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

Vulgarity Of Frugality

Frugality is using only one drop of toothpaste when you can use many, thrift is not wasting, not even one drop.

My Penang lang friend beat the drum loudly announcing to our friends I too have brought the famed Penang trait to Australia.

You brought your Penang frugality habits, the squeezing of the toothpaste till the last drop, to Australia. He was referring to my last blog about the meticulous way I roll up my tube of toothpaste. No, bro. Frugality is using just one measly drop of toothpaste. Hey you, use it sparingly. Thrift is about not wasting, not even one drop of toothpaste is flushed down the sink. You may use a few drops but hey you, do not waste any. Brush your teeth thoroughly before you rinse your mouth. I had to point out the difference, does that mean I have a disorder? Another friend, the Kiwi, encourages me to keep sharing, it’s a great way to let people know the real you, a little at a time. The rumination of a man. I hope that doesn’t make me a narcissist, it would be the ruination of me. Which begs the question. Why do I reveal my soul here? Why bare myself? Soon I’ll be the one without clothes, except I can never be the emperor. It’s a bit like packing up all that we have accumulated over a lifetime, taking a good look at them before we chuck them out in the landfill. This is more than spring cleaning. Spring cleaning is just tidying up, getting rid of surplus requirements, especially stuff we would never use again, dust collectors, space eaters. For me, blogging involves the close examination of my whole life. I have been lucky, for all my childhood and teenage life, my biggest fear was losing a parent or both. My Pa lived till 91, albeit bedridden in his last two years. Ma, touch wood, is still well at 96, well, as well as can be for a nonagenarian. Before a blog, I would collect my thoughts first, re-examine my principles, re-question my ideals and recheck my ideas. That’s the theory of it, my intentions of sharing my stories before I write. But when the ideas flow, maybe past injustices, unfair biases, ingrained attitudes, intuitive suspicions, newly learned philosophical arguments all collide and I reveal my true self anyway. Wu Wei is my new way. From the Tao Te Ching. The Dao is what the natural way is, untainted by desires. I have long called myself the idiotes- an old Greek word, but will I stumble upon the idiot inside me? But, this isn’t spring cleaning, it’s much more than that. It’s the final clean-up. No more clutter of the mind. It’s time to know what to unburden, what to let go, which to forgo, who to forgive, we will ultimately forget anyway. Wu Wei, if it isn’t relevant, we will do without, eventually forget. Let go, go with the flow.

But, this is about frugality. For me, there is a huge difference between being frugal and being thrifty. And then there is being cheap. The main idea of all three terms is about saving money. Saving money; that can’t be a bad thing, right? Which do we fall under? Let me use mandarins as an example. My Ma taught me how to select the best mandarins when I was still a boy. The skin must be smooth and thin to touch – otherwise you’re paying a lot for the skin, and the fruit must not be airy and light when you hold it. The heavier the fruit, the juicier it is. So, this knowledge is well taken advantage of by The Mrs. She leaves me to pick the fruits from the fruit and veggie shops. She says I know best. She’s Hakka, they are taught to leave some good ones for the next customer. You shouldn’t pick all the best ones and leave only bad ones for others. It is vulgar to be frugal, she may easily conclude. The frugal one will pay as little as possible for the best ones, and use them sparingly, as few as possible each time. For a family of five, the frugal mother will serve at most five mandarins for dessert. They will not have second helpings, no matter how hungry they still are. When I was a little boy, Ma would cut an apple for eight of us to share, equally. But, by her definition of what equal means. To her, equal meant eight slices in equal thickness, irrespective of our age, need or degree of hunger. In my example of the mandarins, a thrifty mother would hand pick them of course, the freshest with green stalks and heaviest, and at the lowest price. She would make sure the green stalks are all broken off, she will never ever pay for unusable weight. She would serve them to her family of five but would make absolutely certain that nothing is wasted. They will all have enough to enjoy. Not a slice would be left uneaten, nothing is wasted. The thrifty is in fact wise.

As for the third type, the cheap, they will always go for the cheapest, and therefore usually the lowest quality. It doesn’t matter if the mandarins are damaged, drying up, and past their use by dates. The cheap will just want cheap, they hate spending money. But when they do, the lowest price is their top priority, they will like it best when it’s free. Have you been out with a friend to the local pub where they offer a buy one get one free deal? When it’s time to pay, the cheap will say his was the free meal. Urghhling.

Gee, You Squeegee Too?

Sebastian Maniscalco in Why Would You Do That? appears to be laughing at me too. He declines invitations to stay at friends’ homes whenever he’s travelling. Once, his host handed him a squeegee for the bathroom. What? You want me to squeegee the shower cubicle after I’ve used it? I laughed out loud but then stopped abruptly after my fifth cackle. I was laughing at myself, I mean, who doesn’t stoop low with a squeegee to dry the walls of their bathroom immediately after finishing? Immediately means after drying myself but before drying the walls. Nah, the comedian exaggerates when he says his scrotum might inadvertently scrape the floor if he squats to squeegee the wall tiles. Never mind, it takes me no more than a minute to leave a reasonably dry cubicle after I am done. Let them laugh.

The same with squeezing the last drop of tooth paste from its tube. Before the advent of soft pliable plastic, my toothpaste fights with The Mrs were frequent. Did I say fight? I could never win a fight with her, flight would be a better word. During those days, squeezing toothpaste was an art form, we couldn’t simply squeeze it anyhow we like. Collapsible but not completely, those tubes were made of tin and lead. Aiyaya, you’re too wasteful. Squeeze carefully, meticulously and evenly from the bottom. Make sure it’s totally empty before advancing it up the tube. Waste not a drop. Be sure to screw back the lid tightly, do not let the contents dry up! Even with the plastic tube, we cannot successfully push out all the toothpaste. Aiyaya, do not waste a drop. Scissors please.

I am usually placid and calm. Omitaba. Except when I’m on the road, there I’m a beast. I cannot stand stupid drivers. Green means go! Don’t start and stop! Don’t hesitate, you’re not choosing what clothes to buy. Go! I am on my way to the city, there is a musical in town, and I have been given two free tickets. I know it is going to be great, anything free is a bonus. At the traffic lights, a bloke in front throws out a cigarette butt. Doesn’t he know the butt eventually goes out to the sea? I honk him long and loud. He gives me the middle finger. I honk again. Luckily the traffic light turns green, he doesn’t get to storm out of his car to menace me. Luckily for him, I mean. During the show, they sang a song about what Jesus did when they sentenced him to die. The lyrics pricked at my conscience. Man up. He had to man up.

I’ve gotta stand up
Can’t just clam up
Its time to
Man up!

Alright, alright, let me man up. The bloke who chucked the butt onto the road did get out of his car. He was a huge guy, with mafia looks. He who hesitates at the lights would not hesitate to head butt me had I not changed lane and roared past him when the lights turned green. Luckily for me. The Mrs lectures me. Bla bla bla. You’re a nobody on the road, why do you think you’re a somebody? Who are you to correct others? Bla bla bla. I wish that incident happened after we had attended The Book Of Mormon, I would have given The Mrs the perfect reply which I learned from the musical. In that part of Africa, when something bad happened, they would throw up their hands to the sky and sing.

Hasa Diga Eebowai!

Please don’t ask me what that means. Hasa Diga Eebowai!

The Mrs was heavily pregnant with our first son when I released a Silent Bomb in bed, a most pungent evil smelling fart I had ever made, it caused her to convulse and turn pale in the face. I didn’t understand pregnancies can cause convulsions. That’s the problem with flatulence, you never know what you’re going to get. Will it be loud or silent? More importantly will it be harmless and leave without a trace or will it be embarrass me? Since then, I no longer let one off intentionally in bed. Which makes life most cumbersome, I am seen getting in and out of bed to set off the bombs in the bathroom numerous times a night. Adelaide’s home heating system isn’t as efficient as those boiler systems you get elsewhere. In London, I can be in a t-shirt in my son’s home and won’t feel cold. Here at home in Adelaide, even the Londoner complains about the cold inside the house. To have to leave my warm bed in the middle of the night in the middle of winter just to let off some air from my system is a nuisance. But, what choice do I have? Every now and then I can offer the excuse that it was an accident, unintentional, ageing has its benefits. This is one of them. We can say we no longer have total control of our farts. The Mrs can’t understand why hers is sweet-smelling and mine can be so violently obnoxious when our diet is exactly the same. Despite my efforts, sometimes the evil smells follow me back to the bed.

Hasa Diga Eebowai!

It’s Bizarre About Bob Lazar

Conspiracy theories, I love them. To me, they are as interesting as the J-curve and the inverted yield curve. Despite the WTO clearing China of currency manipulation, Trump repeatedly accuses the CCP of wilfully depreciating the yuan. It’s about the J-curve, in the immediate short term, a devalued yuan would mean a shrinking Chinese economy as imported goods become more expensive, but it won’t be long before it delivers a boom to China’s exports, boosting her GDP. When the long term bond yield is lower than the short term bond yield, the yield curve is inverted. What does it mean to have an inverted yield curve? Inflation expectations for a number of years into the future are lower than today’s and that can only mean a slowing, and therefore contracting, global economy. Since the 2008 global financial crisis, China’s debt instruments have quadrupled to $39 trillion, or twice that of the US. Historically, the inversion of the yield curve predicts accurately the economic recession that follows it, the imploding sharemarket will end the bull run. The yield curve has inverted and we should sell our shares, this is not a conspiracy theory unlike the stories about who shot JFK, the fake moon landing fifty years ago, the 911 attacks being a CIA job or Bob Lazar’s Area 51 stories about little aliens and their saucers.

Some say the assassination of JFK is “the mother of all conspiracies”. Oswald shot Kennedy and Ruby shot Oswald. Case closed, clear-cut, except we do not know if Ruby was killed three years later. Except for the 103 witnesses who “conveniently” died, and the tampering of evidence, even JFK’s body was highjacked from the hospital. Seven eyewitnesses saw smoke in the grassy knoll? Ignore that. Over 1100 documents withheld by the CIA due to “national security” concerns. Douglas Horne, the chief analyst for military records was 90-95% certain the photos in the National Archives are not those of JFK’s brain, they showed an exit wound in the front, consistent with the official verdict that Oswald shot the back of JFK’s head after the motorcade had passed him. JFK’s real brain revealed much greater damage to the rear, consistent with an exit wound and thus evidence of a shot from the front. So, the magic about the “single bullet” still evokes much discussion, how it went through JFK’s skull and throat, passed the governor’s back and wrist, broke two bones, and tore through 15 layers of clothing, and if we were to believe the official photos, somehow change its trajectory to hit JFK’s skull from the front.

As for the moon landing by Apollo 11 fifty years ago, the conspiracy is no more! There is no need to debunk the lack of stars in the perfectly taken photos from cameras hung from the astronauts’ necks, or the lack of blast craters below the landing module or even the inconsistent shadows from the astronauts and their equipment, hinting at various light sources on the moon. NASA finally produced photos of the landing site taken from the Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter on 5 November 2011. Unfortunately, there is no photo of the fluttering US flag. The official word is that it was conveniently knocked down by the dust kicked up by exhaust thrust of the lunar module, and is now buried in the lunar dirt. If NASA can photoshop the tracks left by Armstrong, why did they not add the flag to quell further debate?

And then there are the 911 BIG LIES. Jet fuel cannot melt steel, certainly not in a short 56 minutes for the South Tower. Expert witnesses argued convincingly in a Youtube video that even if the steel melted, it would not cause the Twin Towers to collapse in free-fall within 9 seconds. There was simply too much concrete, steel, and other building materials to prevent a free-fall. Besides, there were too many testimonies from witnesses in the building describing the pop-pop sounds of controlled detonations and debris flying off the lower levels, before the buildings collapsed. The Pentagon on the other hand, suffered very minor damage when flight AAL77 hit its wall. Out of the 85 video surveillance cameras on the grounds outside the Pentagon, none managed to capture any image of the aeroplane as it flew over the ground of the Pentagon before impact. Footage showed hardly any wreckage of the plane, and nothing of the passengers’ belongings, no toys, no cabin bags, no toiletries, zilch. The FBI didn’t give any reason why all the footages were confiscated. Just hide them from public view and maintain silence. No cover up, ahem. The hole in the wall was tiny also, far too small to have been caused by the wide wingspan of the commercial airline. That’s a big hole in that story.

Finally, I get to write about Bob Lazar. In the 1950’s, we learned about Roswell, little green men and Area 51. It wasn’t until 2013 that the CIA confirmed the existence and purpose of Area 51, its secrets so tightly held it must be in the national interest to not disclose it to the public for 58 years. Lazar spilled the beans in May 1989 that nine saucers of extraterrestrial origin were being test flown and analysed in Area 51. He knew about S4 in Area 51 when S4 wasn’t common knowledge, because he worked there. He told us about a guy by the odd name of Mike Thigpen who worked for EG&G, a little-known federal agency that recruited people for S4. It took a journalist 30 years to finally find Mike Thigpen who admitted he interviewed Lazar in the 80’s. He told us about the hand scanner that measures the length of our bones decades before its existence was confirmed as a high security device for entry into S4. His job was to reverse engineer the power and propulsion system of the saucer, a system that emits and amplifies gravity into a wave with an antimatter reactor, fuelled by atomic element 115 which didn’t exist in our world until synthesised by a joint team of Russian and American scientists in August 2003. He spoke out against the suppression of extremely supreme advanced technology and unknown science. That it is a crime not to tell humanity about another civilisation that is (more) intelligent and that we have some of their artefacts. The code name was LA 1000 for E115, somewhat copper in colour. It takes a thin three dimensional triangle of E115 to make fuel for the saucers. It’s quite bizarre, fuel without heat and flames? A cylinder of E115 consisting of many discs stacked up and fused together is machined into a 3D cone from which layers of odd pieces are sliced to make the extra gravitational energy. They do not believe Lazar, they even deny employing him in S4. But at least the world now has E115.

No Style With Stye

I used to think I had style. My sons taught me to look after my appearance, not just for appearance’s sake. You will feel good about yourself. It’s about self esteem, another chimed. When you respect yourself, others will too, added the third. Dress well, walk straight, and don’t smell like an old man. Have some style, old man. For all my married life, I hardly peered into the mirror. Why bother? My peers don’t care, The Mrs certainly doesn’t, why do I care? Even when I was the Financial Controller of a consortium that developed retirement villages, it did not occur to me to be stylish. Sure, I may have held meetings dressed in my ill-fitting sky blue Roger David suit, strode intently along Pirie Street with matching scuffed brown shoes and a scuffed brown briefcase containing dreaded white bread sandwiches for lunch. Dreaded it so much I avoided opening my briefcase wide open. Back then was my heyday, my catchcry was make hay whilst the sun shines. Style wasn’t trumpeted by me, it was always about content, content, content. As long as I spoke with substance, there was no need for bespoke suits and shoes, right? I had it all figured out. The emperor without clothes is still the emperor. Hans Christian Andersen was absolutely correct to write about the emperor’s invisible clothes. It didn’t matter to the masses, for they feared they would be considered dumb and unworthy if they pointed out that he was naked. Likewise, in my case, everyone would be too respectful of my position to scoff at my poor fashion sense. My job offered me the status and gave me the self belief to speak with authority. It is remarkable how far illusions can take us! I only stopped The Mrs from cutting my hair after my sons squealed and successfully protested against being subjected to their mother’s elementary haircutting skills. They were still in primary school, whereas I was well into my thirties. We all had the same haircut, we looked clearly from the same family. The Mrs knew how to cut only one style, friends called it The Coconut. I am still amazed at how the sons knew to dislike that style at such a young age. In my thirties, it looked quite alright to me. If my sons reckoned they didn’t look good with the coconut cut, it made sense to follow them, three votes win. Since then, I have been quietly copying them, no one would be so discerning to know, I assured myself. If they looked good in a Boss shirt, I’d go buy one too, in a different colour. If long hair was in, I would be even happier. No need to pay the Korean barber anymore. I never did like her garlic breath hissing down my nape. If they excitedly shared their free sample of SKII facial cream, I’d rush out and get a Jurlique cream, the best local equivalent. When Zara came to town, they all got excited. Who’s Zara, I asked. She must be pretty. I even got myself a Zara V-neck white shirt which I wore to Penang for my recent holiday. My friends wouldn’t know it’s five years old.

I blame Murray for my stye. I knew I did a no-no as soon as I rubbed my eyes on the weekend. Murray had licked my hands earlier. Murray! Bad dog!! No teeth, no licking from now on. Alpha males don’t lick. Especially hands. Despite the science blaming Staphylococcus bacteria for giving us styes, some still say voyeurism causes it. The last time my left eye spied a stye was when I was a little boy growing up in Penang. That was a long time ago, did I peep at the next door’s daughter? My memory fails me, sigh. I still don’t understand the science behind it but my Ma knew exactly how to cure it. First, you wipe your eyes clean with mild soap and warm water. There is no need for antibiotics for now, Ma is averse to unnecessary antibiotics. There is no need to visit a doctor either. Ma is averse to doctors too, they generally will prescribe some costly medication, unnecessary or otherwise. Just get the needle box out, pull a black cotton thread, a length enough to tie it around your middle finger. Count, make sure you tie seven knots, behind a door. Left eye, left finger. Hey presto! The stye will disappear within three weeks. I might just give that a try, even though Mr Google informs me a stye generally will go away by itself in about three weeks. I am anxious to drop my stye as it is starting to cramp my style. I couldn’t even look at the pretty salesgirl straight in the eye today; she furrowed her eyebrows and asked if my “pimple” was contagious. I pretended to mishear her and said I don’t have a dimple. Urghhling.

Poms At The Proms

Summer in London? Go to the Proms, of course! A family friend, Daniel Kidane will open this year’s Last Night at the Proms with his world premiere Woke, a nine minute composition to be performed by the BBC Symphony Orchestra. No doubt the audience will be wide awake for that. Prom is short for Promenade Concert, it’s origin was concerts held outdoors in London’s pleasure gardens. Today, promming means the use of the 1,000 standing places inside the Royal Albert Hall, for which ticket prices are considerably cheaper, at £6. It’s a great way to attend otherwise sold-out concerts, but you’ll need to queue on the morning of the concert, tickets on sale from 9am. It would be a dream of course to be invited to sit in the BBC Radio 3 box, a ticket would easily fetch £6,000. Can you imagine the sound clarity being right there? The Proms is the world’s greatest and oldest classical music festival, held over eight weeks in central London every summer since 1895, yes, even during the two Great Wars. Music lifts our spirits, you have to have great music to win the great wars.

I once went on a holiday with Daniel, in Paris in fact. All expenses paid for him, why not, he is a celebrity. It is rather rare for me to spend my holiday with one, as rare as hen’s teeth you could say. We had a great time, even though it was on a tight budget. I was brought up by my Ningbonese mother in Penang, sorry about that, Daniel. You see, Ningbo people (of Wu Han ethnicity) are also known as the Mingzhou; Ningbo being once the capital of the Ming Prefecture. Ningbo people are also “fondly” known as the Chinese youtai (Jews). The Chinese like being Jewish. Jewishness is short and sweet for a person who values education, is tight-pursed, and has business acumen. Penangites aka Penang-lang have gained an unshakeable reputation as tight-fisted. Someone I know only recently gave up the practice of BYO eggs to the Char Koay Teow street vendor to save 10 sen. What? Why use a 30W globe? 5W will do nicely. Just yesterday, a Penang-lang refused to pay 20 sen for a bag at a food stall, but let’s say he was being environmentally friendly. Another thing, foods past their expiry date do not mean they are inedible, e.g. chinese tea, salted fish, kiam-chai and dried fruits. A lifelong discipline honed in Penang coupled with her Ningbo dna, meant my mother bore the great traits of the two cities, Appreciating Bargains. Thriftiness was a necessary way of life for anyone who lived through the 2nd Sino-Japanese War in China and the Japanese occupation of Penang during WW2. At 96, she naturally still appreciates bargains. I am grateful she imparted such a sensible habit to me. I described Ma as thrifty, it is right not to be wasteful; but perhaps as an admission of guilt, my Penang-lang friend said he was frugal. Frugality requires a person to use everything as little as possible, that to me is wasteful of life. So, Daniel, I hope you understand that it is not how much we spend on our holiday but how we spend it. It is magnanimous of you after our holiday to want to compose a piano trio for me or was it a cello duet? You know I love the cello. Daniel, if you don’t mind, can the theme be based on 432? My father’s favourite number at the bookies. He won a tidy sum of $20,000 with that number just before I was born, a very good omen. 432, or D,C, B will be the recurring theme. Pa passed away in 2007, I want to dedicate your music to him. His ashes are interred in a niche, his memorial tablet is in column 4, row 32. I think he is still smiling.

Robbing Robin

It was five years go today that Robin Williams took his life. He was 63, an age when most of us would be enjoying retirement or at least thinking about when. He suicided in Paradise Cay, I reckon the enclave falsely marketed its name for that was where he ended his life. His last movie was Absolutely Anything, should have been Absolutely Anything But Suicide. He’s gone. I still miss him, he was one of a handful of people who could make me laugh. A bloke who made the whole world laugh by seeing the lighter side of life couldn’t make himself see the lighter side of his life. He couldn’t, so what chance do we have? The autopsy’s findings was that he had Lewy Body dementia. I had not heard of Lewy Body disease until now; the early symptoms would have been difficult to live with, sudden spikes in fear and anxiety, insomnia, constipation and urinary problems. In the end, it was so debilitating that the paranoia, delusions, memory loss, and acute depression took their toll on him.

Losing Robin was devastating for me five years ago, it was then that I had my own demons to deal with, to exorcise. My demons were just small ones to chase away, which may explain why I never did anything great. Like Robin, Sergei Rachmaninov too suffered from severe depression all through his life, noticeably after the death of his idol, Tchaikovsky. His aunt suggested he try a new treatment from Sigmund Freud called psychoanalysis. Sergei took her advice and underwent hypnotherapy and psychotherapy. He was lucky that professional help was availed to him. When he finished his Piano Concerto No. 2 , one year after starting therapy, he dedicated it to his doctor, Nikolai Dahl. We are lucky, actually. Sergei never recovered from depression, all through his life, he continued to struggle with periods of delusions in his mind contrasted with periods of intense creativity, leaving great works for all of posterity to enjoy. Other great artists that left us huge legacies despite their severe depression include Robert Schumann and Vincent Van Gogh. Vincent severed his ear and suicided at a young age of 37, after a manic life of psychotic delusions. He shot himself with a revolver, and died a failure and a madman. It took the world decades after his death to realise the genius in the madman, a tortured soul somehow brings the best out of us. The tortured soul brought out the best from Robert too. He is widely regarded as one of the best composers of the Romantic Era. A failed attempt to suicide meant his consignment to an asylum for the remaining two years of his life. He never recovered from his mental illness. Robin, Sergei, Robert and Vincent, I am on first name basis with them. Why not, they helped me immensely when I was at my lowest. They are welcomed in my home and in my mind, unconditionally. After all, I feel indebted to them. Not only for the gifts they have left behind, the laughter, the great music, the paintings, they also guided me to safety. Yes, they are constant companions of mine, a reminder that although life can be bleak and dark, and when it seems there is no point to carry on, we must carry on. Yes, I must carry on, unlike them, I have achieved nothing that can be left for posterity. Unlike them, I don’t deserve to rest yet.

Gold, But I’m Old

Can’t wait for them to go to school, The Mrs used to harp daily when our three boys were not yet ready for kindy. Kindergarten was painted as a place of paradise, not for the kids, but for their mother. Her theory was once they are there, she would be free to “do her own thing”. Motherhood was a shock to her system, it robbed her of herself. No matter how she tried to make her life about her, it was really about them. Once we had them, she lived for them. As for me, I thought I was striving to climb the corporate ladder for me, but in truth, I was working for them. I never saw my take home pay, I never checked our bank account, I was the accountant but The Mrs managed the home budget better than I ever could. Collecting cheap antiques was my hobby, it was better I didn’t touch the little money that we had. Yeah, now that I’m 60, I can admit that the foolishness wasn’t in appreciating antiques but in collecting cheap ones. The thrill was always in finding a bargain, such as the bloke who paid peanuts for an Imperial Faberge egg which once belonged to the Romanovs, in a garage sale in America’s Midwest. And so the legend lives on, the cheap antique isn’t a cheap fake story.

A few years after my boys went to school, I could hear The Mrs chanting Can’t wait for them to go to uni. I thought I was showing my wisdom when I reasoned with her. Don’t you see? We would be a lot older once they are in uni. Do you really wish to age so fast? Looking back, those were my most productive years. It was my golden period of accumulation; a 10oz gold bar, a couple of cottages and a river front villa, franchises, blue chip shares that despite the hot tips turned into junk. For years whenever I used toilet paper, I couldn’t help but be reminded they were worth more than the paper shares in my drawer.

Can’t wait for them to finish uni, soon echoed at home. Don’t you see, I asked The Mrs. Once they finished uni, we would become empty nesters. Is that really what you wish for? What would we do with all our precious collections at home? The bookcases of books, the cassettes from the 70’s when pop music ruled our airwaves, the TEAC and TDK VHS tapes, the Collectors Edition CDs, the boxes and boxes of THX Digitally Mastered DVDs? Who will watch those classics with us? Who will find the Jacqueline Du Pre CD for us to play?

I’m now 60. For 17 years, The Mrs and I have been empty nesters. The boys have become young men, I can’t even imagine their footsteps coming down the stairs anymore. Their rushed heavy footsteps were a reminder of some exciting moments in our lives. Someone’s here! Oh, a delivery man, what’s the parcel?! Ahya and Ahnia are here! What a warm welcome for their grandparents. Everyone has left, their grandpa, forever. The collections of cheap antiques are still here, collecting dust. An unintended collection on my collections. I know one day I have to let go, those that have not gone, unlike the franchises and villas that went up in smoke after the GFC (global financial crisis of 2008). Go with the flow. In the Tao Te Ching, we learn about the softness of water, and at the same time admire its ability to break the hardest rock. Go with the flow, let it bifurcate if it chooses to. I may once be the master of the house but surely it’s time to abdicate? But what about the gold bullion? Should we still hide it? What if we forget where its hiding place is? As The Mrs said, let’s not even buy green bananas. Who knows if we have the time to wait for them to ripen? Aaahh, there is wisdom after all. It won’t be long before I tell her to finish the desserts before our meal. Let’s not wait that long.