Ironic, It’s Iconic

Ridley Scott perpetuated the myth about the meaning of the thumbs-up icon in his movie Gladiator. Thumbs up, the vanquished lives, thumbs down, he is not spared, the victorious gladiator will finish him off with a thrust of his sword straight into the loser’s heart. In ancient Rome, the opposite was true. Thumbs down meant put the sword down, the crowd clamours for the defeated gladiator to be spared. He’s worthy enough to fight another day. According to some, thumbs up meant to thrust the sword up into the heart of the combatant, a fatal defeat.

When Novak Djokovic flashed the thumbs-up sign yesterday, some sections of the US Open crowd booed and jeered him, how ironic. The modern-day gladiator retired mid-match in his fourth round match rather than slogged till the end like an ancient fighter. The ancients were not afforded such a privilege. Retired hurt, oh mama, I don’t want to play anymore. The number one ranked player in the world should understand the liberty to give the thumbs-up sign lies with the crowd, they paid good money to see a fight. Many will feel short-changed. What? A match between Stan Wawrinka and The Joker should last five sets over five hours. That’s money well spent. Not this. Two sets down and a game down, and he surrenders? He has no right to raise his thumb up, unless he intends to admonish himself with the ancient Roman gesture. It has to mean more than simply another day in the court. This is a Grand Slam event, one of only four majors, annually. He earned USD117,000 even though he lost his match, USD280,000 in total for four matches. An average worker in Australia would have to work six years to earn that. No wonder he was jeered, despite the injury to his left shoulder. People can be tough when they pass judgement on those they deem disrespectful to or disinterested in their fans.

It is ironic that two iconic symbols, Yin Yang and The Jesus Fish, have their origins so misunderstood. We think of the Yin and Yang as a symbol of the Tao. Chinese philosophy embraces the concept of dualism where seemingly opposing forces are actually complementary. It promotes the idea of going with the flow, finding the balance in all aspects of life. Yin, the feminine symbol of water, softness, shade and passivity which gives the spirit to everything and Yang, the masculine symbol of warmth, light, energy (qi) and action which offers the form to all things. The earliest Chinese characters for yin and yang are found around 1400 B.C.E, in inscriptions made on skeletal remains of various animals used in ancient Chinese divination practices – known as the oracle bones. It is ironic that archaeologists found Cucuteni Trypillian pottery with the Yin-Yang symbol in Moldova, South Ukraine, some two thousand five hundred years earlier than the oracle bones’ discovery.

The Ichthys, or Jesus Fish was a symbol secretly used to represent Jesus Christ, Son of God, our Saviour when early Christianity was still practised underground. They believe he is both man and fully divine. It is ironic that the symbol was first used by previous religions to represent the Goddess of Fertility because it is shaped like the private parts of a woman.

One of the world’s most iconic building is the Sydney Opera House. Designed by the Dane, Jorn Utzon, the sculptural form of his creation resembles the sails of yachts that decorate the harbour, although they remind me more of giant seashells that represent the importance of the beach to the Aussies. It would be nigh impossible to find a tourist in Sydney who is not aware of this iconic building. The irony is Utzon never got to see his design in person, he was vilified by the New South Wales government during its construction due to cost blowout – the engineers were ill-equipped to make the unique structure strong enough to support the roof. The government refused to pay his fees, forcing him to back to his homeland, never to return.

Many would agree there can be no greater iconic band than The Beatles. The pine tree planted in 2004 in memory of Beatle George Harrison died after being infested by beetles. Ironic, isn’t it?

Amass A Mess

What have I done to myself? Is this the sum total of my life? I was 20. My List Of Potentials was long and exciting. It was a list I drafted in my teens, a summary of what I could hope to achieve in my life. That was on a cold dreary, wintry July day in Adelaide, the first winter of my life. It never crossed my mind that my whole life could be a lifetime of winter. A list of potentials that is filled with positive maybes, it promises heaven, not hell. Blue sky, not dark threatening clouds. Gardens in full bloom, not with rampaging weeds. Meandering rivers, not stormy seas. Lovely fertile chaste maidens, not divorcees with heavy baggages.

Life of course offers no guarantees. My life could have been one long winter. But no, I made sure of that. Luckily. But, no one can really make sure life will present us with what we want. I left home when I was 18. Fresh, young, naive and with the world as my oyster. See, I did say I was naive. It was Shakespeare who coined the phrase, a romantic bloke he was. The world as my oyster, a life without adversity, trauma, and threats. Everything I amass will be gold. Every advantage that comes my way will bear fruit, no opportunity will be missed and if it were missed, it would knock a second time. Why an oyster, Mr Shakespeare? The romantic writer could very well have replied that the oyster is the most admirable of all living things. Its hard calcified shell protects what is precious to it, the whole reason for its existence is to keep safe the beautiful pearl with its gorgeous lustre, unblemished thick nacre and perfect round shape. What can be more meaningful to us than to be that oyster, for that pearl?

I was a pescetarian for almost three years immediately prior to leaving home to further my studies in Adelaide. When dinner was being served on my Qantas flight, it suddenly dawned on me that being a pescetarian was going to pose a real problem for me. Aussies are beefcakes, all meat eaters. I was told they don’t drink water. Water is only for plants and cattle. Aussie blokes aren’t that, that’s for sure. They only drink beer and eat steaks. Plants are for animals. Fish? That’s too fishy, sold only in Greek fish and chips shops. That was in the 70’s. Being decisive by nature, I smiled at the middle aged Aussie stewardess with a faint trace of moustache and paper thin lips smudged carelessly with a glossy bright red lipstick. Yes, I’ll have the lamb. Thanks. What this naive boy didn’t realise was that cold lamb served in an aeroplane cannot be aromatic or delicious, and will quickly turn into chunder. Cold lamb was a disastrous choice to reintroduce myself to meat after three years of abstinence.

I landed in Jobs Paradise, found a job as a drinks waiter in a Chinese restaurant after one interview. Yes, I have lots of experience, sir. I can start anytime. I’ll be paid cash? Sure, cheques will too inconvenient, sir. I didn’t understand cash meant under the table money, well below the award rates. Never mind, I lied too, I was surprised the boss was so gullible; he couldn’t tell I was a new arrival. The only experience I had in a proper Chinese restaurant – meaning air-conditioned – was dining in a wedding party that my parents dragged me to, a few years earlier. I arrived in Adelaide on a Tuesday and started my first job as a drinks waiter three days later. As someone advised me, Aussies only drink beer, easy enough job I assured myself. Just grab whatever beer they order and pour! At the first table, all four patrons ordered “Sutthick” beer. Peering high and low inside the wine fridge, I was starting to fidget when I couldn’t find any! So sorry sir, we have run out of Sutthick beer. Will you consider Coopers Pale or Crown Lager? Not possible! It’s as laughable as a pub with no beer, they bellowed. We want to speak to your boss! The boss beckoned to me to follow him to the wine fridge. Which beer did they order? Sutthick, sir. Are you blind, son? He yanked one bottle out, plonked it into my hand and said, here! Help yourself! I was cursing myself, how did I not see them? I opened my hand and it revealed a bottle that says Southwark Bitter Beer. Southwark, why do Aussies pronounce it as Sutthick? Waitering was done with style. I have style, I assured myself. Just watch what the others do. Grab the four bottles of beer and Pilsner glasses, place them on the round tray, palm underneath it, lift it over my shoulder, walk to the table and serve. That’s the easy part, I performed it with style. Pouring the beer into a Pilsner glass whilst balancing the heavy tray needs mental focus. I forgot to remind myself when I pour with my right hand, my left hand ought not to follow the right hand’s pouring angle. Too late! Just that slightest deviation from the perfect horizontal position was enough to prove that gravity although invisible, has its way of making things fall to the ground. In this case, unfortunately for me, the half-filled Pilsner glass fell on the lap of the lady to whom I was serving. Unfortunately for her too, I suppose. What a mess.

The following year, I moved to Sydney. I was accepted into University of New South Wales (UNSW), their Commerce degree was more relevant to me than the Economics degree offered by Uni of Adelaide. I didn’t pause to question why the straight A’s I scored did not qualify me for Dentistry in Adelaide. Unbeknownst to me, my father had torn up the letter of offer from The School of Dentistry. So wise, my father. Totally sensible. It would be a depressing career to be in. Nobody wants to visit you and if they did, they would be terrified of you. You’d be the last place they would want to return to. You’re their worst conversationalist, you’d never get a word out of them. Your day is filled with fillings and crooked teeth. Quite depressing. Anyway, I was happy to join an old school friend from Penang in Sydney. He too had opted to do the same course in UNSW.

Sydney was also a paradise for job seekers. My first interview landed me a job in The Rocks Tavern, as a kitchen hand. Peeling potatoes and onions all day did not faze me. I was proud to wear the all white apron, working in the kitchen was far more interesting than serving customers. What generous tips I missed were compensated by the abundance of food available to kitchen hands. That was where I learned to love blueberry pies with almond topping. Before too long, I was given a white hat, promoted to be in charge of cottage pies. The job required me to push trays of raw cottage pies into the commercial oven and pulling them out perfectly baked when the bell rings. I wear a burn mark on my left biceps with pride. A permanent reminder of a careless moment when my arm briefly touched a hot tray one afternoon. I became a trusted hand of the sous-chef, maybe out of desperation on the night of Christmas Eve. The under-manned kitchen meant I was briefly promoted to present the biggest platter of baked snapper to a rowdy group of Christmas party revellers. The instructions from the sous-chef were clear. Hold the tray underneath with the palm of your hand. Your hand should be at the centre of the tray and hold it up just over your shoulder. Walk straight, keep your face forward. Do not talk over the platter, make sure it is always just over your shoulder! The crowd applauded as I made my entrance into the middle of the cobblestoned square. Aiyah, the sous-chef did not warn me about the cobblestones. Have you carried a platter with the biggest snapper you have ever seen with just the palm of your hand? Try, it isn’t so easy. Especially if you aren’t wearing non-slip shoes. A heavy platter that feels heavier with every step you take and slippery cobblestones can only mean one thing. CRASH! And more applause as the beautifully baked snapper and garnish dressed in Christmas colours slid off the silver platter. The giant snapper glided along the cobblestones like it was still alive. The Sous-chef simply said, do not ever do that again. No four lettered word for once. That showed his anger. Don’t just keep bowing to your audience, clean the mess up quickly!

Human Decency, An Oxymoron For A Moron

A friend got me started this morning. I had just finished meditating; just travelled back into this world from the silent calm one within. No, my peace shall not be disturbed so quickly. The serenity and stillness gained shall not be wasted so soon, especially over a moronic demon. But, for my Canadian friend, it is approaching night time there. He has had a long day, he is ready to take on the morons in this world. There have been a couple of videos being shared, showing animal cruelty perpetrated by a woman. Apparently, she derives pleasure from exacting pain on helpless puppies. The second video is accompanied by a still image of her slender legs on high heels, her right one squashing a flattened puppy. Someone should banish her and her high heels to the freezing cold high hills of Gondor. Where is the human decency? My friend asks. Human decency, is that not an oxymoron? Pure evil, he described the moron. Pure evil? That too is an oxymoron. What is evil cannot be pure. In Victorian days, a virgin is considered pure. Untouched, untainted, innocent. Today, there are not many good things in this world that can be considered pure, apart from gold (maybe), virgin coconut oil and virgin olive oil. Whereas, evil is everywhere, right through earth’s history, i.e. including human history. We can trace evil in humans through our evolution, from primates and perhaps even beyond, to simpler organisms. It is easy to conclude that evil delivers benefits and advantages for our survival. It is the law of the jungle, survival of the fittest. More apt to say survival of the evil? Evil survives, because the good die young. Did we inherit our malevolence from our ancestors? I shudder at the thought that such evil traits could have been given to us by our Maker. It is one thing to devour another animal for sustenance, but to cause intentional suffering, or destruction to another? Very few other living things have exhibited genocidal tendencies on a massive scale like our species. Recent monsters such as Hitler, Pol Pot, Stalin come to mind, our history is littered with many more. Animal cruelty rarely refers to animals’ cruelty to other animals. Sure, the local fox did kill three of my egg-laying hens, ripped off Dolly’s neck even, all for fun. Their carcasses were intact except for Dolly’s head, so I knew the fox did not kill for food, just for pleasure. I saw a feral cat torturing a colourful Rainbow Lorikeet with little intention of eating it, but I was too slow to save the bird, the sadistic cat simply scooted away with it. Big apes and dolphins have been diagnosed in some studies as psychopaths, killing other females’ young so that the females become available to reproduce. If you fancy a female to bear your child, what can be more chilling than to hear that her price is to have you as her meal during or after copulation? Black widows, praying mantis and redback spiders are notoriously evil for that. The mantis will enjoy the succulent head of her mate, during their reproductive act. The smaller redback male will somersault and place its abdomen within easy reach for the female to eat him alive during copulation. This cannot be defined as the ultimate kinky sex, right? Is this not a more chilling scene than the brain dinner in The Silence of the Lambs? An example to illustrate nature’s selfish gene can be seen in the innate behaviour of cuckoo chicks. Their parents are devious, they are too lazy to build their own nests but instead time their hatching after observing other birds’ behaviour. Cuckoo’s eggs need to hatch before the host’s eggs so that the young cuckoos gain an advantage over the other chicks. The more developed cuckoo chicks somehow know to push the new hatchlings out of their nests to their deaths. Baby murderers know to kill off potential competition. Who has not watched episodes of David Attenborough’s Planet Earth or Our Planet, where chimpanzees go on a rampage and form “hit squads” to rape and kill a few of their own. Those are just brutal gangs, not really capable of mass exterminations. There is also the Red-bellied Piranha, an indiscriminate school of killer fish which will devour their unfortunate victim. In a feeding frenzy lasting just a few minutes, they leave little trace of a body. Vicious but not evil. Some female monkeys even sneak out to mate with weaker males, as if having the alpha male as mate does not offer enough protection and food, or secure better qualities for her progeny. She is just being sly, or extra careful in case some disaster befell her hero. But, cunning isn’t evil, right? All these traits, be they cunning, destructive, murderous, deceptive, distasteful, sadistic, or evil, are observed in the wild, in nature. The reason is clear, such traits are necessary for the survival of the genes, and the advancement of the species. It is only humans who attempt to hide the truth by telling the alternative story, that we are made in the likeness of our Maker, kind, benevolent and just. Evil is a common trait for winners, this is my conclusion about the Law of Nature. No matter how we distort the truth by cocooning the ugliness of nature with righteous and holy stories or fairytales, we cannot paint evil as against the natural order of life. We cannot hide evil, it will not be suppressed. Evil not merely exists in nature but is very much a vital attribute for survival of the species. Sapiens evolved some 200,000 years ago. We belong to the genus Homo, the oldest is thought to be Homo Erectus which appeared almost two million years ago. We have been evil for a long time. Urghhlings.

Molly

Dolly lost her head

The Sheep In Loincloth

British Prime Minister Boris Johnson registered a faint sheeplike note on his view of Trump’s Trade War against China. Sheeplike, even though he was very much against the American’s disruptive and destructive methods of negotiating trade deals. That the PM of the once great Great Britain can describe his stance on a major issue that may cause the next global recession – perhaps even depression- sheeplike is sheepish indeed. Where is the tenacity and leadership? The heroic bluster of the leader of a country that was once an Empire? Once upon a time, they had the temerity to send warships to bombard the Middle Kingdom. Having forced the weak Opium addicts to sign the Treaty of Nanjing, Hong Kong was theirs to rule and pillage as a British Crown colony. The meek surrender of the Qing Dynasty after the First Opium War in 1842 only made the Brits more ruthless. 18 years later China was again forced to cede more territory – Kowloon, after losing the Second Opium War. Two years before that, the British colonised the Indian subcontinent and named it the British Raj. They were there for 90 years during which they sent much of the riches to England and demolished India’s economy in the process, it went from contributing 20% of global GDP to less than 5%. Despite a famine that claimed some 6-10 million Indians, the export of wheat to Britain continued. The Brits left India a poorer country than when they first ruled it. In 1898, the Chinese leased The New Territories to their conquerors for 99 years, and did not reclaim Hong Kong until 1997. The One Country Two Systems model espoused by Deng Xiaoping was to satisfy the conditions imposed on China in the Sino-British Joint Declaration. It ensured that Hong Kong although returned to Chinese rule will still retain its own Basic Law, capitalist economic system, its own currency and legislative system. Most importantly, the citizens were assured of their freedom and basic human rights for the next fifty years.

Whilst Boris Johnson may be sheepish, Gandhi was no sheep in his loincloth. Immediately after the 1919 Amritsar massacre in which hundreds of unarmed Sikh civilians were ruthlessly killed by the Brits whilst celebrating their New Year, Gandhi abandoned his support for British rule. He was a giant in adopting non-violent civil disobedience in his struggles for civil rights and led nationwide campaigns to achieve self rule, although his non-violent methods were met with British brutality and repression. Although Indian independence was reclaimed in 1947, the ill-contrived Mountbatten Plan with its arbitrary and badly drawn up map caused the biggest displacement of some 20 million people and death toll of between 200,000 to two million civilians. Divide and rule was a deliberate policy of the Brits when the India Raj was their colony. The same strategy was also adopted when they handed over the country. The breakup of India Raj into India and Pakistan was deliberate, it weakened and divided the subcontinent along religious lines.

Where were the howls and protests by the western media then? Did the world show any indignation to how the Indians were abused in their own homeland for almost a century under colonial rule? Was there any uproar in the West over the treatment of Hong Kong? The people were not given any universal suffrage under British rule. There was no free public education and health care was minimal. Was life under British rule so much better? They weren’t granted British citizenship by their rulers nor were they provided cheap public housing to better their living conditions. Under British rule, there were no mass protests in the streets of Hong Kong. Yet, we have been witnessing the massive crowds of protestors every weekend since 31 March this year. Why are the protestors taking to the streets, causing civil unrest and depriving the majority of their basic rights to live and work in harmony. Carrie Lam announced “the bill is dead” , an acknowledgment to the protestors that their demand to scrap the Extradition Bill aka Fugitive Bill of 2019 has been met. What is wrong with the government wanting an extradition agreement to add China, Macao and Taiwan to the existing eighteen countries that have such an agreement? Especially when there are safeguards in the proposal that require the courts to approve extradition requests for major crimes such as murder, rape and kidnapping. The escalating violence on property and police has met with restrained response from the police, yet western media continue to report news of disproportionate police violence. Armed with knives, sharpened ends of umbrellas, bricks, smoke bombs, petrol bombs, and even military-grade grenade launchers, many policemen have sustained severe injuries. Barricading roads and blocking exits and egress to trains caused chaos to transport systems and even led to the closure of Hong Kong airport for two days. Rampant mob violence and destruction of buildings cannot be allowed to continue. These protestors would all have been incarcerated in any other country. Gandhi won his country’s independence with non-violent ways. Why do these protestors think they can achieve more with violence? What will they achieve by destroying what they – the Chinese – have built up in Hong Kong? They in fact have successfully demonstrated that they have the freedom to exercise their right to protest yet they resort to violence against their own police and anyone who they suspect do not agree with their views? A video showing Steve Bannon, President Trump’s one time White House Chief Strategist, standing side by side with Guo Wengui, the latter assuring on-the-ground student leaders of continued US financial support does lend credence to China’s claims of the black hand instigating subversion against a sovereign country. Let us hope there won’t be blood on these black hands. It is a blatant act to cause destabilisation in a previously prosperous and peaceful country. Hong Kong, wake up before it is too late. Don’t be manipulated by parties that do not have your interests at heart. Learn from the sheepish. Learn from the great man in the loincloth. We can achieve greatness without violence.

On the other hand, China also can help their own cause by being open and accountable with the treatment of their citizens. This morning’s news that Australian writer and political commentator Yang Hengjun has been formally arrested in China on suspicions of espionage more than seven months after he was detained, reflects poorly on China’s legal system. This is precisely what sends shivers up the spines of Hong Kong residents. No one should be incarcerated for such a long time before being formally arrested. He has been deprived of access to his lawyers and the denial of his right to family visits is draconian and unnecessary. There will be unavoidable accusations of admissions obtained under torture. China can do better, to demonstrate to the world that basic human rights are respected. The presumption of innocence should be a legal right, properly observed in China. Instead, this morning’s news about Yang reinforces the concerns the Hong Kong protestors have about China’s opaque and secretive legal system.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XoyGc41wcwc&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR1KETgGUtHSQ-dECE0VUmpotoC3ecZwtVfmi6tn78IusPD-sYda7r4MXB4

Figure With My Finger

Why did I do it? So dumb. So unacceptable. So unlike me. It was totally out of character, where was the sensible me? So Gung-ho. Oh, Gung-ho? That is me. After all, the Gung-ho guy cannot forget nor forgive his greed in 1987. You’d think he would have learned not to repeat the massive losses from that Black Tuesday Crash. Lesson learned, you burn all your cash in a crash. Why did I not read The Intelligent Investor first? After all, if the Oracle of Omaha says Benjamin Graham is his guru, why ignore his book? At the time, I consoled myself. Aiya, a good lesson learned. I will be 29, in just nine days’ time. There will be lots of opportunities to grab later in life and this lesson will make me the wiser. The best time to fall and pick ourselves up is when we are just learning. Like a baby figuring how to walk. Like a young adult figuring how to manoeuvre the sharemarket. Before that fateful day, The Mrs and I enjoyed an exciting twelve months of weekend celebrations. Every week we made money from our trades, and every weekend we tried out different restaurants to celebrate our wins. Wins and losses, that was where we made the mistake. The sharemarket is not a casino, you do not win or lose! You invest and earn a healthy return on your capital. We amassed a tidy sum of profit from our hobby, it was equivalent to a nice apartment in Sydney’s eastern suburbs. In one foul sweep, we lost it all. Never mind, it was a good lesson learnt, early in life. The legends of corporate Australia fared much worse. We saw the tall poppies hacked down from their pedestals, corporate raiders such as Robert Holmes A’Court, Alan Bond and Lee Ming Tee, the latter two subsequently jailed for their corporate crimes. But, time is the best healer of wounds, bitter memories eventually fade, and scars don’t hurt. The Gung-ho me lost another large wad of cash in the next Big Crash, the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis. I manly defended myself, hey, there is no economic logic why Aussie companies would be impacted by the misalignment of Asian currencies pegged against the US dollar. Urghhling, wake up, understand the futility of self justifications when The Mrs knows the money is gone. Two bitter lessons learned. Ah, I see the pattern, figuring out that the crash comes in cycles. 1987, now 1997. I told The Mrs, with prescient accuracy, let’s remind ourselves now. Come 2007 or thereabouts, if we still have vested interests in the sharemarket, we will get out before 2007, all of it. The Gung-ho guy did not remember his promise to The Mrs. So dumb. So unacceptable. He again lost a big chunk of the family’s savings in the Big Crash of 2008. This time, it crushed The Mrs. Caught in another Big Crash, the inevitable happened. The Big Clash. Urghhling! You said this, you said that. But, you still lost! She lost too, faith in me. I hope The Mrs doesn’t read this. It will bring back all the horrors of the five years after the Global Financial Crisis hit. It hit me hard. Unlike babies with unbridled energy and uncrushable hope, supple bodies and soft landings, I was by then past middle age. Past my peak, all the potentials that I could have been on my List of Potentials had already been scrubbed out.

Why did I not dig up the Tritch’s Chart that was given to me by a stranger, years before the GFC mayhem wrecked me? Tritch was the intelligent investor well before the book was written. He foretold the booms and busts from 1816-1927. His chart was published in 1872 and was later extended by an artist to 2035. It appeared in The Register on 21 November 1927. Mr Tritch, thank you. You will save me from the next horror, which is due any time after the 2019 peak. Given the escalating US-China trade war, the on-going violent protests in Hong Kong. Brexit, the extended bull run, Iran conflict, with the madman in the US, who is brave to say the bull run will continue ?.

It has been two weeks since I sliced my finger with the sharpest knife in the house. Fancy a Gin and tonic? We have a bumper harvest of lemons and limes this winter. A good reason to slice a lime for a bit of zest. My three sons all learned a string instrument as well as the piano. I drummed into them from when they first picked up their instruments, at age five. You must look after your hands. You cannot press on the strings even with the smallest cut on your finger. When they grew up, the same message was repeated frequently. Careful with the knife. Handle it with care, always use it with a chopping board. Don’t throw knives in the sink filled with hot soapy water. You won’t see the knives lurking beneath the suds. Careful with the ream of paper, a harmless looking paper will easily cut your finger too. As a parent, I set a good example, always respectful of the kitchen knife. So, why did I do it? Why did I not use the chopping board this time? Holding a small lime and slicing it with the sharpest knife in the house was so unlike me. So Gung-ho! Go figure. Today, I finally had the guts to remove the two bandaids that protected my eyes from looking at the wound. The Mrs in her usual wisdom yelled out from the lounge, you can’t be a doctor! Little does she know, all the D’s in my List of Potentials were long deleted. It baffles me still. It was one action with the knife yet the index finger has two vertical cuts and the tip of the finger pad, partly sliced off. Go figure.

Mooncake For The Beefcake

Anson, he’s the handsome one amongst us. He doesn’t know it but he provides us with much relief from our daily mundane life. Muscular, attractive and ripped with a six pack, I imagine. He regularly sends us a selfie, a self-imposed weekly report on his progress following the strict IF regime I introduced to him. A year of Intermittent Fasting has seen him lose his chubby chin, flaccid arms and heavy man-boobs that struggle to get sunlight from beneath his t-shirt. His selfies are always with the same pose, his head tilted to his left, right in front of his bar mirror. He is instantly recognisable, his mop of red hair is quite unique for a Penang-lang, bopping above the crowds along the streets of Penang. Red hair? Sun-bleached, not dyed, he insists. His gaze is sideways to accentuate his big almost goldfish eyes. Well, better those than mine, which are beady and slanty by comparison. I used to wish I could secretly cut off the epicanthic folds. But we can’t keep those secret, unlike circumcisions. Anson is an unusual beefcake, he loves to send us photos of his cooking. My oh my, this bloke can cook. His Tau Eu Bak holds real promise of being the best in Penang. A pity he did not remember to let me try them when I was there just a couple of months ago. He tells me I am too serious. Time for some comic relief, bro, he writes. Methinks you’ve been too serious in the last few blogs. Or is it just me, he pretends to ask. A good blogger must entertain, not just educate. I never said I am a good blogger! I would never be so presumptuous to think I am able to educate! And I know my weakness, I’m way too serious! Why do you miss my point? I write about the ugliness of people, urghhlings, remember? I do wish I can be funny. If only I can be perceptive of your idiosyncrasies and write in a funny way. Anyway, what do you suggest I should write about, that is funny? Mooncakes, he suggested. Mooncakes? You want me to provide comic relief and your solution is for me to blog about mooncakes? I know nothing about mooncakes! Not knowing much about mooncakes and still blog about them provides the relief, don’t you see? Anson has a point. The beefcake wants his mooncake.

In our childhood the best mooncakes were from Pun Heong, but like many good things in life, they did not last. It’s not only cheap things that do not last, see? They were famous for their cakes with piggy shapes, but I prefer the goldfish ones. Anson then got serious. Penang-lang eventually narrow down all conversations to price and value. A branded mooncake costs RM13 each. Four of mine cost less than RM7, always go for the unbranded ones, bro. Great advice, mate, but I won’t be buying any mooncake there anytime soon. You get great value for money without the designer label. It is not worth paying for the brand name and fanciful packaging, he persists with his useless advice to me. Designer label? Brand name? For mooncakes? I can’t name one brand, can you? It is not as if you can parade down the street flogging your mooncake to show you’re rich. The marketing must be so slick for them to command six times the price of yours, I reverted to my serious nature. Is it really just branding? Nothing about fresh ingredients? Superior salted duck eggs? I have not bought a mooncake ever since my sons left home, that’s some seventeen years ago. I am too serious I suppose to be one who buys mooncakes. The price for one is almost $10 here in Adelaide, I think. No inclination to have one, mate. Why do the Chinese celebrate the mooncake festival or the mid autumn festival? Just like the Easter buns and Easter chocolates, the message is lost in the commerce. During the Yuan Dynasty, during the Mongol rule from 1279-1368, messages to rebel against the Mongols were passed around in mooncakes. But, the tradition goes way back to the Zhou Dynasty, over 3000 years ago. Chinese emperors had always prayed to the moon for good harvests and peace for all. Ever since the Americans claimed to have left footprints on the moon and littered it with their flags, I have no inclination to worship the moon anymore.

Piggy shaped mooncakes in replica baskets used to transport pigs to abattoirs

A Mother’s Smother

Last night my mother told me she tried to kill me. Ma should have asked me, I would have let her, willingly. Unconditional love, that. But, I didn’t know that was her wish, and so I fought and repulsed the smothers, not knowing they were by her hands. She relinquished, I won. I was not even three months old. I could feel her despair, her remorse. Ma was 35 years old. By then, the scars from ten childbirths, four of which resulted in neonatal deaths, would have jarred her. In her mind, they barred her from further unwanted pregnancies. She did not want anymore, the burden of the heavy responsibility was too much for one woman. Six rowdy children already occupied the home plus one horny man who kept wanting the love-making. Tsk tsk tsk, your Pa. He wanted it even when I was five months pregnant! Do you think he may have caused those fatalities, she asked. I am no medical professional but I firmly assured her. No, Pa didn’t risk their well-being. As if that too absolved any guilt I may have harboured about my own predilection. I think the amniotic fluid in her uterus would have protected the four siblings who didn’t make it. RIP, my three brothers, my sister. One of the boys was very handsome, your father was very pleased with him, Ma said. Fair skinned, with a constant grin. He beamed a huge smile at Pa when their eyes first met. The midwife inexplicably left the baby near an open window. One ominous sneeze was all he hinted to Ma of his impending demise. She went berserk at the midwife but it was too late to save him. He passed away a brief moment later. Mornings in 1950 Penang were cool and fresh. The sea breeze could send shivers even to young adults. My brother didn’t stand a chance. Whereas I was lucky. By 1958, the devastating effects from WW2 were waning. Food was becoming plentiful, less exorbitant. With a big household, Ma the thrifty one, had to budget very well, to make the little money go far. Rental for the shophouse was $40 a month, that’s almost 20% of sales. A woollen jacket cost $2.40 to dryclean, a pair of trousers, $2.10. Their dry cleaning business relied on the European and American expats, and the RAAF blokes. Maybe Ma had better nutrition by then. Maybe I was getting better sustenance during those three months. That may be why I had the strength to survive. Maybe I already had that stubborn streak? Or was it my will to live? My karma to follow this path? Of the six surviving children before me, five are daughters. She didn’t want anymore. The preceding fifteen years of her life were a constant challenge. The prewar years in Malaya were not easy but at least they offered some excitement. They married on 24 December 1940, Pa had a laundry shop in Teluk Anson. He knew to head to the big city, that’s where the big money lies. Before their first wedding anniversary, they sold their shop to an uncle and with the $100, they formed a partnership with three equal but silent partners. Pa alone would work on the business, in the business. Their first accommodation in Penang was a $2 a night room in a cheap hotel in Chulia Street, named in recognition of the early Tamil Nadoo Indians who congregated there to form Little India. To this day, the street is still a Mecca for cheap accommodation for tourists. My parents stayed in that hotel whilst their new landlord built their new shop in Bishop Street. The street was named after the French catholic priest, Fr Arnaud-Antoine Garnault who opened his presbytery there. My folks never did get to celebrate the grand opening of their shop in Bishop Street. It was bombed by the Japanese, on 8 December 1941. Nine days later, the Imperial Army marched into the island, well, some say they cycled in leisurely since the British colonial masters and their soldiers had already fled. My parents fled too, to Penang Hill and hid there for a few days until they were spotted by an Indian man who probably would have dobbed them in to the Japanese for a sack of coins. The whole clan fled back to the town and found refuge in a clansman’s compound on Anson Road.

Japanese invasion of Penang

In my third month of enjoying a warm safe refuge in Ma’s womb, I came under attack. My world was being destroyed by a vile brown chemical. What the?! Who’s there?! What do you want from me? I’m just a baby. Don’t harm me, I’ll tell my mom. I have six older siblings, you will not dare! Ma took three dosages of that brown liquid, prescribed by her gynaecologist. It was the doctor who gave her the murder weapon. They want to kill me? Oh mother! The Plan: Madam, take a spoonful every four hours during the day. Do not stop until you have the result you seek. This bottle gives you ten dosages. Ample, for what you want. Ma almost died from it. I almost died from it. The pain was so severe she left her chundering all over the bathroom. When she doubled over from one chronic bout of seizure, she almost fainted. The next day, her Second Yiyi (maternal aunt) came to visit. She had heard about The Plan. Silly woman, what if? What if it’s a boy? Ma did not divulge whether that changed her mind or the chundering did.

La Fin, La Fine, It’s Fine

An old friend whinged about my last blog. This is what disgruntled Penang-lang movie goers rightly call “No ending one”. Yeah, Malaysians end almost every sentence with “one” or “lah”. It is for emphasis, makes it sound more friendly. You cannot! That sounds stern and totally non-negotiable. You cannot one, that changes the remark to almost meek, nice. No! That’s definitely an assertive reply in the negative. Whereas, no lah is so much easier to accept. It is soft, gentle and with some reluctance, leaving ample hope that the answer may change to a yes. Sometimes, they end with both, one followed by lah. You’re no good! Sounds like you just jilted someone. Whereas you no good one lah sounds amicable, sweet and endearing, almost. After being given these examples, another friend exploded; Aiyoh, why you one kind one, can’t think for yourself one meh? One can add one anywhere, also can one. Wow, he did not end with a lah. No ending lah. This isn’t a movie, no lah, there is no La Fin one. That is the one thing about blogs, they do not have endings. A friend came upon a saying by Yasmin Ahmad, it was framed and hung in a prison cell. “The way to start writing isn’t by writing at all. But by living. It isn’t about creating something from thin air, but about documenting our personal feelings about the things that we see. Or to put it crudely, how are you going to be a storyteller if you have no story to tell? Perhaps, in the end, there are no such things as creative people; they are only sharp observers with sensitive hearts.” Yasmin Ahmad ended with the end. La Fin in French, La Fine in Italian, or Tamat in Malay. But instead, she stirred up a hornets’ nest in my mind. How can there be no creative people in her world? There are just too many to rattle off here. My Big Three in classical music would have to be the Three B’s, Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. In pop music, we have the Beatles, Bee Gees, and Burt Bacharach. Ahmad cannot say movie stars aren’t creative either, how about Bogart, Bergman and Beatty? I rest my case, La Fin.

Today is my mother’s birthday. Ma, a real party animal, turns 97. We Chinese must be somewhat weird to the westerners. Tonight, we celebrate her 97th lunar birthday but come next month, we will celebrate again her birthday, her 96th. The Gregorian calendar ignores the time spent on earth in a mother’s womb. Born in the year of the Pig, her secret to longevity is to eat very very slowly, even if the food turns cold. By then, one cannot over eat, see? I am sure she is itching for 7.30 pm to arrive, that is when her birthday bash starts. She is unabashed about having a good time, with her offsprings around her, enjoying a little tipple. This may be another secret to her longevity. When no one is watching, it will not surprise you to find her prowling in the dark, helping herself to a shot of her favourite VSOP. Her liking for a little tipple causes a ripple though. Some of her children tut-tut at that, whilst others say bugger the ever-changing science. It’s her life, she has every right to enjoy it the way she wants. Many of my friends send warm wishes to her, and they remind me how lucky I am to still have Ma around. Many happy returns to her, allow her whatever makes her eyes sparkle. At her age, buy her a few bottles of her favourite VSOP, nothing but the best, a generous mate suggested. That is opening a can of worms, I retorted. There is no consensus amongst her children about her love for the nightly sip or two. Someone chimed in, let her enjoy, but within limits. Within limits? I asked, whose? Who has the right to set the limit to what Ma wants? No, yet another opposing idea, the one who lives with her should have a say, others bugger off. A wise one suggested the eldest siblings will always have the final say, no? At her age, a little indulgence is ok, said another, justifying it by assuming Ma doesn’t have much entertainment at her age. Whatever makes her happy, I say, but let’s be mindful of the other siblings who may not agree, suggested one of the more vocal ones. My take on this? No one should have a say except her. It is her life! I rest my case, La Fine. It’s fine, Ma knows what is best, no one has had more salt and plain rice than her.

Just like all fairy tales and happy stories, Ma continues to live happily and healthily ever after. No The End. 沒結束

Naturally They Rally

Lao Shiung! Lao Shiung! Pa’s friend from next door hollers out. This is just before the sun wakes up. He bangs the metal gate with a metal bar, clang, clang, clang, much like how bells toll. Lao Shiung arh, let’s go before the day breaks. It is a daily routine for them, waking each other up, and waking the whole neighbourhood up in the process. Pa just turned sixty, this was in 1976. Sixty is a magic number for ageing men in the 1960’s and remained so until the Gen Y’s turned up. Gen Y’s are dramatically different, there is more drama about their looks, which makes health their priority. We think about aged care, they talk about skin care. They care less when we discuss medicare. Turning sixty transforms Pa, he suddenly becomes a man who realises his own mortality. A year before, he got a rude wake-up call; he suffered his first of many strokes, during his 6oth birthday bash. Yes, his generation always counts themselves a year old as soon as they are born. Nine months in the mother’s womb is as good as a year on earth. Fortunately, the stroke is just a warning, it gives him ample opportunity (more importantly, time) to fix his lifestyle. Out goes all the smokes, what’s this about slowly weaning oneself off? What nicotine patches? What meditation sessions? That’s for the weak-minded. Pa simply stops. That is it, no more puffs, no more late night mahjong sessions – no more passive smoking in air conditioned rooms. No more mahjong actually. Quitting is easy, when you get a friendly warning. When you suddenly cannot walk and talk. You limp and you slur your words when you’re not drunk. No, Pa is not going to drool in bed. He has decided. And so he recovers! Out with the old, in with the new. The new means mixing with a new crowd, those who care about their health. Those who religiously go for morning walks before the morning breaks, even if it is spitting rain.

Some of my friends in Penang too have become obsessed with their health. They have turned 60! They are quick to rally one another; initially I suspected they may have health issues, after all, some of them are late-night owls drinking till the wee hours, and amongst a few smokers, there is one who wants to be a quitter. It’s 5 am. Rise up! Sound the rally call, ding, ding, ding, the sound of Good Morning wishes coming in on Whatsapp. Brain numbing wishes, every single morning. I flash my usual Keanu Reeves smirk. Ah, they are my buddies from yonks, maybe a half-smirk will be more appropriate. Let’s go. Let’s hurry. Let’s do it! Their rally is loud and clear every morning, even before the sun rises – and I am ninety minutes ahead of them in my time zone. Ding, ding, ding. I can see them charging up Penang Hill in their body-hugging lycra. There are those with walking sticks, they brag about the snake carvings on their sticks to distract me, they discuss the type of snake it is, brown, black, viper and of course the cobra. So elaborate! So intricate! But, I am not fooled, those are walking sticks these alpha males are holding, not Jedi lightsabers.

Yesterday, the penny drops. Someone mentions Penny, she finally shows up in our conversation. Penny, also a sexagenarian, teaches them Chia Mu Tze, a simple form of exercise for the less sure-footed, a slow version of aerobics, with nice hot bits. Oh, hot beats. Sorry, it’s the Penang lang diction. It makes my friends happy. It? She? She wears hot pants, they say it’s because it gets too hot there. Naturally, they rally. These sexagenarians are still pre-occupied with the opposite sex. Pa, I hope you too were pre-occupied, in the 60’s.

Yearn To Learn

My parents were both deprived of a proper education. Their parents were way too poor, meat was a luxury, school was for the dreamer and new clothes nigh on impossible. It was surely bad luck to be growing up in China in the thirties, to be more accurate from the two Opium Wars right up to the Cultural Revolution. Pa did a year of primary school, I think, Ma, the lucky one, she was afforded two years. Remarkably, both managed to climb out of the illiterate class. Pa somehow taught himself reading and also basic accounting; he could even keep his own accounts, a cashbook system to run his dry cleaning business. Ma managed to teach herself to read and write from old newspapers. Both of them yearned to better themselves. They knew it is through education that their children’s lives will improve. It’s probably something they didn’t have to learn. Unlike using GDP as a measure of success for a nation, looking at the level of intelligence is maybe a better measure of success for the individual. My parents should be considered very successful, especially given their lack of formal education. They were both self-taught in many things, it’s the power from knowing how to read and write. If we use neonatal mortality as a measure, then they were just above average, I think. Only eight survived out of twelve. They lost three boys and a girl. But, all eight were sent overseas to finish our tertiary education. That is a remarkable achievement, the anxiety and stress they would have gone through were hidden from me. As a parent of three children, I know how challenging it was to send them overseas – the eldest stayed back. Ma taught me Mandarin for three years, but I was not like them, I did not have their hunger to learn. The old adage is true for me, what I had, I did not cherish. I had no yearning for learning, school was a mere one hundred steps away from home, I just needed to walk past the Blue Mansion along the muddy field where I spent many a rainy day catching tadpoles. I would watch them grow limbs, lose their tails and turn into young healthy frogs. It now makes sense why I dissented against their slaughter during dissection classes. I didn’t see the need to sacrifice them so that we can learn about opening up their bodies. I was the kid who showed up in class unaware that there was a test set for the day. The same kid who didn’t understand what the word understand meant. I got my nipples twisted for that. Perhaps this may be why I had no drive to learn, but it would be unfair now to blame the teachers.

What I yearned for during my boyhood years was to own a pair of leather football boots, just like the ones I saw, five doors away at Cheers, along Penang Road. The shopkeeper would have been annoyed by me, the customer from hell; look, look, look but you never buy. You again, shouldn’t you be home, learning your Pe peh meh feh? Yao yao yao, yao dao wai poh chiow? The old adage is true for me, what I do not have, I cherish. The only substantial toy I was given was a 1:18 scale police car with a siren and flashing blue lights – the other toys, I made, such as swords made from sticks tied together like a cross. To this day, I do not know who damaged it, the cop car was out of service before the week was out. In those days, nothing was made in China. It couldn’t have been a crap toy, Pa would have paid big money for it. He did not know what I really wanted was a pair of football boots. Simply because it did not dawn on me to tell him. I did not ask for anything, back in those days. I got what was given, did not think asking or praying helped. But, Ma prayed – so we didn’t have to. The kids helped whenever Ma prayed. We would arrange the dining table differently for the deities and ancestors. Their chopsticks had to be paired evenly, precisely on the right side of the rice bowl, each seat rewarded with a shot of the best VSOP in the house. The cooked dishes were laid along a straight line, with three joss sticks on a brass urn centrally placed. When the deities and spirits have finished their meal – to this day I still do not know how Ma knew they would finish at the same time when the joss sticks have completely burned- then it’s the turn for us humans. The dining table would be rearranged, the dishes staggered, never in a straight line for the living. The joss stick urn would be relegated back to the kitchen.

Oh well, forget the football boots. I am ready to hang up my boots anyway. I will be proud to show you my scars though, lots of them, mostly on the shins. I wore my no. 4 jersey with pride, a barefoot right-back against the meanest forwards in school, all weaponised with English football boots.

My life changed when I saw my eldest sister arriving home after her four years at Trinity College of London. How chic she looked with her high bun and her Audrey Hepburn dress. She was given a piano to learn only because Pa’s friend who owned a piano shop repaid a small debt with a piano, a Mornington and Weston. A London factory, it existed between 1858 and 1975. During the sixties, very few in Malaysia learned a western musical instrument – apart from the recorder and guitar – let alone went overseas to learn music. I want to be like her! Modern, fashionable, with an aura of success and sophistication. I was intrigued by the cello case she carried on her back. I fell in love when I saw her German cello. My roving young eyes had already learned to appreciate the sexy curves of the instrument, her slender neck holding the beautifully carved scroll, her one-piece superbly crafted back, and her gorgeous f-holes! Can I touch her G-string, I would have wondered. No, the cello is too big for you, she said. What a dampener. The very first time in my life I yearned to learn, I was discouraged. But, as they say, persistence pays, do not take no for an answer. This was the first time I asked for something, did not wish, did not pray. Just ask! That was how I got to learn the violin. Smaller curves, but hey, they are just as sexy. It took music to instil in me the disciplines of learning; structure, understanding, thinking, research, improving through rigorous and proper practice. It took the violin to teach me the benefits of sitting down for an hour every day, instead of running around chasing paper balls and footballs.

Today, I watched Murray, my son’s pup attempting to mark his territory. How did he learn that? He didn’t learn it from me. I’ve never lifted a leg to pee on a lamp post or a bush. Yet, he knew to do that today, although all he did was lift his right hind leg. He didn’t spray any marker at the tree, he was totally dry. But, I’m sure he will know soon enough, sometimes we just know. Odd, isn’t it? Evolution taught us, millions of years ago? Same with durian. He enjoys durian cake but will not touch bananas. How did he learn to appreciate durian, a fruit that commands as much distaste for it as the love for its taste. He is a progeny of a breed from Murray Bridge, it’s as ocker as we can get here. Here, you won’t find any durian, not in the last many lifetimes. Yet, the little blighter loves it. He ain’t true blue, that’s all I can say. True blue Aussies have to learn to like durian!

Murray about to mark his territory at the Uni of Adelaide