Funny Bones
May 11, 2008

It's as obvious as Fred Savage's mole in Goldmember.

My sense of humor is in no way superior to that of the other guy's. I'm with Thomas Jefferson when it comes to people's hilarity; for all men, are created equal. That being said, I'm in no position of demeaning, if you will, the sense of humor of others.

Nevertheless, I'm a junior at work. And that entails being exposed to jokes from the various generations that the people at work belong to; namely Baby Boomers, Generation Jones, Generation X and perhaps Generation Y, to which I belong... I guess.

So in order for me to survive in this melting pot of comical intelligence, there is a certain level of humor acceptance that I need to be tolerable to. It's a jungle out there. One minute you're in a meeting where this guy talks about how a graph resembles his post-marriage weight and the next, you're at lunch with a friend who thinks it's funny to say the girls on his floor are hot... because the air conditioner is broken.

While you do have the liberty to tell your friend to kill himself for cracking such a horrible joke, your hands are tied when it comes to that guy at the meeting. Perhaps the most you could do is just scream silently at him,

"Even if your last breath depends on it... please avoid stand-up comedy, or any other form of it, at all cost."

Other than that, the only thing you could do physically is in essence, draw a friendly snicker on your face and maybe nod a bit. My second most favorite actor of all time Denzel Washington (only next to Al Pacino) does it all the time in his movies, when he's pissed off. He carves a huge smile with his mouth closed but you know, you just know that he doesn't mean even an iota of it.

It's been a good year plus for me in the corporate world though. I'd somehow grasped the tricks behind maneuvering around the different nature of comedy different groups of people demand.

When a 52 year old office colleague asks me if I'm single or married, do I answer ‘single but I used to play doubles badminton back in school'? Or whenever I'm out chilling with my friends, do I reiterate, with intent, a joke I overheard from a much senior colleague? About how Malaysians crossed the rocket in their ballots in the recent general elections... because we've been obsessed with rockets since we sent a man into space.

Answering these types of questions, which used to mystify me into deep thoughts, is now at the tips of my fingers. I've held a grasp, if not a strong one, on the concept of tailoring your gag to your audience's need.

Or so I thought until this sketch I did last week. Ajep, nice working with you on this one.

Sorry.



Mallrats
May 06, 2008

Gone were the days where I would find going to the mall an enjoyable outing.

My days as a teenager were filled with trips to the malls around PJ and Subang with my friends; in and out of comic shops, video arcades and bowling alleys.

Reaching there was never easy and there were basically three options: walking, cycling or taking the bus/train. But since we were as broke as Oliver Twist, minimizing the transportation cost was always our main concern; hence opting to walk or cycle. We needed to optimize the amount spent from our measly funds so that the bulk of it goes to the fun stuff (namely comics and video games et al, as mentioned earlier).

Walking for miles under the blazing hot sun was never pleasant even for the bravest of hearts. Yet the journeys were never short of laughter branching from our piss-taking on each other. The jangle of coins dangling from the pockets of our three quarter pants was the soundtrack of our expeditions. All amidst the puffing and panting for air. Thus most of the time, we'd be drenched in sweat by the time we reach the mall.

Nevertheless, the second we take the final chug off a shared bottle of soda, quenching every bit of our thirsty throats, we transform into rejuvenated souls as we saunter into the entrance. More often than not, half a minute under the cool breeze of the automated door and we'll be as good as new.

The most beautiful thing about going to the mall back then was that we cared very little about things beyond our domain of interests. It was always straight to The Mind Shop for the rarest comics and trading cards or WYWY for the hottest game titles in town. Everything else was only as important as getting our names jotted down by the school prefect.

It didn't matter that 90% of the time we won't end up buying any of the things that we drool over. The thrill of reaching the mall and walking hastily towards our favorite shops to see the things that we crave for neatly displayed behind glass showcases, in itself, gave a different kind of satisfaction. And especially with action figures, if we ever make a purchase, every piece of item from the experience becomes a memento; everything including the receipt, packaging and plastic bag.

And who could ever defy the effects of hormonal development in their prepubescent years. Going to the mall allowed us to feast our eyes on the beautiful young ladies of urban Klang Valley; none of them our age, which makes it a million times more exciting, really. It was the mid-90s so one could only imagine the number of women sporting those Rachel/Monica bangs; gorgeous young things they were.

Credits to them as well for assisting us in learning the new way of reading time.

"Two o’clock, two o’clock... not yours, mine! Alright, slow down... slow down... ha’alright... smooookkkkkinnnn'..."

Well, The Mask was pretty big back then.

I guess our fascination with women twice our age was simply the result of us being hated by most (okay, all) of the girls in school. Which still bewilders me actually... we never really did go any further than drawing pictures of Ken spreading his seed of love on their Barbie posters. Why all the hate when there’s so much to love anyway?

Nowadays, there’s simply nothing to look forward to upon going to the mall. Traffic jams, tight parking space, expensive parking, too many people, buildings so big you can never find your way out; the reasons are too aplenty to list down. Plus, women with huge sunglasses and hair full of volume whom we used to salivate over are no more twice our age. For they are now, our age... and rarely walks without a guy with popped up collars and spiky hair by their side.

Malaysia needs better online shopping facilities.



Shanghai'd
April 20, 2008

It was a short notice trip. Given the workload that I had to get out of the way, I was left with merely 6 3/4 business hours to prepare. A time too short even for me to buy one of those Surviving Shanghai pocket books. You know, the one with tips on getting around the city, with a little glossary of simple Chinese phrases at the back. I failed to equip myself with the least a lone traveler could have on a trip to an entirely foreign country. So I flew to Shanghai, knowing only five words of Chinese; 'me love you long time’.

My arrival at Pudong International Airport was welcomed by the warm smiles of the flight crews, as well as the airport staff members. It was a chain of smiles accompanying me as I stood on the travellator to the immigration counter, where it ended. My luck with immigration officers has never been better than my luck with women. No matter where I go, they never seem to return my friendly greetings and gestures. And at Pudong, they took it one step further.


Shake that thang now! Oriental momma!

Upon inspecting my passport, the officer’s facial expression turned from indifferent to curious. Never a good sign when others are spending no more than a minute at their counters. Apparently, Mr. Immigration Guy thought that the passport didn’t belong to me. My initial notion was that the guys at the embassy had taken the piss on me by pasting a picture of Snoop Dogg on top of mine. Au contraire, as the officer flipped the passport my way, pointed on my picture and shook his head. That’s me alright; from back in 2005, before I lost a bit of weight.

Another officer came up to my rescue and after comparing my driving license, MyKad, student card and Red Box Karaoke membership card with my passport, they finally let me go. Shanghai, here I come.


Find the hidden massage parlors.

I checked into The Hilton Shanghai at around 4pm and the view I got wasn’t bad at all. The room overlooked Hua Shan Road, a path leading to the many buildings protruding out of the terrains of China’s busy commercial district. Down the streets were businessmen and women in suits, teenagers on bikes, old men walking with their sticks and children in the air jumping in joy, in front of what seems to be a very suspicious massage parlor.

After gazing at the ceiling for a good hour, I took a five minutes walk to City Plaza, a nearby mall. Still nervous from not knowing a word of Chinese, I ran a few simulations in my head as I walked; figuring out the things that I’d have to act out should words don’t help. My imagination ran from making a chugging sound for "train station” to drawing a picture of a Chihuahua for "the Hilton” (read: Paris). When I got to doing the chicken dance to say "you’re quite the chick” though, I got a bit tired of thinking; grabbed myself a loaf of bread, went back to the hotel and dozed off for a good 10 hours. I’m never good at acting anyway.


Seconds before being shoved away by the bakery lady.

The conference that started the next day was alright. Business as usual.

We took the Metro from Jing’an Temple to Nanjing Road East after Day 1 of the conference. Nanjing Road was supposedly Shanghai’s main shopping attraction. Evidently, at my first sight of the area, I could see why. The bright lights from the restaurants and shops shined even through the dark alleys adjacent to the road. Filling the air were the incongruous mix of noises from the electronic trishaws and trams squeezing through the barrage of people ranging from petite teenage girls in skimpy clothing, to wise guy street traders in berets; displaying the latest from the fake watch market.

The fake goods industry in Shanghai is as far as it gets, I believe. If Petaling Street boasts its near-precise copies of Ralph Lauren polos and Coach handbags, Nanjing Road is lined by actual retail shops, of 'slightly modified’ brands of the West. The Adidas logo was made a little less proportioned with the words Wandanu below it. With its alligator given a brighter smile, probably laughing at the brand’s actual owners in Paris, Noumandieyu is Nanjing’s Lacoste. It won’t be long before the world famous Hooters restaurant gets its own taste of Nanjing’s re-branding makeover; turning into Hoojers or Hoolers or something, you know. Something along that line.


Ned Flanders would've loved this one, fandiddlytastic!

A few blocks east was The Bund, 'Asia’s former golden mile of finance and commerce; quintessential Shanghai; experienced best at night,’ as the city map calls it. Initially feeling good that I was there in the evening, I felt a bit 'disoriented’ as I spent more time there. The air was a bit smoggy; mainly due to the heavy traffic. At the very least, only air filled with music by Fall Out Boy could be worse. I thought the view was nice though. Across the Huangpu River were the many office buildings surrounding the Pudong area, including the Jin Mao tower, the fourth tallest building in the world. Further north were these endless stacks of electronic billboards of international brands; a symbol of Shanghai as the convergence node of western and eastern corporations.

All the walking left me a bit knackered and by the end of the day, all that was left from the energy recouped from my 10-hour sleep was used for eating.


A mall name like no other. Eat this Sunway Pyramid!

The conference ended at noon on my third day in Shanghai. The sun was shining brightly amidst the cold wind of spring; all too perfect a setting for a stroll around the streets. And a 10 minute ride on the Metro took me to the place where Shanghaians chill on a sunny day like this, the aptly named People’s Square. Encircled by endless rows of street hawkers and neighboring the Grand Theatre as well as the Shanghai Museum, People’s Square somehow resembles New York’s Central Park; which was nice. Always nice to have some serenity in the middle of the commotions surrounding an urban area.


Five bucks say he's waiting for Mulan's reflection.

Well the idea was to do some walking around the Square and drop by the souvenir shops nearby to get some things for the folks back at home. Judd’s cheongsam, Ikram’s 'Shanghai Sensation’ boxer shorts and Ticub’s tiger testicle soup. All of which I managed to get except for Ticub’s soup (no more than 100ml of liquid on board, bro -- hope the gambir is still in stock).

As expected, shopping in Shanghai was very tricky. There was of course the language barrier. And then, there’s the superiorly mad bargaining skill that you need to possess in order to get things at the right price. Though I’m not much of a bargaining wizard myself, upon some observations, I realized that the sellers tend to mark up the prices to around 150 – 200% in their initial offer. Thus, starting with 25 – 50% off the offered price would be a good place to start. Knowing the average market price of the things you want would be really helpful nonetheless. Alas, I didn’t do that much shopping myself. Shanghai isn’t quite the place to shop really; be it proper/branded or 'juvenile’ goods as they term it. Items are a bit on the higher side though the choices are pretty much similar to the ones in Malaysia.


Keepin' the city safe.

I spent my last night in Shanghai at a Jazz joint not far from the hotel featuring a quartet of three Latin Americans and a Chinese guy on alto sax. While feasting on the band’s excellent renditions of Billie Holiday and Frank Sinatra numbers, within sight were foreigners getting acquainted, slightly too acquainted, with the local ladies. Speaking of whom, were very nice actually. Never short of a sweet smile and warmth, welcoming every bit of my foreign self to their oriental land. Then again, I suppose they had to, as the only ones I met were the hotel receptionists.

And I left Shanghai feeling 'wealthier’ in knowledge as I’d now gotten a taste of China, the world’s most populated country. On the surface, the Huangpu River separates Shanghai into two; the people oriented Puxi and business driven Pudong. While the natures of these two areas are different, the constantly congested Nanpu Bridge and Yan’an Road Tunnel connecting them embody the balance of culture and progress in Shanghai. While I don’t quite fancy (and understand) the people of Shanghai’s need to be rushing all the time, I suppose it’s all just a matter of me coming from a different background. What seem to be too vibrant to me may be just right to them.

Sadly though, I didn’t really assimilate that much. Even after four days in China, I only learned three new Chinese words; "Want good massaij?".



If I Was Born 25 Years Earlier
April 11, 2008

I would've been born in 1958.

I would've lived in a time when my favorite actors were in their prime; Al Pacino in Dog Day Afternoon, Robert De Niro in Raging Bull and Dustin Hoffman in Kramer vs. Kramer. Great, proper acts they were, and still are.

Simple, cut to the chase, straightforward movies which leave people still talking about them 30 years down the road. Insightful stories with great writing and directing that take the audience deep into the essence of every scene.

Far beyond the grand epic trilogy romantic comedy full-blast action movie blockbuster nonsense that are coming out of Hollywood nowadays.

At one end are three LOTR movies, with a total running time of 2 1/3 days, featuring hobbits from middle-earth trying to fight their way through massive wars involving larger than life ogres. All for a ring that would end up on Jack Black's own little hobbit.

At the other end is a film with Dane Cook playing the main role, trying very hard to be funny while Jessica Simpson plays his opposite, as a cashier at an imaginary Wal-Mart. Jessica Simpson, as a Wal-Mart cashier. Might as well put the words ‘Tom Cruise' and ‘straight' in the same sentence.

And at another end is a real-life, out of this world, state of the art, CGI 3-D R2-D2 remake of the old Saturday morning favorite, Transformers. While most regard it as the biggest movie of the 21st and 20th century combined, Transformers the Movie is no further than the ultimate torturing tool in my book. A glimpse of it and any baby seal would die of severe seizure.

But no, I wasn't born in 1958. I was born 25 years ago, today, in 1983. And while I didn't live in the period when my favorite movies were made, I suppose I've lived a good quarter of a century worthy of a decent film.

Then again I suppose it'll fair no better that Catwoman movie in the cinemas. Nevertheless, thank you very much to all who've made it a great ride.



Splash Splash
March 30, 2008

Look at all these people. Their firm handshakes and huge smiles barely depict reality. They paint the picture of a world so perfect, it looks like John Lennon’s dream. The pessimist in me can only scream, in silence, the sinister thoughts behind every one of those handshakes.

It’s the same sight everytime I go to a conference. Strangers clad in the sleekest suits from the best tailors in Milan, only to be differentiated by the company names on their name tags; acting like they’ve known each other for years. All in the unity of adding more twists and turns to the already perverse corporate world.

Here I am sitting among these ‘recently acquainted strangers’ in this conference hall, trying to make sense of the slides being presented; every one of them resembling the pages of the dictionary. Instantly, my eyes roll away from watching the paint dry, I mean, reading the slides... gazing at the other areas of the room, nothing inspiring.

Until a creak of the door brought my attention to you. Miles across the hall, trying to squeeze yourself between the sea of corporate slaves for a vacant spot; while I grasp my angst in my fist looking at these wealth-infested loons doing nothing to help out a lady get a seat. But as you get yourself sorted, the event turns into an Invisible Men Convention. I can suddenly see through these guys and have my sight set on you.

My heart pounds to the beat of the clock ticking atop the wall. Coffee break is just a few minutes away we both know... okay, I know that it’s a make or break effort for me to make a move.

But what on earth am I going to say? I lost my phone number can I have yours? I'm no Fred Flintstone, but I can make your Bedrock? Baby, you're so sweet, you put Hershey's outta business? Did it hurt, when you fell into my dreams last night? Is it hot in here or... you get my drift.

I have a plethora of these state of the art pickup lines but what’s the point? For all you know, you’ve heard them all. Even if you haven’t, I know that the minute I stand in front of you I’ll stutter like Scatman John with gallons of sweat drenching my hands.

“Ladies and gentleman, you may proceed to the Coffee Kiosk for some refreshments.”

Time flies eh? So what now, what’s the deal here? It did cross my mind that if you’re busy talking to people during the break, then I won’t feel too guilty for not talking to you. But you’re not. It’s been a good two minutes since you started stirring at your cuppa, alone in that corner. I even feel obliged now to head your way and talk to you.

Well well, that wasn’t too bad now was it? You welcomed my hello with a very bright smile. Not too mysterious like the ones on those Norah Jones records. Not too invigorating like the ones on the Colgate billboards either. Just nice, enough to make my week to say the least.

So you’re from that company? I don’t know diddly-squat about your business but it’s all good. I’m not bad at pretending to know about things. Oh and you live around the Segambut area I see. Bad move on my side there, shouldn’t have asked about your daily four hour commute to your office in KL from Segamat, Johor. Again, it’s all good. I liked the way you giggled at my ignorance.

Do you really have to do that? Raising your eyebrow and snickering while slowly stirring that cup of coffee. I’m trying really hard to defy the law of gravity and not let my jaw drop here. And FYI, backcombing the wavy hair of yours every half a minute isn’t helping either. Sorry for making you ask every question twice though, I’m just a bit... mesmerized by your beauty.

Well won’t you just look at that. The rest of the conference are back in the hall. Guess we should be heading the same way as well. Wha... what’s that? The hotel pool? Around 6pm? Ahah... wanna finish that Danielle Steel book you were talking about eh? Leaves me about an hour after the conference for me to google up everything I could about her. The only Steel I know is Superman – Man of Steel anyway.

This should be alright. A light blue polo paired with black shorts and very laidback pair of Teva sandals. Good blending of urban and casual if you ask me. Okay, it’s a bit A&F-ish but at least I’m not popping up my collars. A quick smear from the perfume samples in the complimentary magazine and I’m off. All set for a chat with the fine lady by the rooftop pool. A quick afternoon chat leading to dinner later in the evening perhaps?

Ah there you are, deeply indulged by the drama and mystery of Mrs. Steel’s writings; laying on a very cozy beach chair it seems. Now you just don’t quit teasing, do you? Is biting those strands of hair really necessary? And you don’t have to stroke your legs every two seconds you know.

My hearing sense quadruples as I walked closer to you. I can hear my heart beating faster by the second. Oh wow it’s that smile again... and you’re coupling it with a jovial wave now. Pretty happy to see me, babe? I bet you were.

As I was about to sit down on the chair beside you, hoping to enjoy the sunset together, I froze. The splashing sound out of the pool made me turn my head and wahey lookey here, it's a cute little boy and he's smiling broadly at you while splashing around. Even kids love you eh?

“Mommy mommy look at me I’m a dolphin..! Splash splash..!”

“Yes you are darling..! Daddy’s on his way... save your water tricks for him okay?”

And time stood still, with everything else on God's green Earth. Never in a million years, would I ever thought that such a beautiful scene could wreck my heart into a million bits and pieces of sorrow crashing down to the ground, inflicting pain and agony to every inch of my soul.

Every one of my hopes and dreams, splashed away in the blink of an eye.

Inspired by Paul Simms' Four Short Crushes. My other Simms essay: Basic Instinct III.



Thank You
March 14, 2008


We would like to thank everyone who came to the gig last night. Going to a gig on the eve of a working day is definitely a daunting task.

That said, we could only wish that words can express our gratitude for your phenomenal support. Apparently, they can't.

Love,
The Big Pink

PS - Girl in white top and black skirt, front right table (your right) -- you looked gorgeous. Oh yeah, you too kind gentleman in the unbuttoned pink and white striped shirt bearing your hairy chest.

Setlist: Red House, Cocaine, Tore Down, Stormy Monday, Hunger, Badge, Little Wing

Photos: Ena's, Hanim's, Juaini's

Videos: Little Wing (outro)



What's cooking?
February 28, 2008

I was born with so many useless talents I make Chuck Norris a sad panda. I can eat like Takeru Kobayashi, sleep like the Sleeping Beauty (not with her, as we all wish to), snore like the beanstalk giant, belch like Barney Gumble and dance like Naim, our drummer. While none of the aforementioned traits are actually astounding, not everyone could execute them all, could they? For I, am nothing without these cringeworthy gifts.

Nevertheless, I wouldn’t mind giving up all of them for the one talent that surmounts the rest; the ability to cook. In the words of Robert Rodriguez, merely verbatim, “Not knowing how to cook is like not knowing how to make love.”

Which is a fair point... it's all about making love. And cooking blends science and art like no other. From the biological reactions in the farming of the crop, to the gravitational separation of the yolk from the egg, to the fusion of different chemicals in the mixture of the spices, to the embellishment of the dish before it’s being served -- bringing delight to our body’s senses of sight, smell and taste. This whole chain of activities, coming from the depths of the people’s hearts, for the people.

My current cooking repertoire is, simply put, dreadful. As a matter of fact, in this lifetime at least, I’ve perfected the preparation of zero dishes. Well there is boiling water which I can prepare flawlessly as it only involves flicking a switch. But even then, further downstream, I would put the boiling water to no further use than soaking instant noodles; which I’ll overestimate 93% of the time.

The earliest recollection of my cooking experience would be in ’94. I was 11 and it was a rainy afternoon. I was home alone, starving to death. After looking up and down for something to eat, I found nothing edible. There were these scented candles in the living room but wax sandwich couldn’t be good for the digestive system. I decided to have a go at this quarter full box of Pillsbury Pancake Mix, which was hidden deep inside the kitchen cupboard. God knows the number of critters who’d used the box as a pit-stop.

With only the Pillsbury Doughboy on my side, I managed to heat up the pan nicely and made me some 3 - 4 pancakes, which weren’t bad at all. They weren’t Aunt Jemima good but they weren’t Judd bad either. As I was stuffing in the last stack of pancakes, in came my mom and aunts who’d just got back from shopping. Looking at them leaning on the sofa, all tired from carrying their 32kg shopping bags, the least I could do was treating them with my newly discovered, special home-made Golden Bridge pancakes (nothing to the name, sounds majestic doesn’t it?); without telling them, to make it all more adorable no less.

It was then that I realized that I’m the world’s worst estimator. With the box now only an eight full, I figured that if I mix them with half the amount of water used earlier, I’ll get the mix right. Surprise surprise... I had the powder all diluted in water, to which Master Yoda would say ‘a failure, you are’. Into the sink goes the mix and I went back to my video game. Only for my mom to nag on me, saying how little I’ve done throughout the school holidays. So much for my charming pancakes eh?

But it wasn’t all about the lows. The height of my culinary preeminence came in ’01 when I was a prep student in Bloomington. It was a cold winter evening and there were myself, Judd and Ajep doing nothing in front of the TV, listening to each other’s fighter-tank sized stomachs grumbling. We were also at the time, penniless. Eating out was not an option and all that’s left in the kitchen were maybe some three pots of rice.

That year being the early days of the new millennium, we were all deeply inspired by the wonders of innovation and improvisation in solving problems. Ajep worked on the rice and I was mixing everything I could find in the fridge into the pan. Judd, on the other hand, was laughing at these Comedy Central stand-ups whose jokes he barely understood. The smell coming out of the pan was alright, so I was pretty convinced that I had the mix right -- no detergent or rat poison had accidentally gone in.

In the rice department however, Ajep was getting a bit restless. The timer on the rice cooker was like that teacher who’s teaching the class before recess, and never seems to stop even when the bell has rung. So he did what any hunger-stricken being would do. He ‘poured’ the half-cooked, sticky rice into the pan and had them ‘fried’. Since our understanding of basic chemistry was very limited at the time, we were under the impression that the water in the bits of rice would vaporize on the pan, leaving the rice dry.

And we spent the evening (trying to) eat these unintentionally fried, rice balls. If nightmares ever had a taste, it would taste like the things that we ate that night. Though we did try to minimize the torment by adding some 3 year old potato chips into our bowls, the effort bore no fruit. It did taste like rotten fruit though. Not surprisingly however, not affording anything else, we finished whatever that is we cooked that night before going to bed (in front of the TV technically) sleeping like logs, snoring away the memory of the dinner we had earlier.

So yeah, cooking is the last thing anyone in the world wants to be bad at.