

He was no angel himself, reminisced Jimmy, as he put the finishing touches to my head. He remembers visiting a prostitute himself in the early days of his marriage. He had just had an argument with his young wife and was looking for someplace to blow off steam.

He ended up hiring a hooker, and they went to a nearby hotel, but in his own words - fuck knows why it took him so long to come that night. He might have been feeling uneasy he says, but laughs as he recollects how after 'playing' for an hour, he still didn't ejaculate, which was the standard ending transaction here in Malaysia.

The Chinese prostitute, exasperated, told him that if he wanted to continue, he would have to pay extra, which he refused. And according to him, she dressed so fast it made his head spin, and was walking the streets again before you could say "blow job".

(An mo!)

The protective plastic cover came off first, followed by the tea towel, which Jimmy lashed a few times against my neck to rid me of any stray remaining hairs. I reach into my wallet and pull out two ten ringgit notes and hand them to him.

Mm sai chaw lah... (Keep the change) I tell him, thinking about his two children.

Ho, Gong Hei Fatt Choi ah... (Okay, Happy Chinese New Year ah...) Jimmy said, smiling, as he turned to clean his barber's chair of my loose hair, and reaches for the broom to sweep up an hour's worth of severed foliage.

I walk away from the shop in a different direction, and the mamasan, sitting in a corner, who has probably observed my alliance with the barber, watches me out of the corner of her eye, and does not call out to me.

Other People's Love Stories: Stalker

2010-01-26T02:25:00.002+11:00

With thanks to my friends who share their stories with much enthusiasm and laughter.

Stalker, MD.

She worked at one of the hospitals in KL, and she had just passed one of her major exams. Medicine had always been a daily battle for her so she was relieved and a little ecstatic at overcoming this hurdle; she no longer had to balance work and studies for the time being.

Out of the blue, she receives an sms. Congratulations! it read. I always knew you could done it! Can I please lend your note for my exam?:)

She looked at the name, and let out a little laugh. His English was quite telling, certain trends had set in since his days in Chinese school. She could picture the junior medical officer now - glasses, untidy hair, pleasant enough but mostly unremarkable. Someone who knew his medical stuff well, but who did not necessarily win the aunties over with his demeanour.

Sure, she smsed back, you can have my notes. Good luck for your exams!

That was the start of all her troubles.

He came over to collect the notes from her one day, and they exchanged some pleasantries. She may have smiled, she can't remember now.

Somehow he took the act of her handing him her study notes as a sign of interest.

He started acting as if they were a couple - he would come up to her during ward rounds and find out what she was up to, or try and sit with her during lunch. It was every other day at first, then every day.

Her senior medical officer friends initially teased her as soon as he left the table, but then the joke started wearing thin as it ran into weeks, and they could see the signs of worry clouding her face. They stopped their teasing and took to protecting her instead.

They would be on the look out for him, and warned her every time he approached. There were times when the very sight of him would drive her to choose another corridor to walk through quickly, or to duck into toilets just to avoid him.

And then there were the smses. And the incessant phone calls. One time, she couldn't take it anymore, and switched off her phone for several hours just to avoid speaking to him. When she turned on her phone again, she gasped, partially in disbelief, and partially out of fear.

27 missed calls. His name and number.

She had confronted him, and told the guy already in no uncertain terms that she wasn't interested and that there was no way in hell that there was ever going to be a relationship. But she seemed to be talking to a wall, as he just stared blankly ahead, as if his whole being just deflected her arguments by sheer will of denial.

The Duel

This went on for several months, and she was losing sleep and dreading the thought of going to work. She knew that she had to resort to some drastic measures to get the message through to him.

She had a friend, whose brother was a bit of a gangster. Tough looking guy - tanned, muscles, tattoos - the air of someone possibly involved in the triads.

She told him her problem. He nodded as if he had heard this before; as if he had to protect women like herself from situations like this all the time.

No problem, he stated boldly. Leave it to me.

He got straight onto the job, and confronted this guy one day. Right in the hospital cafeteria, as people were milling around trying to get some lunch.

He walked up to this doctor, and asked him for his name.

The stalker looked a little confused, and smiled an uneasy smile as he told him his name. The pretend boyfriend immediately went to work.

I heard you've been harassing my girlfriend ah!! Well, you know what, buddy, you'd better leave ____ alone, because she's my girlfriend okay? the friend's brother snarled threateningly, his voice raising to a shout, his index finger within inches of the doctor's face. Otherwise you're going to get into a hell lot of trouble, you hear me!?!!

A few of the curious midday crowd had turned their heads to watch this drama enfold. There was a tense pocket of silence around them, as the crowd tried their worst to mind their own business.

The stalker doctor looked up at the guy unflinchingly, and raised his hand slowly.

It seemed like an eternity before his next move, which completely threw Mr. Gangster Pretend-Boyfriend off - the doctor patted him patronisingly on his shoulder and said with a confident smile, "May the best man win."

(At this point of her description, I burst out laughing and just screamed an incredulous "What?")

The stalker doctor got transferred out of the hospital eventually but he continued to haunt her from afar - he would make the long trip from his hospital to her's just to keep up his pursuit of her.

This was really starting to get ridiculous, and so she finally confided to her boss one day about what was going on.

The boss got in touch with the Department head at the other hospital, and the Department Head threatened the stalker doctor that if he continued to harass her, he would lose his job.

That finally did it, as the real threat of losing his job finally snapped the guy out of his trance and he left her alone after that.

Her ordeal for the past few months had ended as abruptly as it had begun, and she could finally break out of this nightmare state, and regain some semblance of normalcy again.

I love this story, as told by one of my friends, regarding her sister.

I will never understand the real fear of being obssessed over by someone to the point of fearing for your own safety.

As much as I want to feel disgust for the antiprotagonist in this story, I felt more pity at how maladjusted and awkward some of us truly are (I will admit that I am too, to some extent) when it comes to dealing with the opposite sex sometimes.

A Tiny Bit Of This, A Little Dash of That

2010-01-20T00:42:00.003+11:00

She sat across from me, her impish grin broadening and gleaming eyes reminiscent of the little girl.

Masak-masak

So I was maybe like five years old, right? And my mum wouldn't let me into the kitchen, but I would watch her from afar, my eyes reflecting the fire of the stove as I watched in wide-eyed wonder at how Mummy was so good at cooking.

I decided to try it myself one day - Mum and Dad were both out at work, and the nanny wouldn't come until about ten a.m.

And so I spotted my chance - I knew exactly what I wanted to cook, and so my tiny little feet hurried to the aquarium.

I thought Dad wouldn't notice one missing goldfish.

I made a mistake of choosing the most obvious goldfish - the big one that Dad affectionately calls Goldie. What do you mean, why Goldie? He was the easiest to catch, what!

And so I turned on the fire on the stove, and carried the heavy frying pan with both my tiny hands and plopped it onto the fire. Just like how I saw mum do.

But you know what? I forgot to add oil, so Goldie started sticking to the pan.

(hK's note: At this point, I don't think a lack of oil was her greatest problem. You know.)

Suddenly my nanny walked in and her eyes bulged in horror as she flailed her pointing finger at me and screamed "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!".

She was very good, my nanny, and she cleaned up all the evidence of Goldie's Death-By-Frying-Pan.

Dad actually noticed Goldie was missing and he was really upset but he never really found out what happened to her.

Then there was this other time the same year when I was trying to fry fruits, right...

Choose The Flowers. Definitely Choose The Flowers.

2010-01-13T14:25:00.003+11:00

So I caught fifteen minutes of this Boys Over Flowers thing that has been reported in the comments section two entries ago.

And I have come to this conclusion -

Recipe To Making Success Korean Drama

1. Make no worry about produtions value. People no worry about productions varlue if all actors beautiful pretty handsome.

2. Take impossibrly cute actress. Only one. Or two. Make few boy fight over her. Make not so pretty girl bad. Villain. Make biewer hate ugly person.

3. Few boy must be unnaturaly handsrome as well. No pimples. In Korean, no boys have pimples when puberty. We killll all those pimples boy.

4. Pretty girl must make wear short short school skirt. In case, some old Japanese biewer watching. Appeal big big market.

5. Take impossibrly cute actress. Make her remember sad sad time with unaturaly handsrome old boyfriend. Cry a lot. On shoulder of unaturaly handsrome old boyfriends new girlfriend. Who seem to be understanding. But actually thinking of way to kill impossibrly cute actress. Take shot of new girlfriend evil sideway look eyes.

6. Make new no-pimple boy with dye hair come into picture. Make him almost bad boy by pinning earring on left ear.

IMPORTANT NOTES: Make sure earring left ear. No right ear. Unless you want make new no-pimple boy love unnaturraly handsrome boy. Appeal big big market.

7. Put in some badevil ex-girlfriend (not so pretty cute). Make her turn up at unnaturaly handsrome boy birthday and make him lose face.

8. Mix in pop Korean song. Not so popular in Korea. But outside people no know that. They buy soundtrack lots lots. Especially old Japanese biewer.

9. New no-pimple boy is a bit bad boy. But good heart. And smile that can melt frozen Eskimo Polar Bear's Ice Cream. Finally save impossibrly cute actress from badevil ex-girlfriend or unnaturaly handsrome new boyfriend's new girlfriend with evil sideways look and fall in love. Live happrily ever after. Or until high school ends.

10. If very success. Make sequel. Follow same recipe as above. But use new beautiful pretty handsrome persons. But use same ugly persons. They no so expensive to salary.

With apologies to my friends who have stayed up past their bed times watching the boy with the Most Kissable Lips. Hahahaha!

I Wish I Could Go Back To College/High School

2010-01-09T16:22:00.004+11:00

One of my little projects this time returning home is the wholesale cleaning of the house. Our house is a humble little terrace house in which a modest little family has been accumulating rubbish for the past thirty years.

If you think I am joking, let me just point out that two of the rooms in my house have been unofficially converted into storage rooms (or store rooms as we affectionately know them).

My mum has said that I have "choong sau" (which literally means a heavy hand) meaning that I have been totally unsentimental and remorseless with getting rid of junk. That's me, the Nazi Against Sentimentality. The Anti Pack-Rat. The Scourge of Hoarders.

That was until I got to my room and started cleaning out my stuff, and dug up things from my high school, college and University days. A pile of cards, some of them beautifully handmade, some old school magazines and many pictures of me, eternally young in the various snapshots and photographs.

Wave after wave of nostalgia hit me, and reminded me that once upon several times, I had large groups of friends, penpals and secret admirers who remembered your birthday, agonised over which words to materialise their feelings and bravely inhaled the potential poisons of glittery stars and magic marker pens in order to tell you that someone was thinking about you.

Why is it that the passage of time makes friends that you swore once you would keep forever uncomfortable strangers once both of you went back on your promise to Keep In Touch, or the passage into adulthood necessitate that we drift further apart from these big groups into our little islands of isolation and self-sufficiency?

I remember watching Avenue Q with K in London, and there is a song there called I Wish I Could Go Back to College, a wistful look back to simpler and happier times, and well, isn't that the truth.

I put the cards and photographs away, knowing that they will sit there for another thirty years.

Happy New Year 2010

2010-01-03T22:23:00.002+11:00

Wow! After what has been a prolonged absence from the blog, I can finally say that I am back! And it feels good to be writing again!

First things first, a very Happy New Year to all of you readers. 2010 always seems like a year of completion, there's a certain definitiveness to the number, and may it be one where we tie off loose ends in order to start anew.

For many of my friends around my age, this would be the year that we alter drop our first digit and replace it with a slightly larger one. I am beginning to like the thought of thirty, though, and I don't think that it will be an absent decade for me (I certainly hope not!). There are many things to look forward to, new experiences to be shared, and heaps of growing up to be done!

So to all my readers, families and friends, have a safe 2010. May it be a year filled with stories, and one where you have lived life to its fullest with all its associated joy and tears, like how He intended.

P.S. Karen and I are trying to compile all our trip experiences into a separate blog, and we will let you know the address once everything's up and running! It was an amazing trip, and we hope you can share it with us!

Basel. Paris. London.

2009-11-27T12:49:00.004+11:00

Finally, the trip to Europe has arrived!

It has been a really interesting year off, of which the highlights include:

1) Journeying together with Karen - I am blessed to have spent this year with Karen discovering old and new things about each other and making new friends along the way! Who would have thought that we would have come this far from a simple badminton game all those months ago! And at the risk of being soppy (readers, please avert your eyes if easily nauseated) Beebee, I love you!

2) Travelling - both for work and pleasure. I wanted to have marked off all the states in Australia by the end of this year, but I have only managed half - Brisbane, Adelaide and New South Wales, which leaves Perth, Tasmania, Northern Territory and Canberra!

It has been a good time working in both M. and K., though, and making like-minded new friends along the way.

And saying hello again to hospitable friends whom I have not seen in years, of course!

3) Visits from friends and family to Melbourne - this year has seen an unparalleled number of visits from overseas friends and family, with Mum and Grace coming from Malaysia, and friends from a whole host of countries and interstate - Perth, Brisbane, London, Singapore, Switzerland and New Zealand.

4) Personal development - I can now spell the whole alphabet from A to W. (D'oh!)

Man, I am not sure how much I have grown as a person, but I'd like to believe I have matured a little bit more this year, having seen quite a few things both personally and professionally. It is the stories of my friends that remind me of who I am, and also teach me the lessons to help me through this life. I thank God for everything that I have been allowed to taste this year, both the bitter and the sweet.

It has truly been a deeply fulfilling year, and I carry so many stories with me that this blog will not possibly hold, which I can't wait to share with you when I see you.

To all my friends, family and readers, thank you for journeying with me and reading my blog. It means a lot to me to be able to walk together with all of you. Pray for us as we travel to the different countries, and wrap up this year with a bit of restful relaxation.

I love you all, truly I do.

Road Trip Australia: Adelaide

2009-11-26T13:37:00.010+11:00

It was a spur of the moment decision - a friend was coming down from Singapore to Adelaide for a conference, and asked me to remind him which state of Australia I was in again.

And before I knew it, I was on a plane to Adelaide, for the first time ever in my life, not only to catch up with him, but with some other friends that I hadn't seen in forever.

I touched down and absorbed the airport with my eyes, and walked steadily towards the exit where a friend was waiting to pick me up. I hadn't seen Sel in 7 years, and it was like we never left. Sel has this amazing sense of humour and the best/worst stories ever from his schooldays. He dropped me off at where I was going to live those two nights.

I was going to bunk with Vic at Hindley Street - the King Street equivalent of Melbourne. If that still doesn't make sense to you, think poles and women dancing on it. Scantily-dressed women.

It was quite a vibrant part of town, and Vic and I was walking up and down the streets looking for something to eat (and if there happened to be pole-dancing women in the establishment, well, so be it. Hahaha!) but most of the restaurants were closed and we ended up having dinner at a Lebanese restaurant.

Day 2

I got up really early the next morning as Vic had to attend his conference, and I wanted to take in the scenic sights of Adelaide.

The first photo worthy picture on the top left - seriously! But it did get better after that! :)

It took me about half an hour of walking before I actually saw anything photo-worthy in Adelaide! I must have been walking in the wrong part of the city, but I was really giving up on finding anything, when everything fell into place:

Beautiful gardens in the city periphery - the poor girl has been squatting there forever while people try to suck on her brains.

The University of Adelaide is really quite stunning, with rolling gardens and ancient buildings right here in the City of Churches.

Adelaide, the City of Churches - where they have so much money they use it as floor decoration!

I had breakfast with S, Z and J, three friends who I hadn't seen in 7 years. It was a really good time of catching up and laughing over a Malaysian breakfast. Z was always anxious about how the quality of the food was compared to Melbourne ("Aiyah, nothing compared to the Malaysian food in Melbourne, I know lah!") but it was really quite good, and I was just happy to be there sharing a meal with long-lost friends.

Lunch was with S as both Z and J headed off to work - I was brought to his favourite Vietnamese restaurant, Yen Ling. It was actually really good food, and S convinced me to try the Vietnamese coffee, which looked suspiciously like petrol with condensed milk. Tasted really good, though - like the kopi susu back in Malaysia.
Most "power" coffee ever!

We talked about everything under the sun, like two friends catching up at a mamak stall, and exchanged stories of life and love. I have never laughed so hard, or thought so deeply for awhile now.

We picked up A, who S had been dating since our Uni days from their hospital, and I finally got to see their workplace where all their wonderful stories came from.

On the way back to their house, the coffee I had earlier started to kick in, and I had the Worst. Diarrhoea. Ever. I was squirming around in the back seat, begging for S to stop at the next nearest restaurant.

Let's just say that after I was done, that particular McDonald's which I went to doesn't serve Happy Meals anymore, if you know what I mean.

We went back to their unit and were too tired to go out anymore, and so just called in pizza and soft drinks while we talked delved into nostalgia that night. Another friend J who I haven't seen in forever, and recently married, popped in and the reminiscing just escalated from there!

Day 3

I caught up with V briefly before saying my goodbyes to him, and promising to meet up again in Singapore.

And then it was off to see the Three Stooges - S, Z and J for one last meal before heading home.

They brought me to this place in Hutt St in the posh end of town called Citrus, and there we had the best-breakfast-I-have-ever-had-in-Australia-bar-none. I had the humble French toast myself, which was done really well, but the rest of them had this chilli, garlic and basil scrambled eggs that was beyond description. An egg-gasm, if you will.

The gang at Citrus - two minutes before my head exploded at how good the breakfast was.

And then the last leg - off to the airport where all three of them had saved their best jokes for. I was laughing to the point of begging them to stop.

I sat in the airport lounge once more, waiting for the plane that would take me back to Melbourne, and wondered why on earth it took me seven years to catch up with them.

Indeed, how can we explain the friends that we swore we would keep in touch for life just slip away by the wayside as we chase for the things that we thought mattered.

To Cherish, Honour and Obey

2009-11-25T08:35:00.000+11:00

I went for my first ever Australian wedding a few weeks ago. To be fair, it was the second wedding that I have attended since being in Australia, but this was the first Caucasian one that I have attended. I was like the Token Asian Guy there, if you know what I mean!

It was held in a vineyard somewhere in the south of Melbourne, about an hour and ten minutes' drive away, especially if you're really late, and your girlfriend has kindly offered you her car which has the electronic tag device for the Citylink tolls on it.

True to form, I arrived twenty minutes late at the vineyard, to see the groom and bride about to walk into the garden where friends and relatives were waiting for them. M looked dashing and poised in his cream-coloured suit as E's left hand slipped into his, bouquet in her right hand, dressed in a beautiful off-shoulder wedding gown.

They turned the upper halves of their bodies to look at me as I drove the car around the corner. M smiled and waved hello, and just at that very moment, the sun peeked through the chink between them (hello, Mao's Last Dancer!), and they were bathed in the glorious Melbourne evening sun, both of them looking for a moment like angels on their wedding day.

They must have ran towards the celebrant, because by the time I was parked and out of my car, both M and E were already standing in front of the sixty-odd crowd of witnesses, and the celebrant's voice floated in the air as she spoke the blessings and officiated the wedding.

From where I was, it was a little difficult to hear what was being said, yet when it came M's turn to say his vows, everyone could see his lips move as he stumbled through his prepared speech to E, but his flushed face and tearing eyes were evidence enough of the emotions running in them that evening. The sight of a grown man crying, especially for all who knew M, evoked a lump in all our throats and tears were gathering at the fringes of most eyes present.

The ceremony itself was brief, and soon vows were exchanged, and signatures cemented the wedding. We then headed into the wine cellar, dimly lit with candles, as we drank champagne and ate canapes while meeting friends, new and old.

The dinner itself was nice and cozy in a restaurant that overlooked the vineyard. The food was quite good, but the highlight of the night were the speeches from the parents. Both M and E came from a large family of four siblings, and both fathers were equally eloquent and witty in celebrating and embarassing M and E that night. You could hear the pride in both their voices about their children, and how welcoming they were to their respective partners.

M spoke last and admitted that he did not know what the ingredients of a happy marriage were, as most of who he considered to be happily married couples warned him about the perils of marriage, while the only person to say something nice to them as a couple was their jeweller, who was recently divorced!

It then proceeded to a night of drunken dancing, as white people, emboldened by alcohol, finally took to the dance floor to sort-of dance. Okay, so I was guilty of some bad sort-of dancing as well, but I will never turn down the opportunity to move my body like an epileptic.

The night soon drew to an end, and goodbye kisses and congratulations wished to the happy couple before I left, feeling warmed by what I had witnessed tonight.

I Do. I mean I would like to I Do.

The long drive home that night allowed me to entertain some thoughts as the wheels slowly ate up the distance between me and home.

I think that perhaps I am generalising here, but I think that a lot of women think about their wedding day.

About four or five years ago, that was a very occupying thought of mine as well - about how perfect my wedding day would be, about the speech that I would make, about the friends and family gathered around to celebrate this momentous occasion. I would wish Dad were there to see it as well.

People talk about how there shouldn't be an emphasis on the wedding day, but on the marriage instead. Too much emphasis is placed on that single stressful day sometimes, when the real crux of it is in the journey together as a married couple.

Yet tonight was a reminder that weddings were important, too, as a celebration of a milestone in both M and E's lives - much like the hallowed 21st birthday celebrations here.

It was a chance to hear the stories from the parents who had watched their sons and daughters grow up, blossoming into adults, and falling in love; with the secret wish for the couple that they too will one day give their own speeches at the happy weddings of their sons and daughters.

A Little Bit More Of Innocence

2009-11-11T11:13:00.008+11:00

It was a Sunday night, and started becoming very busy in the Department.

People were streaming in with problems that needed attending to urgently, and there was a very sick man bleeding to death from his bladder in one of the resuscitation bays.

The evening doctor had kindly stayed on to sort out the dying man, and I was left with free rein of the busy Department.

In the midst of all the chest pains, kidney stones and chronic lung disease patients, there were a host of teenagers as well, which was unusual for a Sunday night.

One of them was the hospital's littlest orphan, on her second-daily visit to the hospital, asking for someone to look at her sore neck at 2 a.m. because she had tripped over her dog and hit her neck on the edge of the door. The nurses tell me that she had been in not too long ago faking the same complaint - she had found another trigger for the staff to finally pay attention - they had put her in a collar, scanned her head. She devoured the attention, her large unblinking eyes surreptitiously smiling at all the fuss, and had hoped for a repeat of the same tonight.

Another boy and his undistinguished partner came in after having a longer than usual seizure that night - he was flailing his arms and legs for a good 15 minutes and she was worried enough to bring him in. I remembered him from one of my shifts before, and recognised that he had another pseudoseizure, a psychological variation of actual seizures, and took some blood off him and watched him for a couple of hours.

I was trying to suppress my surprise when I found out that he was the littlest orphan's brother.

Two siblings separated only by the entrance door to the Emergency Department. She didn't seem to acknowledge his presence in the Department, and I don't think she acknowledged him outside either.

The boy's partner was someone who you wouldn't have cast a second glance at on the streets. Nothing about her turned heads to look, nothing about her personality invited further probing questions. She was plain in every sense of the word.

The evening doctor remembers her from last night, though. She had come in for some vague medical issue, and cried in pain the moment the nurses put the tourniquet on her in order to take blood. We're not even talking about the needle yet. Just a tight band around her upper arm, and she started crying uncontrollably.

Where kids their age were going to parties, or pubs, deciding which university to go to, or which jobs to interview for, these three frequented the hospital instead.

The last teenager that night was a nineteen-year-old girl and her young partner, the 'love of her life'. I saw her yesterday night when she thought that she had vomited up blood in her toilet.

We had taken bloods from her and given her fluids, when an hour later she threatened to discharge herself. Luckily the pathologist was in, and the bloods were processed, and there was nothing of immediate danger so we sent her off.

Tonight, however, the boyfriend explained that she had had about eight cans of Victoria Bitters, and they were out looking for her missing dog when she fell down and had a seizure. Her seizure sounded bona fide, and there was a strong family history of her father and grandfather having it too. And dying from it.

Once again, when she had sobered up, she wanted to leave.

You don't understand, you are endangering your life if you leave now, I try to tell her.

I HATE HOSPITALS! she complained vehemently. I know my rights, and I will sign whatever paperwork I have to, to get out of here.

But you might die! I protest.

Look at these! she upturned her hands defiantly, and you could see the multiple slash marks across her wrist where she had previously cut herself. You think I give a damn about dying?

I attempt a softer approach. You know, I understand life has been hard for you, and...

She arced up.

Understand? How could you understand anything? I have been fending for myself since I was ten years old and...

Hey, don't get started, her boyfriend's voice is soothing across the room. I liked him when I met him yesterday, and you could see that he was the one thing going for her in her nineteen-year-old life.

I sensed an opportunity.

It's not just about you, you know. Think about the people who love you.

Her voice was steady but precarious. I will look after myself, okay? I have been looking after myself for a long time now. I will get that brain scan in the morning...

How do I know that? I ask.

Well, the love of my life will ensure it! she says, turning towards him.

He was sitting atop the counter in the room, his hunched shoulders supporting his intoxicated face. He looked away uncomfortably, his hunched shoulders too small to bear the burden as the love of her life.

Sometimes we go about our middle-class lives sheltered from the cries of this broken world we live in. We worry about the meaning of life while some people worry about simply living. We worry about our careers, our cars, how we can save for the latest iPhone and what Europe will look like this time of the year.

Modern Day Prophet

I can't get over this song from Jason Mraz while thinking about these orphans - both the real ones and the with-parents-like-that-they-might-as-well-be ones.

When the house was left in shambles
Who was there to handle all the broken bits of glass
Was it Mum who put my Dad out on his ass
or the other way around?
Well I'm far too old to care about that now.

And taking drugs and making love at far too young an age
And they never checked to see my grades
What a fool I'd be to start complaining now

What about taking this empty cup and filling it up
With a little bit more of innocence
I haven't had enough it's probably because...

When you're young it's okay to be easily ignored,
I'd like to believe it's all about love for a child.

Dear God, please look after and love our orphans in the way we have failed to.

Other People's Stories: Paris, I Love You

2009-11-04T11:20:00.016+11:00

I sat before his lumbering hulk over dinner.

I watched him smile his familiar smile framed by his trimmed Indian beard. The bags under his eyes were deeper than when I last saw him seven years ago, but his eyes still twinkled with mischief. He was big, and used to be overweight, but has been working out recently.

He tells me that he has a poster of Eric Bana in his room, and hopes to look like him one day. His hair is slicked back just like The Incredible Hulk star.

His large frame hides a soft heart, a fragile heart that has been mishandled by clumsy girls of late.

The No. 1 Parent's Dating Agency

He would turn 31 in two years. That was his parent's ultimatum for him. If you don't find a girl by then, we will very well find one for you.

His younger brother was begging to marry his girlfriend of eight years but they said No, your older brother must get married first.

He tells me about Europe. He was going there to see a potential girl that his parents thought would be nice for him. He had an adolescent crush on her in his teen years, and they had been communicating via e-mail leading up to his visit. His younger brother was graduating as well, so it was going to be six weeks well spent.

When in Amsterdam, do as the tourists do

He started off with a week in Amsterdam.

He walked by the canals daily, avoiding the many cyclists, and was tempted to walk into a 'coffee shop' and have those wonderful marijuana-laden brownies, but feared for its unknown effects on his health. He was by himself in Amsterdam, and it would be awhile before they would find his drug-laced body.

Amsterdam was famous for one other thing, of course - the prostitutes who stood along the glass windows. Half-naked live mannequins for your viewing pleasure, sir.

There were all sorts of women you could choose from - tall, short, chubby, skinny, blonde, brunette, blue-eyed, brown-eyed, young, old, Asian, European, African - for a Malaysian Indian boy this was overwhelming - watching your pornography finally come to life. It was like he was a child let loose in a hormone-crazed Teenager's Candy Store.

There were no friends or family around for him to feel self-conscious or self-conscience with. He walked past the masses of women seductively calling out to him, and pretended to ignore their siren calls while secretly checking them out of the corner of his eye.

He made several rounds around the alleyways, his steps getting slower and more deliberate as he gathered enough courage to even look at the women.

Man, were they ugly.

He had toyed with the idea of losing his virginity in Amsterdam long before even setting foot in Amsterdam. Here he was in the Sex Capital of the world, and he was damned well going to have sex, even if it meant that he had to pay for it. Because no girl in her right mind would want to sleep with me for free, he laughs. A self-deprecating joke repeated often enough has now become his personal mantra.

My First Time

He finally walked into an establishment where the women were definitely of a different class. They were all beautiful with inviting bodies, and their clientele was telling - men decked out in corporate suits and ties, looking for a quickie before heading home to their wives or to work.

He could not take his eyes off the line of women, each standing outside their own mysterious room, beckoning to him in their accented English.

He faltered, initially. He walked out hurriedly from the place. All his conventional upbringing went against his lust for his first ever experience of a woman. I mean, what would your mother say if she knew, huh? he chided himself.

But then the Other Voice spoke.

You've thought about this since even before the trip, man!

This may be your only chance ever of being with a woman - you're never coming back to Amsterdam!

Who's to say that you would even make it out of Europe alive? Your plane could crash, and you would die a virgin. You want to die a virgin?!

Screw that. He was in Amsterdam, and he would find himself a hooker.

He steeled himself, but still felt nervous as his sweaty palms pushed past the doors once more, his stomach churning with excitement and anxiety.

His eyes darted around the women holding out the forbidden fruit to him at 50 Euro a pop.

Pop. What a funny way of saying ejaculation.

He finally settled on a tanned, curvaceous brunette. She led him into her room with a little laugh, and introduced herself as Anna from Portugal.

Anna from Portugal. He wasn't sure what to do, but he felt like he needed to exchange pleasantries with Anna from Portugal. With a little rehearsed laugh, she led him into the room lit by electric candles and eased him onto the bed. He fumbled with his clothes in his eagerness and noticed how coolly she undressed herself. He hoped his inexperience wouldn't be obvious to Anna from Portugal, but even if she noticed, she didn't show it.

He slipped her the fifty while she slipped him a condom.

His mind was attempting to sort out the assault on his senses, torn between stage fright, intense pleasure, the intoxicating smell of her perfume and the warmth of her body against his.

Soon they were going at it fully but then Pop! and suddenly it was over as quickly as it started.

He apologised to her as he slipped his clothes back on. She shook her head slowly, and her thick Portuguese lips smiled an It's OK.

You're not the first, she thought.

You're my first, he regretted.

50 Euro, 5 minutes = 10 Euro per minute. What a waste of money!, he cursed in his practical Malaysian head. He was conjuring up thoughts on how to make his next visit last longer. More bang for his buck, so to speak.

He walked out quickly, not catching the eyes of the other prostitutes as he made a beeline for his hotel room. He was slightly disappointed at how it abruptly it had ended, but also elated that he had finally Done It.

It had taken twenty eight years, but he was finally a Man, although he didn't feel any different, to be honest.

He never visited another prostitute on his entire trip.

Lost. In Translation.

Austria was beautiful. He spent two weeks there by himself - Vienna was the total overseas experience - the place was clean, cultured and the people were generally very nice. He wandered around as a lone traveller, pointing to maps when language failed him, and developing a crick in his neck from looking up all day at centuries-old churches.

He spent a few days in the picturesque Salzburg before trying out the amazing beers in Munich which an American traveller had mentioned to him in passing.

He loved hearing the English language from the congregation of tourists with him. He would often eavesdrop into conversations, and savoured understanding when so often words on the signposts and those leaving the lips of the locals meant nothing to him at all.

Europe quickly became a routine - every day he would take in the breathtaking sights around. And every night he would return, remove his shoes in the quiet of his hotel room, and wish that Anna from Portugal was there to hear about what he had seen that day.

Paris Je t'aime

His next destination was Paris. He plopped his luggage in his hostel room, and proceeded to circle on his map the places he was going to visit here.

It was while waiting in one of the many eternal queues to the tourist attractions that he noticed for the first time how out of place he was here in Paris.

Here he was - one stupid, lonely little Indian boy in the City of Love amidst a queue filled with couples. Some were smiling and sharing kisses frequently while others stood around looking bored. One or two were obviously exasperated and arguing whether or not the wait was worth it.

He felt like he did once more in high school - that stark loneliness and subtle rejection as the kid that everyone picked last to join their team in their basketball games. A pariah.

It was somewhere in the middle of the gardens surrounded by the trimmed hedges when he was surprised by his angry tears.

I want someone to hold hands with!Why the hell doesn't anyone speak any English around this Godforsaken place? I'm sick to death of being alone! Where is my girl, huh?! WHERE IS MY GIRL?! I'M NEVER GOING TO FIND MY GIRL!! I want to be in love too!! It is true! The only women who will sleep with me are the ones I have to pay! Or the one my parents choose out for me! I AM a loser!!

Wave after wave of these thoughts washed over him, and soon he began to cry in earnest. His whole gigantic frame shuddered as he wiped the tears from his eyes, and he tried to choke back the sobs. Fuck this, he thought, as he ignored the curious stares of onlookers, and he allowed himself a good cry there in the middle of the gardens somewhere in the City of Love.

Turning the Decade

2009-10-21T23:22:00.009+11:00

To my older brother, on his 31st birthday - Happy Birthday! May this next year be one filled with friends old and new, discovering new experiences and finding a deep joy in life!

Random Memories: Eight Years Old

My brother and I used to sleep in the master bedroom by ourselves when we were younger. I am not sure how we got away with that, but I suspect that my Dad's inability to climb the stairs easily and both my parent's generosity had something to do with it.

The master bedroom holds a lot of memories for me as a child. I remember the pillows that adorned the bed - interspersed among the proper sleeping pillows were our bantal busuks (literally 'smelly pillows' in Malay, equivalent to a security blanket.) I had this yellow Doraemon pillow which I must have drooled on incessantly until it changed colour. (Ewww...)

The master bedroom was also the scene of the death of our childhood dreams - I remember how as little children we used to have these wonderful T-shirts with capes at the back of them - it was the height of the Superman (Christopher Reeve, not Brandon Routh) craze then. We were pasar malam heroes in our T-shirts - I was the Malaysian Hero with my red flowing cape while my brother had his blue Batman one.

My wonderfully artistic younger sister's recreation of what I looked like in that caped shirt as a child. I wish I knew where the original photo is.

We were a handful, both of us boys, tearing through the house like chimpanzees on steroids, our capes flowing behind us. We would scream the house down, and I think that one day we were jumping around and making a little too much noise when Mum decided that she had had enough, so she grabbed the sewing scissors and then proceeded to cut the capes off our T-shirts, much to our juvenile horror.

We didn't fly around so well after that. Our tiny imaginations couldn't bring us beyond the jagged edges of cloth that hung limply from our superhero uniforms where our brave capes once flowed.

I remember as well the nights before our sleep when my brother would tell me stories sometimes or we would talk about everything and nothing before falling asleep. There was a period in his ten-year-old life when his only aim was to make me laugh until I begged him to stop.

The magic words that would cause me to laugh uncontrollably would somehow always involve a bodily excrement or function and some bad words (read: shitting, pissing and farting) and I would be so tickled that I would still laugh about it the next day.

Twenty one years on, and my taste in toilet humour has not weaned off one bit. Just ask Karen.

Happy birthday, Jo.

Wong Fu Productions: Up In Da Club

2009-10-16T12:17:00.003+11:00

Wong Fu Productions is the inspired trio of Philip Wang, Ted Fu and Wesley Chan - three Americans of Asian heritage who started off in their budding directing and production skills in college.

They struck Youtube gold (or should I say yellow) when they uploaded their first clip - Yellow Fever several years ago and since then, the trio have never looked back, coming up with their own production company, becoming more adept at both their directing and acting skills, and indeed have created a nice little niche market for themselves.

Indeed, their brand of militant niceness and astute humour have struck a chord with many people, Asians or not, and they continue to serve as an inspiration to many aspiring talents.

Watch all 4 parts to the end - I laughed my ass off - and I know that you will too! (I know that some connection speeds are slower than others, but it is worth the wait!)