Mostly Quiet

"I am humbled in this city
There seems to be an endless sea of people like us
Wakeful dreamers, I pass them on the sunlit streets
In our rooms filled with laughter
We make hope from every small disaster"

Painting by Chagall (2006) by The Weepies

What is the visual equivalent of dropping eaves?

There is this restaurant I haunt in the late evenings when I get these cravings for minced pork porridge at Plaza Mahkota which I'm missing now after I got mailed off to the other side of Malaysia. There's a few places like it in Malacca where the proprietors know me on sight and my usual order from memory because I am always distinctively alone. I'm only in my twenties but already I am falling into habitual patterns and the proverbial comfort of old shoes.

A few weeks ago, I was there and had my usual bowl of minced pork porridge - hold the offal and cilantro, please - when a family seated at a table in front of mine caught my chronically faraway eyes. It was nuclear, Chinese and peopled by three; a young father and a mother, and their six or seven-year-old daughter. It's a common variation of the same theme, except the parents spoke only with their hands.

The child chattered animatedly and audibly about cute inconsequentials, while her Mom and Dad reply in a signed language, which she appeared to understand. I don't know why, but I find them endlessly watchable. I guess it's the same reason why listening to the "halfalogue" of someone talking on a cellphone is so much more distracting (and sometimes annoying) compared to a proper back-and-forth conversation or a monologue, as psychologists from Cornell University have found out. That effect caught my notice, but it's not what held my attention captive.

It always felt a bit like I'm rudely intruding into the private lives of strangers when I allow myself to have thoughts about them, but I couldn't help but wonder how the parents met each other. Was it in a sign language class, a support group or at their mutual workplace? Did they, like me, find love on the internet, or were they introduced to one another by friends who thought they were a match made in silence? I may never understand but I imagine that being mute would define one's identity indelibly. It must be like being born a man or a woman; it shouldn't matter, except it does. I want to know what it's like to have the love of someone who does not see what marks you apart from the rest of the world as a disability, but as a shared experience. If for a day, I could live the silent man's life, married to his silent wife, I would.

I also thought about the little girl growing up with parents who cannot speak, and wondered if it impeded the development of her language skills. Was she raised with the help of grandparents or uncles and aunts during that crucial period of her young life when she was learning how to express herself verbally, something her parents could never teach her? If someone would make an honest film about this family, I would watch it - I would be grateful for that little glimpse into their inner lives, and cherish it as much as I did Last Train Home about a family fractured by economical circumstances in the fast changing face of China, and The Kids Are All Right, which told the story of a married lesbian couple and the two children they mothered with the help of a sperm donor. I really appreciate these variations of the same theme; these multifaceted diversity of the human condition.

I noticed that she acted as the voice of her parents. She made the orders and then later, the payment. When they were leaving, the lo pan of the shop came to their table to chat with them (he couldn't sign, but that didn't stop him from trying his hands at a crude game of charades). The lo pan's daughter later joined in and I found out, to my surprise, she knows sign language too. Perhaps they are related, or are friends - or maybe she has a loved one who is mute as well. I don't know why, but I'm endlessly fascinated by how deep and rich and utterly human other people's stories can be. We forget these things often. Some people never remember.

There are times when I let myself suppose a future in which I have kids of my own, and my encounter with the mostly quiet family was one of those times. I wanted to call it wishful thinking, but I don't think that that's quite it. The other day, I asked the Long-Suffering Girlfriend™ if she thinks I would make a good father.

Without the slightest wisp of hesitation, she said, "No." It really shouldn't, but it still made me feel a little sad.

P.S. As I was writing this in a Starbucks coffeehouse, I was sitting beside another family of three; an Indian father, a Chinese mother, and a child that defies and destroys the illusory lines dividing the races.

Has a voice,

k0k s3n w4i

I Graduated to the Rousing Refrain of the Imperial March

"Obviously a strongly elongated penis is the solution."

Dr Alexander Arkhipkin

No, I'm not going to divulge the context of this fantastic quote.

On the 2nd of July, 1843, Samuel Hahnemann, creator of the quack alternative medicine system known as homeopathy, died and left the world a worse place than he found it. 168 years later, more than two-hundred new medical doctors graduated in my home city of Malacca and some of them will probably not be a complete waste of oxygen on this planet.

I did not want to attend my own graduation day initially, but I feared that my parents may not let me stay alive for very long had I shirked my filial duty of suiting up in an anachronistic ceremonial robe and putting on a silly square hat for the purpose of being photographed by them as proof to friends and relatives that they have begotten something narrowly better than a fart bubble in our end of the gene pool.

During the ceremony, I was seated beside Sanjeev, my Seychellois batchmate and fellow atheist, but he wasn't one for much stimulating conversation that afternoon, unfortunately. He was good only for groaning every five minutes about how hungover he was. Anyhow, he could have graduated with distinction had he not attended his viva voce drunk off his horse but just for pulling that stunt, he had eternally earned the respect of everybody who knew him - and he, brilliant chap that he is, knew which honours were higher.

As expected, there were boring scripted speeches read by important personages wearing even sillier looking Tudor bonnets. Next came the part that parents had been waiting for: the presentation of our degree scrolls as our names were declared aloud by the Dean of the Indian half of our college, whose Indian tongue struggled valiantly to pronounce our exotic Malaysian names (I mean this in good humour since I am rather fond of the guy). The Chinese students with the surname "Ng" bore the worst brunt of the butchering - it was consistently corrupted to "Angie". No one sought to correct him the entire time because presumably, they thought it was a hoot.

Then, the generically ostentatious orchestral fanfare playing throughout the proceedings over the PA system changed and the Star Wars Main Theme started blaring heroically in its stead. Right after that, The Imperial March played with sinister pomp as new doctors continued to step up solemnly on stage to receive their accolades. And yes, it was as hilarious as you can imagine.

I heard mutterings amongst my colleagues about how inappropriate it was that the leitmotif of one of the greatest movie villains of all time accompanied what was the most important moment of their lives (to date). It was, after all, the song the Band of the Welsh Guard played as a not-so-covert insult when King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia, an infamous abuser of human rights and asshole of some note, visited the United Kingdom.

Not me. I think it was glorious and it made me glad that I didn't miss my graduation day after all. If I had a Darth Vader helmet with me at the time, I swear I would have worn it on stage. Now, I can tell everyone that I graduated from med school to the rousing refrain of The Imperial Fucking March.

After all, I already got the evil black robe bit down pat.

The lot of us then did not take the Hippocratic Oath as was erroneously announced (which was a bummer because I was so looking forward to swearing to Apollo, Asclepius, Hygeia, Panaceia and all the other Greek gods) but took instead the Physicians' Oath codified in the Declaration of Geneva. It was alright except for the line that went: "I will maintain the utmost respect for human life from the time of conception, even under threat, I will not use my medical knowledge contrary to the laws of humanity."

I omitted my pronouncement of the part about respecting human life from "the time of conception" since modern medical practice, even in relatively religious Malaysia, necessitates that I don't. I wouldn't be able to prescribe emergency contraception or allow the destruction of leftover embryos in fertility clinics without being an oath breaker otherwise. I think it's time they update the wording of that oath, even though it's mostly just lip service in these cynical days.

My father arrived just as my mother and grandmother was leaving, cunningly missing the boring bits of the programme and turning up only to participate in a Kodak moment with me.

Later that evening, I celebrated with a few of my favourite individuals from med school by eating out at a Korean restaurant and then going to Shaki's suite at the Equatorial Melaka to have one last night of reckless alcoholism. We watched Inglourious Basterds and A Nightmare on Elm Street 4 on telly; the latter being an excellent film to watch when you are inebriated while the former is just excellent. Then, we talked passionately about all the video games we have ever played in our lives. I vaguely remember going out for breakfast with Voon at about 3:00 AM, and then calling room service for a corkscrew at four. Next morning, I woke up in the bathtub.

It was the most fun I ever had in a long, long time. Today, I will be attending an induction course at Port Dickson at 2:00 PM which will officially initiate me into the medical fraternity; into the adult world of salaries, taxes, mortgages and expectations. It came like a zephyr, beneath my notice, but I have come of age.

Searched his feelings,

k0k s3n w4i

Malays Demonstrating in Melaka Over Not Having Enough Privileges

"Solve the Malay problem, and you solve the country’s problem."

AB Sulaiman

Hatten Square in the Malaccan town centre.

It seems to me that no news outlet have reported this event yet, so I'll just go right ahead and do it for them.

Earlier today, I drove to town for a spot of shopping when I cruised past a small demonstration which erupted outside of Hatten Square. A squad of police officers and mall security personnel were already standing by in case shit hits fan. The demonstrators consisted exclusively of ethnic Malay entrepreneurs of small-to-moderately-sized businesses and they are disgruntled over having to shift their shops elsewhere due to a sundry of developmental projects, including a road expansion project planned by the city council to ease the chronic traffic congestion problem which afflicts the area. They are pissed because they felt that the compensation promised to them were inadequate.

The banner reads:
"DON'T PAWN THE HONOUR OF MALAY ENTREPRENEURS TO APPEASE SINGAPOREAN INVESTORS"
(MELAKA PROSPERS WHILE SMALL BUSINESSES ARE MALTREATED)
(HATTEN ROBS PROPERTY OF MALAY ENTREPRENEURS)

The compensation paid to those affected range from RM500 to RM800 per month while the Melaka government work on creating new turfs for them. Basically, they can sit on their asses for moons and moons while getting free money. In the interim, they are also free to find employment elsewhere or continue their businesses in another location while waiting for the new government-allotted ethnic Malay-only premises to be ready to receive their Royal Heinie-nesses. Instead, they have decided to throw up a huge stink about it and took to the streets with signs, noisemakers and vuvuzelas. Vuvuzelas, for gourd's sake!

I remember when my favourite fried prawn wonton and claypot porridge place (which is managed by a Chinese family) were forced to move and make way for the Malacca riverside beautification project, they did not receive monetary compensation for every month of business lost. Instead, they sucked it up without complaints, and pragmatically moved their very popular restaurant to a different part of the city as quickly as they could to cut their losses. Then again, they being the wrong race, complaining isn't going to achieve very much anyway because they aren't entitled to any of the "special rights" that the Malays get.

I find it amusing that the protestors are accusing the Singaporean-owned Hatten Group of "robbing them of their rightful Malay properties". No, it not just any regular old properties - it's special "Malay" properties, mind you. Why must they turn everything into a racial issue? And why, why, why are they blaming the Hatten Group for decisions undertaken by the Malaccan government which, by the way, is run by a very large Malay majority?

This is the row of shop lots in question. You can see Hatten Square looming behind.

If you don't know, since the founding of this country more than half a century ago, the Malay people have enjoyed special privileges enshrined within our national constitution. If they wish to receive higher education, they have a significantly higher chance of getting government sponsorship (even over non-Malays who achieved far better grades) and some government agencies like MARA grant full scholarships exclusively to Malays and other Bumiputeras. If they want to buy real estate properties, they get up to 7% discounts while developers charge non-Bumis more to cover for it. Malay-owned companies are entitled for special tax breaks, as if Malays who have gotten to this level of corporate status require further financial help. There's many, many more examples which I won't bring up because I'm feeling a tad nauseous now. Of course, these rights and privileges do not discriminate between rich and poor Malays - even Malay billionaires get the same package deal. Must be nice to be born with the right skin colour, eh?

So, after more than 50 years of ruling the country and having the playing field brazenly biased in their favour, the 65% Malay majority still own less than 20% of the country's wealth. Shocking, I know. This also means that the majority of tax money is contributed by the 26% Chinese minority. The scholarships, real estate discounts, tax breaks - those expenses were not paid for by magic fairy dust sprinkles which came out of thin air, by the way. They came from the blood and sweat those whom the Malay people have discriminated against unapologetically in our country's racist economic policies all these years.

For all the horrid accusations that the Malays have unjustly hurled at the Chinese for "robbing" them of their wealth, it's really them who have been robbing the Chinese - and they have done this for decades without shame or gratitude. They have told us in self-righteous anger that if we don't like it, we should leave this country. I sometimes catch myself nodding in agreement to that suggestion.

Yes, because if the Chinese leave, Malay businesses will magically start to prosper! And the funding behind their special Malay privileges will continue to miraculously come from nowhere!

The sign says: "MALAY BUSINESSPEOPLE IN THE CITY ARE OPPRESSED". What a riot.

Singapore seceded from the Federation of Malaysia in 1963 because of unbridgeable ideological differences regarding racial politics. It is an island smaller than Melaka, has zero natural resources, and is still dependent on mainland Malaysia to this day for their water. Somehow, it managed to out-compete Malaysia (you know, the one with all the land, forests, minerals and offshore petroleum) in development and economic growth. Why?

I'll use an analogy. The Malaysian economy is like a video game. The Malay people have only been playing on "Easy" mode while the Chinese were forced to play on the "Hard" setting with all the assorted handicaps for more than 50 years. Guess which group is better trained and practiced? When the two groups are forced to compete in a Player versus Player match, which group do you think is going to come out ahead?

My dear Malay compatriots, you're going to suck at this game forever unless you start playing fair.

"HATTEN": AN INVADER JUST LIKE ISRAEL!!

Reporting from Melaka,

k0k s3n w4i

There's a New Cinema in Town, Malaccans!

"The length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder."

Alfred Hitchcock

Sweet tidings, plebs. Golden Screen Cinemas just set up a new ten-screener theatre at the ÆON Bandaraya Melaka Shopping Centre (also known as "New Jusco") which many of you might remember as the mall that started off epically with a bang and a live human sacrifice about a year ago. It's a lot nearer to where I live compared to the GSC at the Dataran Pahlawan Megamall, so that's just peaches. The problem is, in a couple of weeks, it will no longer be where I live.

I graced it with my presence last Thursday when it officially opened its door to the public to catch the fourth Pirates of the Caribbean flick. I discovered, to my surprise, that they have started offering student discounts for 3D films so I shamelessly posed as one to score it. I still carry my student ID from my university around for purposes such as this (since the admins had so kindly neglected to print an expiry date on mine). I expect to pay student prices well into my forties. There's this guy who had been held back for like twenty years in the medical college I attended (I shit you not), and if he's entitled to cheap movie tickets all his adult life, I should too.

With a bit of pluck and a can-do attitude, I might even be able to extend it till I start qualifying for the senior citizen discount at the age of 55.

The GSC logo bothers me because it puts S before G and tries to pass off the G as C.

That day, however, I forgot to bring my student ID with me, so I resigned myself to paying the full price just like every Tom's Harry Dick.

But lucky me, the bloke manning the box office was an exemplary model of customer service. He asked me which college I study at and after I lied to harmlessly misinformed him, he let me have my ticket at the discounted rate (huzzah). You might have encountered GSC clerks who would be absolute penises about it and would stare long and hard your student ID before sarcastic remarks about you not looking like a student and hurt your feelings. You might even have met clerks who would go above and beyond the call of duty to waylay you and point out that your student ID does not in fact have an expiry date. I have actually sat on the other side of a GSC box office counter before and I can tell you this: unless your supervisor is breathing down your neck and whispering sexy things into your ear, you can pretty much grant anyone a student, children or senior discount without so much as half a glance at their proof of age or studenthood. Anyone giving you trouble are just going out of their way to be mean. I say: Damn you, diligent employees! Damn you for fulfilling the responsibilities entrusted to you!

And because it was opening day, they were also giving out free coupons!

I need an incentive to go to a cinema like I need a spare butthole.

I think I became a movie buff after working at the GSC in Mahkota Parade for a couple of months between college and med school. It meant all the films I can watch, completely free of charge. And when I'm on usher duty, I even get to goof off and catch a flick on a slow weekday if I was so inclined at anytime. I still remember that Tim Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Jackie Chan's The Myth, Into the Blue, Flight Plan, Cinderella Man, the American remake of Dark Water, A Sound of Thunder, and KL Menjerit 2 were all playing at the time and I must have watched each of them at least a dozen times. I didn't particularly like any of those, but through exposing myself to repeated viewings and having closely scrutinised every frame, I somehow managed to develop a whole new appreciation for the craft of filmmaking and how difficult it must be to make a movie.

Right, that's my daily random anecdote quota filled. Have a nice Monday night and a great morrow, you.

Monday's Child,

k0k s3n w4i

Friggatriskaidekaphilia

"I wrote this for my prettiest friend

But while trying not to prove that I care

I was trying not to make all my moves in one motion and scare her away

She can't see she's making me crazy now

I don't believe she knows she's amazing how

She has me holding my breath

So I'd never guess that I'm a nonesuch unsuitable suitor for her"

Prettiest Friend (2005) by Jason Mraz

"I got a present for you," I told her in the car right after I retrieved her from the bus station. From my faithful satchel, I produced a pair of handmade earrings of knotted-silver which I purchased on a whim from the Tibetan marketplace in McLeod Ganj. I fell in love with them the moment I saw them, and I was certain Phoebe would too.

They were suppose to be a belated birthday present - about eight months belated to be precise - but such is the nature of geographically-challenged relationships, and over time, we have started to play fast and loose with the sovereignty of lovers' holidays like birthdays, anniversaries and St. Valentine's Day. Phoebe is impossibly nice for not minding my epic tardiness in gifting, while any other girlfriend would have had me hanged, drawn and quartered for reckless endangerment of Martian-Venusian relations. Every single day, just by being the easy-going, good-natured person she is, she reminds me of how truly lucky I am to have her love - which if not unconditional, is the closest any love ever gotten to it.

Phoebe gasped appreciatively, snatched the earrings up, and immediately put them on. After admiring how she looked with her shiny new baubles dangling from her ears, she turned and looked at me imploringly through her honey-coloured contacts. Regressing effortlessly into a six-year old girl, she asked: "Where is my other present?"

"What other present?" I asked in turn, knitting my eyebrows together into a semblance of puzzlement.

A puppy dog pout appeared on her face. Had Herr Hitler seen that pout as a young man, Europe would have told a very different story of the 1930's. "You said you are going to give me presents for two years! You know - in case, we don't see each other again during my birthday this year!"

"Didn't I just do that?" I grinned, and pointed at each of her earlobes in turn. "Presents for two ears."

She gasped in mock injury and indignation. A great gasper is Phoebe. She has one for almost every possible scenario, each distinct from the others by permutations of timbre, intensity and speed. "That is so lame," she pronounced but started laughing anyway. She laughs so freely and openly these days. I remember when the self-controlled Phoebe three-and-a-half years ago confided in me that she had never really heard the sound of her own laughter, I promised in my terminal lovesickness to one day make it happen, to make her truly laugh. I had since kept that promise almost everyday. I love doing it; it's the most straightforward way I know of giving someone happiness.

Last Friday coincided with the thirteenth day of the month, and May thirteenth is the anniversary of the bloodiest race riot in the spotty history of Malaysia. Furthermore, my previous girlfriend and I hooked up together on a Friday the thirteenth as well, and I count myself lucky to have escaped that unnatural disaster mostly alive and passably sane. It was on this Voltronically inauspicious date that Phoebe decided to pay me a weekend visit in Malacca, instantly turning it into one of the best days of the year on my calendar. She said she came for the Malaccan cendol (which is quite probably her favourite food in the whole wide world) but I knew she came for me. She came because I wanted, needed to see her.

The Long-Suffering Girlfriend™ surrounded by artificial stars by the riverside.

It did not escape my notice that she's flowering into captivating young woman of uncommon quality. Every time I see her, she became more and more beautiful - and it's not just because I am falling deeper and deeper in love with her. I watched as she slowly unfolded from her cocoon starved of self-esteem, and transformed into the imago she is no longer too timid to embody (and I daresay I aided in her transformation by pointing out to her that her old wardrobe should be considered a violation of human rights). I have always confessed my insecurities and my unshakable conviction that this girl is simply too good for me and now, to my horror and delight, she's discovering new ways to remind me of that fact.

In spite of it all, she is still every bit the darling girl I had fallen in love once upon a time, and all the times after. She did not turn into a malcontented harpy of bitter pettiness intent on locking the both of us into a spiral of mutually-assured destruction. She is still sweet, understanding and preposterously cute after being in a relationship with me for more than three years - and I consider that a Nobel Peace Prize-winning accomplishment. For the thousandth, no, millionth time, I will say that she is the best girlfriend any guy could ask for. This is not soppy nothings I whisper to her in secret when we are alone in dark rooms. This is something I shout from the rooftops of the world.

When we were about to arrive at my place, I told her that her second birthday present was hidden under her seat.

"You are lying," she probed while also searching my face for a tell. "You just want to see me reach for nothing and laugh at me again!"

I said nothing but when we did finally reach home, I said: "Your second present is really under your seat."

"Really?!" she squealed excitedly like she just discovered a roomful of puppies which sneeze rainbows and sprinkle stardust every time they scratch their ears. She was beginning to dive for her prize when I told her that I did in fact fibbed about it, and that there is no present under her seat after all.

"OH MY GOD, YOU ARE SO EVI-"

"It's actually in the glove compartment."

With a subito gasp of sudden realisation, she eagerly popped the case open and found a small white and pastel-pink box which had been sitting there the whole time, barely a few inches from her knees. It was bottled Chance bearing the name of a rare lady I admire, and I had no doubt that Phoebe would find use for it.

"It's very you," I said to her. "So, I've decided that the two of you belong together."

Sorry for being eight months late with your birthday present for last year, Phoebe. This year, I'm making up for it by being extra early. Yes love, it can be September the second whenever we damn well please.

Trying to deserve you,

k0k s3n w4i

Because Sunday

"I had a vision of a world without Batman."

My Favourite T-Shirt

My Favourite T-shirt has impeccable taste in films.

Writing about my Sundays is shaping up to be a semi-regular affair here in this public journal of mine, and I think I want to keep it that way. I like having written proof that I have some semblance of a meaningful existence in motion here, even if I'm not entirely convinced I do.

In the evening of the most recently departed Sunday, I was out to catch Predators at the cinema on my own. It was an at-the-spur of the moment thing and I didn't bother texting any names in my phone's contact list if they would like to join me. Yeah, that's what time does to friends, you see, they become acquaintances, and then merely names. Friendships are leaseholds - I recognise that they run out eventually. Ever since I graduated from high school, I have grown incrementally detached from the idea of interpersonal connections. I suppose they are good things to have, but I admit that I am emotionally ill-equipped to afford them. The loss of a friend has never given me grief, come to think of it.

Is this normal?

Last Tuesday, when I was purchasing tickets for Inception in advance, I discovered that an old friend who had walked out of my memories of ye olde college days and materialised at the cinema's box office, selling movie tickets. I was bewildered when a strange girl came towards me to give me a high-five but a quick glance at her name tag brought it all back. I didn't recognise her because she had shed so much weight. On Thursday, she helped me to hold on to some tickets for a couple of friends who couldn't make it there on time (I couldn't bear the thought of missing even a second of Inception to wait for the pair). And on Sunday, I arrived at the box office just as she was leaving for her dinner break. I decided to join her and she insisted on buying me a McD's sundae, a diet Coke and a bite off her sandwich.

She was the roommate of the Ex-Grrrfriend™ back when we were all studying in Taylor's College and in truth, we were never very close. However, we shared enough of a past to want to reminisce. In that briefest of half-hours, I learned that we have so much more in common than I ever suspected; something which she pointed out in between bites of her grilled chicken burger. I already knew we are both lovers of cats, but I didn't realise that we both prefer the taste of diet Coke over the original; are into recycling and environmentalism; and eschew the use of a straw when drinking anything. It's funny, but I used to work as a ticket booth guy and steward for Golden Screen Cinemas as well, but back in 2005.

It really doesn't take much to change a name back into a friend, does it?

Crêpe? More like Crâpe, amirite?

Saying my goodbyes and my promises to meet up again before too long to Jo Ee, I found myself standing in the face of more than 2 hours of waiting before my showing was scheduled to start. It's a good thing I always have a book on my person (I've started on Margo Lanagan's Tender Morsels) and all I required was a place to read it. After wandering for a spell, I found myself standing outside of Nadeje Pâtisserie; a cafe famous even out-of-state for their Mille Crêpe. I have boycotted the establishment since 2008 because they started this stupid policy of not allowing customers to dine in their premises if they don't also order a drink along with their cakes.

The sandwich board outside the café said that with the addition of RM 3 on top of any order, I could get myself a cup of long black. I thought it was a good time to give this place a second chance, and their comfy chairs sure looked awfully cosy...

.... and I'm renewing my boycott for another couple of years. Their Mille Crêpe seems to have shrunken in the wash. I remember them to be at least 33% taller and the slices to be twice as fat, but that's just what my eyes say. My tongue believes that the abomination it wrestled with in my mouth had only half as much cream as it used to, and that its been sitting in the fridge for far too long. They regulars may not have noticed but for someone who had not returned for more than two years (like me), the difference is as jarring as having a teeth pulled out. Also, at RM 8 (not counting tax), it's almost twice as costly too. Compounding my judgment was the fact that I have very recently sampled Humble Beginning's Mille Crêpe. The founder of Humble Beginnings, Amos Chong, was the guy originally behind Nadeje's cakes until he resigned for some undisclosed reason.

My advice? Try Humble Beginnings'. Their Mille Crêpe are bona fide slices of confectionery heaven, I shit you not. Anyone who had tasted Amos' original creations must be a total idiots to continue giving Nadeje business.

Hmmm, 'nother 5 kilos off me would be perfect, don't you think so?

Left with a literal bad taste in my mouth, I went to check if the DC Comics apparel store had replenished their stock of Joker T-shirts. I was looking to replace mine because it was fading something awful considering how bloody often I wear and wash it. Besides, I am already quite advanced in the process of slowly shrinking out of that one because my metabolism have apparently forgotten how to put on weight after I have kickstarted it out of dormancy in May. Most of my mostly and depressingly black wardrobe are also getting too loose for me - but priorities, priorities, my lovelies.

The one I have on in the picture is about two sizes smaller than the one I own, and it does feel a bit snug round the chest region. But that's okay. A while back, I had cultivated a habit of purchasing clothes that are ever so slightly too tight for myself as a personal motivational force for me to downsize into them eventually. So far, it's been working out spiffingly for me.

Anyway, the reason why I felt compelled to see Nimród Antal's Predators was because I wanted to listen to the /Filmcast podcast review on it. It's backwards, I understand, but we all have our neuroses - and sometimes, the two-hour long podcast discussions can actually be much more enjoyable than the films they are talking about. Now, I'm not going to review Predators, but it was way better than I thought it would be. It's brainless, silly fun. Adrien Brody was unexpectedly bad-ass and has a better Batman voice than Christian Bale's embarrassing solicitations for a lozenge. This might come as a bit of surprise by I am one of the last movie-lovers in the world who haven't seen the original Predator, but now I want to.

Jo Ee helped me check if Inception's going to be played on their biggest screen anytime soon since I want to re-watch it - but as far as she could uncover, it's not happening this entire week. If The Sorcerer's Apprentice opens this Thursday in theatre number one, I swear I'm going to see a pirated copy just to spite it.



P.S. I could easily have split this into three separate posts, but.



Struggling with normalcy,
k0k s3n w4i

Sushi Boat of Dataran Pahlawan Megamall

"Being a novelty had its advantages."

Jessica Savitch

Wow, the word "megamall" is such a slut - it'd get in bed with anybody!

Now, anyone who knows me reasonably well would know that I'm a confessed foodie with a special soft spot in my palate for Japanese cuisine, and that person would have heard my frequent and manifold lamentations that there are no truly exceptional restaurants serving that in the provinciality of Malacca - or Melaka, whatever. Today, I bring you another contender to the table.

Earlier this year, Dataran Pahlawan (a Malay phrase which directly translates - amusingly enough - to 'plain of warriors') saw the debut of a new sushi place in town called Sushi Boat and it's a refreshing exercise in calling something exactly what it is,

Sushi ahoy!

Have I ever mentioned that electric blue is one of my favourite colours?

There seems to be a dearth of real reviews for this place in the blogosphere, so here I am with one.

The name Sushi Boat works on two levels. On one, it's a sushi bar built to resemble a chokkibune, a traditional Japanese water taxi associated with Edo romanticism. On another, they have replaced the kaiten or conveyor belt which most fast food-style sushi restaurants employ with this neat canal system in which little watercrafts, each carrying a plate of sushi, travels round and round the stall with the help of propulsive pumps. While it's not exactly an original concept, this is the first time I've seen its use in Malaysia. Maybe I just need to get out more.

If you're an unsophisticated manchild like me who's into novelty dining, you might just get a kick out of eating here. It's freaking sushi! On freaking litte boats! OMGOMGOMG!

Mini tenmasens carrying lunchable cargoes.

Of course, the snack bar approach isn't very conducive to social dining, an F&B niche which most Japanese restaurants in this country occupies. It's hard to chat and make merry when everyone's facing one direction, you know. Couples wouldn't run into that hitch here, but Sushi Boat is really for the quick-and-dirty, rocket luncher - just park your ass down and start eating immediately. The longest you'll need to wait is like half-a-minute tops for the hostess to bring you your drink. It's my kind of place when I'm out and about on my own.

What did bother me was that the place was rather exposed in a human traffic heavy area, being situated between the Carrefour supermarket and the escalators. It's a small favour that their bar stools are designed to prevent your lardy bottoms from overflowing the the seats' sides, protecting you from the derision of passing shoppers. Still, I seriously hope that they make enough soon to get their own shop.

Because their sushi are pretty decent stuff!

They certainly understand the power of display.

When I check out a new eating spot, I like to start off with the basic classics; just to gauge where they stand in comparison to their competitors. My poissons of choice are usually a tobiko gunkanmaki, a sake nigirizushi and a simple unakyu maki or nigiri,

Flying fish roe, RM 6.80.


Raw salmon, RM 4.80.


Freshwater eel, RM 5.80.

All of them tasted excellent and fresh, but the unagi slices in particular were very tender and juicy - and the thick kabayaki tare (eel sause) was delicious, as always. Sushi King, I believe, charge almost double for their inferior unagi nigiri, and I'm happy to say that the last time those crooks took my money was years and years ago.

Convinced that they know their way around sushi, I decided to kick it up a notch and go for some of their more artistic creations - and believe me, these fellas really know how to make food look too good to choo.

Chew, I meant chew, dammit.

At RM 7.80, I say give this one a pass.

This here is an uramaki with mango and crisp green filling with fish roe, raw salmon and cheese slices draping its up side, all slathered with mayonnaise (lending the illusion that the cheese is hot and drippy) and peppered with a hint of chili flakes. Oh, it looks very tempting - I don't deny - but even without tasting it, I could already tell that it wouldn't fly right with me. And that's because I recognise the salmon as the centrepiece of this sushi.

Raw salmon, as a rule, does not have a very bold taste and that's why they work best on sashimi platters or on top of some vinegared rice in a nigiri. Throw anything else with a strong flavour in and suddenly, the salmon will do a disappearing act. The biggest offenders here are the cheddar and mango, by a lightyear. Stay away from this dish at all cost, or ask them to slap on a second sliver of salmon in the cheese's stead.

Okay, I might have gotten it wrong. Maybe it's meant to be a cheese and mango sushi after all but that immediately begs the question: why slip in a perfectly good slice of raw sake then? Such a criminal waste of good salmon.

A fancy ebi uramaki, RM 6.80.

As far as I can tell, there's a deep fried prawn in it accompanied by a fresh stick of cucumber and garnished with a thin slice of mango and little dabs of fish roe; all artfully ribboned with mayonnaise. Unlike the cheesy mango thing above, this one was simply a-ma-zing! The nectarine sweetness and meek acid of the mango worked wonders in concert with the shrimp and I could totally appreciate the added freshness of the cucumber to the ensemble - all this coming from a guy who dislikes crustaceans at the best of time. In fact, I pretty much only like prawns if they are deep fried tempura-style or deep fried in a wonton skin.

Speaking of deep fried exoskeletal metazoans,

Their version of the spider uramaki at RM 7.80.

One of my favourite sushi is the soft shell crab roll, a delicacy which I have grown to love after my maiden encounter with it 3 years ago at Hajime, what I believe to be the best Japanese restaurant in all of the Malay peninsula. To date, I have never eaten better and Sushi Boat's spider maki - I'm reluctant to report - was several magnitudes beneath that of Hajime's in every possible aspect. It's a case of getting what one pays for, I guess, since I especially found the crab-to-rice ratio here to be wanting. They should start stuffing the sushi roll with twice as much crispy soft shell crab and while that is no guarantee of success, it's a start in the right direction at least.

Unakyu cucumber and mango roll at RM 7.80.

This one is basically a rehash of the salmon and cheese maki but with unagi instead - and I question their wisdom in including a mayonnaise bukkake in its decoration. It seems to be in their repertoire for the preparation of ALL their designer uramakis, and my two cents is that the indiscriminate use (and abuse) of any one ingredient is always a bad mark against a chef. Less discerning patrons wouldn't notice, but mayonnaise really doesn't mix well with either eel or teriyaki sauce. While I am generous enough to let it slide in all the previous sushi rolls, ruining unagi is not something I can easily forgive. This sushi could have been quite good otherwise though; the tart sweetness of mango being an interesting contrast to the savoury sweetness of the unagi.

I'm not saying "Don't use mayonnaise, period!" because in the case of the ebi tempura roll, the condiment was a welcomed complement. I'm just saying that they shouldn't go about blowing their load on every plate. A good dictum is that presentation should never override flavour.

They should also experiment with other types of fruit for a change; I'm thinking pitayas or avocados (but no durians or bananas, please). Mangoes can only take you so far, you know.

I like how the chefs (there are two) wore face masks when they are working. See the triple-nozzle mayonnaise squeeze-bottle?

Another comment I would like to make pertains to their dish-to-dish variation. After I took a plate of a pair of seasoned baby octopus (each served on a gunkan bed), the chef immediately replaced the vacated boat with a new serving - and I noticed just how much bigger those new octopodes are when compared to the puny ones I got,

"Paul? Is that you?" Chuka idako, RM 4.80.

Nevertheless, the taste was fine. It was sweet, vinegary and crunchy, and serving it with sushi rice in a gunkanmaki is one way of eating it which I haven't explore - I suppose they did it this way to hold the sauce in since their chuka idako uses much more of it than the dryer garden variety I'm used to. I must say I like it; rice, nori and all, but I recognise that this is strictly personal preference territory.

Another minor nitpick I have relates to their kappamaki,

Cucumber and sesame seed rolls, RM 2.80

I commend and appreciate the initiative they took in diversifying the flavour of such a simple sushi, but the one with the pungent, spicy orange-red powder (I'm guessing some sort of pepper) was a quite the misfire. The other two were great. I understand that the kappamaki is a sort of palate cleanser traditionally and is suppose to be refreshingly bland, but I've never given two hoots about traditions before and I'm not about to begin now. It did, however, need thicker sticks of cucumber in it. Very doable, considering the price of cucumber.

And like the case of the chuka idako, I saw another kappamaki making its rounds in the moat minutes later and that one had sesame seeds covering it circumferentially; not just on the top like mine was. And there's even a pinch of tobiko on each one. Cut that out, Sushi Boat people! Stop making me feel as if I've been duped into taking the lousier versions of your sushi!

Inarizushi, RM 3.80.

Inarizushi is basically rice in a pouch of sweetened fried tofu, and it tasted exactly like how you think it would taste everywhere else. It's a reliable sushi but long due for an update. Someone should get creative and throw in some new ingredients to enliven things up - wasabi infused mayo tuna or salmon perhaps? Plain mayonnaise is not what I have in mind but it did make the inari look less dull, if I must say something nice about it.

It's also worth mentioning here that their green tea, at a buck, is perpetually refillable and while real, freshly grated wasabi rizhomes are a market rarity (and I certainly do not expect a small outfit like Sushi Boat to provide that), the green paste they dole out is still superior to the extra-chunky special which popular sushi chains like Sushi King and Sakae Sushi use. Their service is also top notch and I didn't even have to call for a refill even once because they are constantly checking if your cup is filled - but not in an intrusive way.

And they have funky plates! Funky plates, I tell you!

I know I might come off as being overly critical of some of their sushi, but really they are head and shoulders above the usual commercial crap while charging pretty much the same prices (or lesser even). Besides, they give out a 20% student discount on weekdays! And if I remember correctly, they also told me that they will be running a promotion from the middle of this July till the end of August: a blanket 20% discount for every customer, weekend or weekday alike. So if you're a fan of Japanese cuisine or are just someone who's always on the lookout for new food places to try out, go give Sushi Boat a sail soon. I for one would like to see them do well enough to set up their own restaurant because with a little more resources and capital, I'm sure they would do handsomely. We need more eats like Sushi Boat in Malacca, and much less of this.

Besides, the hostess was also a really charitable and gracious lady. After handing me my bill, she ventured to ask if I'm a student and when I told her that I am, she practically snatched the check back from me to deduct the 20% off it, without even asking me to show her my student ID (which I did not have on me at the time, so all's good).

At the moment, their à la carte selection is restricted to just sushi and sashimi since they don't exactly run a fully outfitted kitchen. While I'm not the world's greatest fan of raw seafood, I'm raring to check their sashimi dishes out in my next visit. I'm also wondering if they would do custom, made-to-order sushi seeing that their chefs are so accessible. My bet's on yes, but I'll ask them.

Nothing grabs attention like neon.

Sushi Boat's business timing is married to the shopping centre's hours and is presumably open 7 days a week. The quirky naval joint could be found in the third floor right in front of Carrefour's entrance. They have a Facebook page as well where you can look at more pictures of their sushi, but it's not very friendly to Chinese illiterate blood traitors such as myself.

Sushi Boat is one of the best sushi bars in town; that's my verdict. It's not a patch on the Japanese restaurants one can get in say KL, but it certainly shows a lot of promise. I'd like to see them bloom and boom.



P.S. The first picture in this post was cropped from a photograph found in this blog because I have totally forgotten to take a picture of this snack bar's most distinctive feature. Man, I'm so unprofessional.



Sailing for sushi,
k0k s3n w4i

A Flash of Flood

"I believe that water is the only drink for a wise man."

Henry David Thoreau

Wise, yes. Happy? I reckon not.

I just returned from my fifth or sixth attempt at donating my thoroughly motivational and uplifting blood (my type is B positive, GET IT?!) and I said 'attempt' because half the time, my liquid life force would stop draining before I could even fill half a half-pint bag. This time around, I think I've set my personal record low: only 50 ml before my vein quit on me. How embarrassing.

I guess I just have a selfish body. My veins are small and frail, and they never pop - and my blood clots super fast. Maybe I should give this whole blood donation shenanigan up before I destroy all my superficial vessels with my charitable and giving personality.

And yeah, my house was flooded again. And it's much worse this time around.

Last night, I got back from a latish screening of Knight and Day at about 1:00 am. It's a really silly movie which is very similar in tone to Mr. and Mrs. Smith (though it isn't nearly as good) and Tom Cruise is, in my opinion, the best thing about it... but I digress. Anyway, the sky started the waterworks in earnest in the vicinity of half past one and I decided to turn in early (early for me) because sleeping while it's raining hard outside is one of the greatest little pleasures in life. So, stuffing my MP3 player's earbuds into my head and turning on /Filmcast's review of the movie I just saw, I proceeded with my nightly ritual of trying to wrestle my consciousness into submission.

The podcast ended at about 2:00 am and I found myself still very much awake (while the rain was still very much obeying the law of gravity outside). I decided instead to fool around on the internet till my energy peters out. With my legs up on my chair and the lights still killed, I did just that for about 15 minutes when I thought I had enough and dropped my feet. And lo and behold, my soles slapped water!

I must have fucking spilt something, was my first thought. A LOT of something.

When I got the lights on, this was the horror which greeted mine eyes,

Haha, very funny, God. Fuck you.

That weird brown rectangular object near my chest of drawers is an old-timey bathroom scale which belonged to my great grandmother (just thought I should explain that out of the way first).

I found my CPU sitting on the floor in an inch depth of muddy floodwater and I leapt right into action with a total disregard of the danger of electrocution and lifted it right out of the drink with an almighty roar of manliness (actually, it was more of an 'Oh shit! Oh shit!' series of whimpers). It gives me the heebie-jeebies to think what would have happened to it had I actually fallen asleep with it left running - and I do leave it running 24/7, eff-why-eye.

My Nelson's Essentials of Pediatrics textbook - which I use to prop up my chair because it was missing a wheel - was pretty much ruined but completely. Luckily, my precious spec-fic novels were safely stacked away on higher ground or I would have totally lost my shit right there and then.

Venturing out into the living room, I found my brand new Timberland Gore-Tex trainers bobbing about like two fucking canoes for fucking mice in half a feet of water. If they weren't waterproof or didn't float upright, they would have been ruined too. My brown, semi-formal Timberland slip-ons didn't fare so well though; they were trapped under a shoe-rack outside and went totally submarine on me. It'll be weeks before all that dampness gets out of them, I can tell you.

Having done all I could and saved everything which needed rescuing, I dragged myself upstairs into one of the empty bedrooms for a spot of maintenance downtime for my brain. I debated whether to wake my grandmother up and alerting her to the situation downstairs but she would probably stay up all night long fretting about something she couldn't help - so I didn't. Boy, the old girl was in for one hell of a shock come morning.

The gross incompetence that is the MPMBB (Malaccan City Council) would have some explaining to do for this, especially since the last big downpour already demonstrated the inadequacy of the local drainage system. It all started when they drained a nearby marshy area to build even more housing like the planet isn't already overpopulated with all the wrong kinds of people. Someone needs to stir shit up and fuck some people in the ass start a proper inquiry into this. I heard a joint lawsuit is in the works but I'm pretty sure it's all just a lot of hot air. Some of that hot air better dry my Timberlands up, is what I'm saying.



Reluctantly amphibious,
k0k s3n w4i

Sakura House of Taman Desa Duyong

"Eating sushi has become the new Russian roulette."

Eli Saddler

Yesterday, I rounded up enough colleagues to fill a car and struck out into the Great Malaccan Wilderness of Bad Japanese Restaurants, and I do declare that we have found their king.

Welcome to the Sakura House in Taman Desa Duyung,

Yeap, it's literally a house.

Now, I've found a pretty decent number of blogs which agreed that this place is certainly one of the best places to get Japanese cuisine in Melaka, and considering my previous experiences with a certain other house-type Japanese restaurant, you couldn't blame me for being as optimistic as I was. I've been hunting for a decent place in my little ol' town for ages, let me tell you, because driving up to KL every time I feel a craving for sushi simply isn't going to work out very well for me in the long run.

What I learn from Sakura House is that bloggers, by and large, have shitty tastes. And I've decided that this place needs a counter-review to all the positive sparkly rainbow lip service that this place has been unduly receiving - y'know, to prevent future foodies from coming here pregnant with unrealistic expectations.

The decor theme is "jaundice".

Now, I always give credit where it's due. Dining here was indeed something different. Every room in this place was stripped down and outfitted with dark, vaguely Japanese stools and tables. The way the house was sectioned also granted some degree of privacy for every party of guests but mind you, voices travel well through the rather small house - so try to refrain from saying anything bad about the place till you're safely outside. Also, their menu is pretty helpful for people unfamiliar with Japanese food (which I assume makes up the majority of their patrons) as colour photographs of every item were displayed on it.

Green tea is both free and free flowing, but it's of the cheap, Chinese, supermarket variety. I suppose the best possible thing I can say for this place is that you are unlikely to find another Japanese restaurant that charges quite as cheaply as Sakura House. The majority of their menu items fall far beneath the RM 10.00 mark, with the absolutely priciest dishes topping off at RM 15.00.

The question is, is the fare here worth even the low, low prices they charge? The long answer is: if you're really strapped for cash and wanted to eat something that's just barely reminiscent of how Japanese food tastes like, this is most certainly the place for you. The short answer is "no, just no."

I ordered two items from their à la carte menu; chuka kurage or seasoned jellyfish, and a pair of tobiko gunkanmaki (listed simply as "topiko" in their menu). The jellyfish was chewy, a sensation very alien from the usual fresh crunch I've come to expect from the dish. For an appetiser, it's quite a turn off.

Chuka kurage, RM 3.00. I did not photograph the tobiko gunkanmaki.

The tobiko (flying fish roe) sushi was, at best, subpar and forgettable. I blame it on the rice they use, which isn't the sticky, fluffy short-grain Japanese rice I know and love. I downed the second piece with a lot of wasabi.

Sake nigirizushi, RM 3.00.

Yew Kong ordered a pair of salmon sushi. He thought that they were not as fresh as he thought they should be.

Agedashi dofu, RM 4.00.

Yin Yee ordered their agedashi dofu (or simply, deep fried tofu) which I thought wasn't too shabby but it's not something I particularly go for when I go out for Japanese food. I fancy that she meant to order a simple inarizushi instead, but I might be wrong. I'd definitely go for an inarizushi over this myself. That's the one with a sweet beancurd skin pocket, in case you're wondering.

Sakura House's okonomiyaki, RM 5.00. Partly eaten.

Their okonomiyaki (a Japanese-style savoury pancake) is a decent enough snack dish if you don't have much in the way of taste buds. Yin Yee reckoned that the okonomiyaki at the Friends Cafe in Melaka Raya is better but it's been practically aeons since I've had one there so it's not fair for me to make that same comparison.

The absolutely biggest moan I have about Sakura House is their bento lunch set, particularly their kabayaki (grilled freshwater eel; unagi) one, which I ordered,

Kabayaki bento, RM 9.00.

I can only imagine what sort of costs they had to cut to price it that low. It contained a sickening amount of what was definitely NOT Japanese short-grain rice, an iceberg lettuce salad side, and some limp gari and wakame tsukemono (ginger root and lobe leaf seaweed pickled in sweet vinegar respectively). And like any self-respecting human being, I prefer my unagi with a proper crisp exterior and a tender, savoury-sweet center - quite unlike the squishy strips I got here at Sakura House. Then again, a pair of unagi nigirizushi will set you back nearly ten bucks at Sushi King while the same will only cost you RM 3.00 in Sakura House, with no additional government of service charges to boot. They taste about the same too, in my opinion.

Possibly the least disappointing things we ordered there were their homemade black sesame and green tea ice-creams,

Kurogoma (black sesame) aisu kurimu, RM 1.50

The one I had was the black sesame one, so I shall comment on that. I think the taste itself is pretty good. The bitter black sesame fragrance wasn't too overpowering and the wispy sweetness proved to be a good counterpoint to it. Unfortunately, they have fallen into one of the most common pitfalls of making ice-cream at home; the texture was seven kinds of fucked up. Too much ice. Too little cream. The moment I dug my spoon into it, I can feel (and hear!) ice crystals crunching beneath the pressure. C'mon now! Don't scrimp on the ingredients! I'd pay twice what I paid for something a little smoother and richer.

Yin Yee thought the green tea one was tasteless.

Matcha (finely-powdered green tea) aisu kurimu, RM 1.50.

I guess the worst sin this place commits is that their stuff is actually worse than Sushi King. It's been years since I've stepped into a Sushi King outlet because I felt that they grossly overcharge for their mostly crappy and generic assembly line Japanese food. Sakura House's standards lie somewhere around the level of food court imitation Japanese food stalls (and these stalls usually have the decency to use Japanese rice, at least). And no, I'm not exaggerating at all. Right after eating there, we all simultaneously felt like going to someplace else and have a do-over lunch! True story. I honestly have never reacted that way to any eating place before.

It's probably because our expectations were simply raised far too high by all the good things we've been hearing about it on and off the web. If this review can offer a much more realistic perspective for other food-hunters looking for a bite of Nippon in Melaka, I'd feel I've accomplished what I set out to do here.

The bottom line is this: Sakura House is very affordable, true, but their food is barely worth what you pay for. It's kinda like Sushi King scaled down in terms of both taste and price. Grossly overrated, if you ask me.

For those who are interested, you can find Suckura Sakura House at,

24, Lorong 8,
Taman Desa Duyong,
75460 Melaka,
Malaysia.

Basically, if you're coming from the old JUSCO Melaka, just drive towards the Pantai Hospital Ayer Keroh crossroads. There, turn right. Drive past JPJ Melaka on your left and till you see a BHPetrol Station on your right. Turn right at that traffic light junction into Jalan Bukit Katil. Drive down till you reach another traffic light. Here you turn left into Jalan Duyong. Next, make another left when you hit yet another traffic light. Then, turn right immediately after the row of shophouses on your right ended. Sakura House is near the end of that lane on your right.

Their coordinates, according to Google Earth, are 2°12'22.89"N, 102°18'16.07"E.

Many bloggers would advice you to call ahead to reserve a table before going to spare yourself the disappointment of not having a table when you get there (not true, because you'd still be disappointed even if you manage to get a table), but I felt a bit stupid when I arrive to find that I have reserved a table in a totally empty restaurant. Still, in their defence, it was a Monday afternoon after all. Their numbers are +606-268 1271 and +6019-687 1468. Ask for Mr John Chong.

They open from 12:30 to 2:30 pm for lunch and 6:30 to 10:30 pm for dinner.



P.S. Does anyone have any decent Japanese restaurant to recommend in Malacca aside from Wa Zen in Melaka Raya and Kokiya beside the Plaza Jaymuda?



A disappointed lover of Japanese food,
k0k s3n w4i