Royal Commissions

Mahathir Mohamad is at it again. He is obviously miffed to the bones at being singled out by the Royal Commission for his involvement in the Fix-a-Judge scandal. And so in true Mahathir fashion, he is now vomiting blood over the Royal Commission report, which in more ways than he could ever care to imagine, implicates him. Just check out his blog.

Of course, Mahathir Mohamad would not be Mahathir Mohamad if he is not sarcastic, sharp tongued and downright nonsensical. Why don't he just say what he actually wants to say, namely, he doesn't like Abdullah Badawi and his government for whatever reason, although I am sure the reasons have nothing to do with our nation's welfare or the people's interests. Why don't he just say that he thinks the Royal Commission was established by the present administration to smear his name. Or does he think that by saying such thing people might think he is paranoid? But then again, people who are afraid of their own shadows normally has very long shadows indeed. And this long and tall shadows (remember what Robert Plant say in Stairway To Heaven? - our shadows are taller than our soul!) follow these people everywhere, especially when these people are old and left counting the remaining days in which they could still afford to breath and smell the flowers and fruits of what they had so earnestly sewed in their earlier days.

What motivates Mahathir Mohamad, I often ask myself. Is he really fighting for the nation? For the people? Or is it just a case of a retiree who finds it hard to accept that he is now irrelevant, impertinent and almost impotent, in terms of the probative value of whatever he says or opines? Or does he have an axe to grind or an interest or interests to protect? Or is he fearful of the possibility of Anwar Ibrahim taking over the administration due to the weaknesses, perceived or real, of the present administration?

Whatever may be the cause and motivation of his actions, it is obvious that he has now gone completely bonkers! Reading his blogs, one would suspect that he is full of venom, raving and ranting at all things which have gone awfully against his hopes and wishes, just like some Philistines who had lost their plots of land to some Israelites. His blogs are only as good as some comical relief on a cold Monday morning, if ever Mondays could get that cold in Malaysia. They are incoherent, full of spats and spasms of personal vengeance masked as some neo-political-sociological statements which are in fact so Mahathiresque one should not even bother to waste one's precious tiny brain cell to read them, other than for the purpose of demeaning them in one's own blog! For, if ever there was one man who is so not credible, whose opinions are not worth the tiny little liquid crystal in the monitor on which they appear, Mahathir Mohamad is it. IT!

He is clutching whatever last straw he has in his possession. He went to Johor Bharu and then to Japan to stoke up racial sentiments. He appeared in BBC to maximise exposure of how blinkered a totalitarian could be and ended up raving and ranting about how the west has mistreated the east and how he, the father of all that is good, was only doing what was good for the country and her people. Well, in my eyes, Mahathir Mohamad, you are not worth the shit that I shyte every morning! And I am not sorry for saying that even if you are offended!

Now, you are asking, in your usual sarcastic style, for Royal Commissions be established to investigate on several matters involving the PM and his son in law. Well Mahathir Mohamad, while you are at it, why don't you ask for the establishment of Royal Commissions to investigate on the following matters:-

• the termination of judicial powers of the court through a constitutional amendment done by your government which renders our judiciary a meek and lame pussy cat;
• the termination of the powers of the Rulers and the Yang Di Pertuan Agong, also through a constitutional amendment done by your government ;
• the Proton debacle : a company which was set up to produce our own cars cheaply with our own technology which was supposed to be transferred from Mitsubishi to Proton, a venture which has obviously failed miserably and spectacularly;
• the Perwaja debacle;
• the IPP debacle : how could licences be given to a group of people to produce power from whom TNB was and still is forced to purchase at a price higher than normal while the IPPs enjoyed a subsidised rate for gas supplied by Petronas;
• the highway debacle : how highways concessions were given to some companies which make hundred of millions every year from collected tolls with government's allowance for almost yearly increment in tolls;
• the Perkapalan/MISC/Petronas debacle : ask your son on this;
• the Putrajaya debacle;
• the MSC debacle;
• the Memali debacle where tens of poor helpless old folks were killed by trained and heavily armed policemen;
• the MAS/Tajuddin Ramli debacle;
• the Amin Shah army boats debacle;
• the Muhammad Muhammad Taib debacle;
• the Anwar Ibrahim debacle;
• the Pulau Batu Putih debacle;
• the Operasi Lalang debacle;
• the AP debacle;
• the FOREX debacle;
  

There are a lot more matters which necessitate investigation actually. But I have run out of time. And patience. I could now feel the warmth of my blood through my veins, up to my brains, which normally, precipitates a serious migraine. Oh Mahathir Mohamad, why were you born so beautiful?

WFKT behind Hock Lee's Supermarket @ Bukit Damansara

It was approximately about yesterday afternoon when Art Harun sent a synchronized message to me. Just to explain what this means to you uninitiated to Navel Gazing habits is this: Fools' minds seldom differ. When they do actually meet, they achieve a synchronicity. It is through this medium of synchronicity (I love using this word dammit! I feel so 80s; cue 'Wrapped around your Finger' by Police for me please) that telepathic messages can be sent. Okay enough science today! The message was clear and simple. We gonna eat them WFKTat a Chinese restaurant comprising many stalls located behind the Bukit Damansara famous Hock Lee Supermarket.

So after we parachuted down from a plane Art rented for the occasion and stored our parachuting gear, Art immediately secured us a classy spot near the fridge where they keep the drinks and kept cool food, where we could enjoy a quiet and immensely thought provoking conversation amidst the slamming of the fridge doors (because they uh, tend to go there. A lot.) and bellowing orders (you gotta love the efficiency of the Chinese - their orders always take the shortest route, from their throats, blasting right over your head, to the other fella's ears - none of your goddamned technology can beat that!). Art went to place a request from the high priest of WFKT who had a small magic wok of WFKT at the front right end of the shop, there he would stand stirring, toiling, and showering the many blessings upon the many WFKT that leaveth his magical and now holy wok. He also ordered some rojak to fill the time before our feast. A cool cincau proved some relief against the glowing warmth of the restaurant.

After several rousing bouts of conversation and hence working up an appetite, there he cameth, the high priest of WFKT, dishelved, completely driven and focused, his legs bolting with such robotlike precision, completely uninterested in any bit of conversation whatsoever except to tell you your change. Such dedication! Hail thou wok of the righteous! Thou homage to ambrosia that deserveth to be inducted into the Pantheon of Your True All Time Favourite Foods In the Whole Wide World. He came with those two well worn plastic blue and red plate for each of us with carried WKFT, with two equally aged red chopsticks. They look like they had met each other many times before and had nothing left to say to each other. And then gone he was, away to serve the cause of WFKT. My change accurately and transparently spread out on the table. His footsteps lost in the above described din. And there we were, left with the WFKT.

[WARNING: Art ordered us KT sans tau geh so if you do like it with tau geh please be warned! Eating it with tau geh would not taste in the same manner in which it is described below! We at Navel Gazing do not wish to be misleading in our food reviews although we are expected to be terribly creative.]

Now the first thing you would notice about the KT here is that it's the thin sort. Not the usual fatties. I quite like these sort because you get more covered area with the ingredients than if you had a thicker one. So this makes it more tasty. The second thing you notice is when you dig in is that you notice how light the WFKT is. That's because he doesn't use so much oil and so this allows room for the taste to slowly bloom towards its peak, which should be just about after half way through your WFKT. Very cunning chap he is! He has obviously experimented much to get the optimal amount of oil and blend of ingredients. Too much oil helps intensify the flavour but leaves you feeling muted after.

And the taste is quite distinct in its playful suggestions of a Marxian Communism that truly embraced a Wagnerian sort of Capitalism and saw it as a necessary step before achieving itself in the first few mouthfuls. And just as you are about to be let down, you feel yourself transported to the ancient China when people fought with fists in those Jackie Chan kung fu in ancient China movies, and seated at one of those restaurants that get trashed up because people like Jackie Chan's chracters, Drunken Master for example, trashes the place in some huge assed kung fu fight. Hopefully you would have finished your WFKT by then and gotten the hell out of there.

And as you gradually but surely hit that peak of its taste, you become Drunken Master. You are Master of Kung fooking Foo. You can do all those fonky moves like Jackie Chan. Like that one up there. But I'm talking taste here alright! Don't get any funny ideas. But it's no wonder we were here, this is wicked stuff. And after scoffling down the whole thing, you still felt kinda light enough to scoffle down one more. But I can understand why Art likes to come here, its economic use of oil does not impinge on the potency of the WFKT, and we all now know just how expensive the damn thing is as of today. Bastards!!

Anyway, towards the end I like to pick up the little loose bits and pieces because they tend to be pretty potent in taste and give it a boost. And finally, it's great to have that black jelly still on hand to round everything off. That way you can slake your thirst and wash everything else down!

Wooooo - ha!

of solid things...

Yes. Solid quietness. Quietness, like waste, comes in 2 forms. Solid and non-solid. Buy this tyre. And you will get quietness so solid you can bang your head on it. Go ahead.

Pure solid bull waste!

Talking

As I am talking to the man. So I am talking also to the man he was, the man he wants to be, and the man he is. Most often they are in unison, in thought and deed.
But when they are asleep. Then emerges the man they cannot help but be. The man they try so much to hide. The man they cannot explain.
And sometimes I talk to him too. He is the most honest of them all.
He and me are not so different from you and I.
I told him I wished I could be more honest with myself.
He just smiled.

How I Became a Reader of Books

My friends have the impression that I am 'serious' or 'heavy' reader. They think this because my reading list these days tends towards mostly classic or serious literature, terribly boring current affairs books or Sahara dry philosophy or psychology books. What I found interesting about this impression is how they imagined that in all probability I was also an avid reader read those the entirety of Enid Blyton and Ladybird's catalogue of books in my youth. In short, they thought my reading development from young until now was respectable, diligent and therefore no doubt agreeable. Little did they know that my reading origins were quite sordid and my attitude towards books then was quite deplorable.

Until the age of about 12, the only books I really enjoyed were those with lots of pictures. And if they had Donald Duck, Goofy, Pluto and Mickey Mouse in them so much the better. It was still reading right? I mean, if a picture told a thousand words, I was reading lots of words and pretty damn quick too! So the more pictures there were, the better the book. The aesthetic quality of the pictures or cartoons were my primary concern. The present words were merely to assist in making sense of the picture and were entirely optional.

My parents bought me those Enid Blytons and Lady Birds. My dad would extol their virtues to me relishing his anecdotes about how the Famous Five had enthralled him and inspired his reading. I couldn't tell him then, but I felt none of that when I read those books without any pictures. I remember the Famous Five book he brought home for me one day and told me it was his favourite then. So with such high recommendation I set about reading it only to lose interest completely by page 5 before the adventure even started. The damn thing was just too wordy for me. This is probably why I am so impressed with any kid under 12 that doesn't read picture books.

You would think this more ironic if you knew that since my youth, I have always been surrounded by books. In my old house in Damansara Utama, there were a lot of books. My father was and is a book freak and read as much as he bought and he bought a lot. Just outside my room was a tall shelf jam packed with books (the entire Sherlock Holmes collection was stored there with most of the hardcovers) as was the family living room upstairs (that's where the Brittanica Encyclopedia was stored with the other serious fiction) and downstairs in the guest room rounded off the third part of our collection of books. The shelves in my room too had many books but as you would guess by now, they were mostly picture or cartoon books. There was one shelf reserved for those books that I was given but not interested at all. That's where my dad's Famous Five book to me eventually ended up.

My interest in books was awakened by sex. Not that I knew what it was at 12. Back then I still thought people had to get married first before they had a baby. And I must have laboured under the impression that the stork brought me over because I don't recall having any theory about how baby's came about until my literary explorations. All I knew from my sheltered existence then was that people only had babies after they were married. I never troubled my parents with how babies were born or sex. And they never troubled to tell me.

So I'm not quite sure how I came to have this overwhelming curiousity about sex, but possess it in abundance I did at 12. Instead of asking my parent's directly, I thought it best to find this out myself discreetly. I think I did this because even though it was not said outright, I sensed that there was something taboo or forbidden about the topic of sex so asking my parents was out of the question.

I set about educating myself about sex was therefore to turn to our library. I mean if we had so many damn books, there must be something about sex in there. So what I did was to seek out those books in our collection that had a beautiful or sexy lady on the cover with a provocative pose. That image smelled of sex and so I assumed that the book would have something about sex in it. Now as luck would have it, books possessing those covers were authored by Sydney Sheldon, Harold Robbins, Eric van Lustbader, Jackie Collins, and other such writers known for their intensely arousing and completely impossible sex scenes. I still remember one scene from Collin's book 'Lucky' where after the guy brought her to an explosive multi orgasm and ejaculated his spunk into her and then went on to pleasure her some more with a fantastic demonstration of cunnilingus and climaxed with him sucking out his cum from her vagina. Now being a virgin then, I had no comprehension whatsoever about the act but thought it quite impressive all the same because he did not need a straw to get it out. Ah, the ignorance of youth!

Now though I had discovered those books, I did not actually read them in their entirety. I started just flipping pages randomly at first to look for sex. I think it was because I was successful in my first few attempts at finding a scene that I intensified my efforts and slowly became more methodical in my explorations. I would now flip each page of the book and scan each page quickly for words like 'cock', 'breasts', 'fuck' and other such words that would indicate the presence of a sex scene. Once I found it I would dive in like a happy dolphin and swim about for a few paragraphs (or pages if you read Jackie Collins). But the cover method of identifying sex scenes in books though generally successful had its failings as well. Sometimes the damn cover or the title of the book was thoroughly misleading and I would find myself flipping through 300+ pages without even so much as a show of skin. Eventually, I began to realize that sex scenes had to happen by 2/3rds of the book and if there wasn't one by then, there wasn't going to be one nice long multi paged sex scene waiting for me at the end. I refined my methodology with not just my collection but with every book shop I hit and other's people's collections when the opportunity presented itself. I also came to realize that at the bookshops my life was actually made easier because there were other filthy minded bastards like me around who sought out such books and homed in on the sex scene. I don't know whether it happens these days, but if you look at the spine of authors like Jackie Collins, you will notice creases at certain areas. It was those creases that indicated that those particular areas were accessed more and held open longer than others. And voila! that's where the sex scenes generally were.

By this time of course I knew what sex was all about but found myself taking immense pleasure in reading the sex scenes. I even fancied myself a connoisseur and could anticipate the quality of sex scene of the various writers.

My methodology came under severe review one day when I was browsing one of those type of 'perused' books that we also had at home. I forget which it was now, but what I noticed was that the spine crease on the book at the shop indicated 4 sex scenes whereas to my recollection of the book I had at home, I only found 3 sex scenes. Despite my page by page scan I still missed out a sex scene! How could this be? I quickly opened the book to the 4th visible crease and there it was - the 4th sex scene that eluded me. Though it was not terribly memorable or outstanding in quality, this seriously casted doubt on the thoroughness and accuracy of my methodology and left me feeling insecure; insecure because there may be many more sex scenes that I may have left out in my previous explorations.

It was about that time that a cousin of mine who was staying with me lent me Virginia Andrew's 'Flowers in the Attic'. If you don't know what the story was about, it was about 2 brothers and 2 sisters who were kept in the attic by a mean relative and how they coped. Incest was therefore definitely on the agenda. And incest = sex scene. So it was game on.

When I was passed the book, I contemplated trying out my methodology again but with greater focus and concentration. But I think that episode made me cast serious doubt on my abilities that I thought that the best way to make sure I don't miss out on any of the sex scenes was to read the whole damn thing. And that's what I ended up doing and that I think is the first work of fiction that I read in its entirety. And though I wouldn't read any more of her stuff, I thoroughly enjoyed the book then. I went on to devour all of her books after that though I can't remember any of them now. And after I was done with her, my reading development exploded and I just couldn't read enough. However, my genre however was still questionable and limited to the heavily sex scened books. A few years later, I graduated to the classics mostly from the French side with classics by Dumas, Maupassant, Laclos, Rostandt and Flaubert. Dumas' 3 Musketeers was the first book that I finished in double time. I holed myself in my room over a weekend and remember finishing that book at about 3am in the morning. I could not sleep until I had finished the book and after doing so wished I could start it all over again.

Soon after, I moved into contemporary fiction and stayed there for a long time, occasionally dipping into the classics so I could gauge the general quality of the former. I could not read non-fiction then even when I hit University. I could take the boring legal crap but textbooks, current affairs, essays, etc. were all out of the question. Funnily enough, it as only after I came back and worked for a year that I began to take an interest in non-fiction. I think it started with Scott Peck's 'The Road Less Travelled' and carried it on from there.

Nowadays, whilst I usually prefer non-fiction, whether it is a current opinion/affair book, or one about science, or the original texts of the groundbreaking books, to fiction. And the supreme irony now being that I abhor sex scenes in my literature and think them almost embarassing these days (unless it was there for a meaningful purpose and not merely as a masturbatory stop). One of those exceptions to the rule is Cleland's 'Fanny Hill' which I get a huge kick out of reading because of the antiquated language used to describe nasty sex scenes. Careful though, it might give you a boner or wet your panties (or both!).

Having reflected on this, I have concluded that there are many ways to discover the joys of reading and that sordid beginnings need not necessarily continue forever that way. I realize now that for me, if it were not for that curiousity about sex, it is likely that I may have developed an interest much much later or perhaps not even at all, which I think to be the greater tragedy. Jackie Collins was necessary for me to get in touch with Francis Bacon. So for that I thank all those writers of sex scenes both famous and obscure for facilitating my reading development and saucily and sensually ferrying me over to my current stage. And know that books should not be judge by its cover or its introduction or sex scene.

Sudir

8.3.1980. I had finished my MCE and was waiting for my result. Sudirman came to town.

He was my idol of sorts. I remember trying to sing like him, dance like him, dress like him and be like him. When he got back from a tour in Japan, he transformed himself from being just another Malay singer to a Malaysian superstar. I remember his curly hair, baggy pants, linen vest worn over linen shirts complete with a long scarf over his neck.

As a kid, I was overwhelmed by Sudir. And so, on 8.3.1980, he had a concert somewhere near my town. I borrowed my friend's bike and rode it to the concert even though I had no licence!

He was a real superstar. He had none of the attitude which would turn you off. Friendly. Chatty. Earnest. Watching him live, I could almost felt his honest desire to entertain the folks. Singing, to him was not merely a profession. It was a mission. A mission to entertain the audience. Communication came as second nature to him. He made you laugh effortlessly, the young and old. He would make you shed a tear or two when he sang a sad song. He would coax an old man to dance with one of his dancers on stage. He would sing English, Malay, Tamil and Chinese songs to make his show as multi-racial as possible. I think he was the first Malaysian artist to command a truly multi racial audience in his concerts. He was just, a superstar of no equal.

During a break, I sneaked backstage. I was stopped by a guard but fortunately, Sudir saw me trying to gain entry and he signaled the guard to let me in. And there I was. Alone backstage with Sudir. He was smaller than I thought. A lot smaller than the singer I saw on stage. He smiled and extended his hand. I shook it. And I told him my name.

He asked me how old I was and I told him I was 17 and I had just finished my MCE. He smiled. "How was the exam", he asked. "Erm...okay", I said. He looked into my eyes and asked, "what do you intend to do after MCE?" I hesitated. "What would you want to be?", he followed up his earlier question. " I don't know, I just want to pass my exam..." I answered nervously. "Probably I want to be like you...a lawyer and a singer", I continued. He smiled. "You will be okay", he said. "I know you will...", he said as if my future was foretold.

I had to have a memoir from that meeting. It meant so much to me. Here, in front of me, is my idol. A person who encapsulates success to me. A law student and a great entertainer. If only digital cameras were already around those days.

I put my hand inside my pocket. Pulled out a one ringgit note. "No, please don't give money to me", he said with a smile. I looked at him and I said "no, I just want you to autograph it for me". He smiled. "How very original", he said. He took a marker, wrote my name on the note, with a message "Hormat dari" and signed "Sudir" on the note. I later added the date with a ball point pen.

That moment lasted a lifetime to me. 28 years later, I still have that note. As crisp as new.

Sudir, thank you for all the memories. Thank you for all the good times. You are missed.

May God bless your soul. I am sure you are smiling at me now. And if you hadn't known, I am okay.

Some thoughts on Love

Love is the emotional sun of a human being. Like plants, we creep, we crawl, we bend, we twist to seek its rays, to feel its warmth. Until we receive enough to radiate our own glow and so be able to see and bask in the glow of others. It is the sun that can make fertile the barest patch of the heart's soil and make the smallest seedling become a tall and mighty oak of trust and love.

Without it, we wither, we wilt. Without it, the soil of our heart slowly becomes acidic. The taste of life's bitterness envelopes our tongue and then consumes the rest of our body. Without it, we turn upon ourselves, inflicting ourselves with loathing, regret and helplessness, scarring our heart so the pain blocks out that taste. Feeling something is better than wanting to give without having anybody to receive. And once we have so completely and thoroughly despised ourselves, our darkness shall escape into the world.