God Can Explain

I was a Roman Catholic and then a Protestant for 22 years before I stopped going to church.

Why? Because I couldn't explain the concept of Blind Faith and I disliked the way Christians always looked to God for answers when sometimes, they really should be using their God-given brains to think. Before seeking divine intervention that is. Ironic isn't it? Its like using the Father as some sort of spiritual, emotional and intellectual crutch to circumvent the mediocrity of their own lives.

Cannot finish studying for that important exam? Pray for wisdom. Cannot find a life-partner? Pray and tell God you know He has a plan for your impending blissful marriage. Work getting you down? Pray for patience and resilience.

When things go terribly wrong and one is befuddled for a solution? Sweep it under the carpet and say that God has a plan and that everything will be alright. When a solution is finally found (most of the time by unconsciously using your own cerebral hemispheres to ponder), praise God for his work in mysterious ways. When a solution is not found, believe that God has alternative plans in store.

Everything is attributed to one Unseen Being. Good or Bad, in sickness or in health, by chance or destiny, God will explain. Sooner or later.

Well I suppose we are only human. When we don't have answers, we want to believe in the existence of celestial logic that trancends our own mediocre mental state. Its very convenient you see.

And still sometimes, I admit, when I cannot fathom the stupid things that I do, I am secretly hoping God can explain.

A Bagel In Bagan

When I was younger, I found myself looking towards Europe and America as dream destinations. Like most Asians, I was lured by the West, its riches, interesting alienity and First-World modernity, enshrined in movies and storybooks. And if the call of the White-man got too strong, but we had little money, then Australia and New Zealand would, and did, make good alternatives.

Having seen a large part of the West now, I find myself looking at places closer to home.

It doesn't fail to amaze me sometimes how tiny and sterile Singapore is. I am not ungrateful for the peace and prosperity we have got going here but really, how much do we, as S'poreans, academically far superior and with a heady Internet penetration rate that belies our minisculity, know about Asia? I think the answer is obvious. Precious little.

Angkor? Sukhothai? Borobudur? My Mum would chastise me now for paying good money to see stone. Buddhist stones at that. She's a devout Christian you see. But if all you care about is to get a good photograph of that monolithic stupa, rising above the dusty plain, bathed in the crimson glow of sunset, then I suppose you're better off in Disneyland. Wars were fought, Kingdoms were forged, whole Cultures were born, right at our doorstep. And yet sometimes, we bother ourselves with the Eiffel Tower that stands now in the over-rated romantism of Paris.

In March or April, I plan to visit Bagan. On the banks of the Irrawady River, 145km from Mandalay, Myanmar. Its an archeological site about 42 square kilometres big, and where, at its height in the Middle Ages, served as capital of the Burmese empire and also its religious heart. At one point, almost 13,000 temples were strewn over its vast plain. But now only about 2000 remain. In the earthquake of 1975, many of these magnificent stupas and chedis were destroyed. And UNESCO is still hesitant to award Bagan, World Heritage Site status, because the ruling military junta has not always restored some of the temples in a fashion that pays due homage to their ancient heritage.

In some ways, Bagan is even more magnificent than Angkor. In its variety of architectural styles, the variation of materials used to built the structures and the glistening gold of its gargantuan gilded stupas. There is color in this old-world charm of monochromed sandstone. And I can only imagine, gliding over the vast beauty of it all, in a hot-air balloon, the exhilaration that must come from gazing upon history.

Let some of the pictures, which I grabbed from fellow photographers' flickR accounts, bear testament to this.

Lunar Gone Lunar

Its that time of the year again when you wonder where the spirit has gone.

Yes, the Lunar New Year hard-sell festivities have begun, cheena ditties of prosperity and luck fill the air and some sweaty guy in a God Of Fortune costume is making his rounds again at the kopitiams with a gold-coin container filled with 4-D numbers.

Sigh.

Someone inject some joie de vivre into me please! Because it seems that for every Lunar New Year that comes with increasingly scary ease, the mood to enjoy the occasion (remember when we were children?), dissipates with equally alarming fizz.

Just the other day, the maid asked me if she could toss last year's New Year goodies into the bin. I think she had to try pretty hard to hide her disgust at a person who keeps Pineapple Tarts for a year, even if they are in air-tight containers. Well nobody ever visits me. And to be eating these things alone while watching TV is pretty sad doncha think?

Anyway, we try to get the spirits up by visiting Chinatown every year. Yes, the annual pilgrimage to the Mecca of Cheesy Chinoiserie. It sort of works for a couple of days, I think, and then the memory of sweaty bodies pressing against you puts you off all over again. A very vicious cycle. Laughable sometimes.

This evening's visit wasn't that bad though. Perhaps the Lunar New Year is still about 10 days away so the crowds were less maddening. We finally got the chance to visit the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple which was erected from public donations not too long ago. I cannot find myself stepping into a place like this on any other occasion and it was more a 'by the way, on the way' thing. Well I thought it was a pretty cool place although I didn't see a single molar =)) Amitabha, just joking!











Chinatown itself was more subdued this time. But the usual suspects were all there. The Savouries, the Gaudies, the Sweets and the Crunchies. And for the first time in many years, I didn't shove anyone.









Well hope the pictures bring some Lunar Goodness back into anyone who's feeling just like me. That the Lunar New Year is going to the moon and never coming back.

ODAC 4 - To The Village of Changi and Back

Some of us flew off our bikes. Half had aching backsides. All were burnt under the hot fiery fireball.



But I think we all enjoyed the 38km pedal from the East Coast Park to Changi Village (and back) this afternoon

It was a beautiful sunny day. And a chance to renew our Internet connections in person.

I think that's more important than the ride itself.

Its Better To Have Loved

As I sit here, reviewing the 40 or so text-message exchanges on my handphone today, I am wondering why people still come to me for advice on relationships.

Am I not cynical enough? Have I not screwed up my own marriage? Do I not give out enough committment-phobic vibes?

And so I try my level best to be objective, but even then, the stark reality that you can never be right or wrong in this game seems to be the ambiguous takeaway. I've given up saying, oh I think he's the wrong guy for you, there's no future in this fella, girl, move on or hey you're making a big mistake, look at me!

I've learnt that you've just got to let yourself fall into the deep pit of infatuation and heady romance, come out the better or worse for it, and then see what happens. Sometimes, you need to follow your heart before you know when it'll call your bluff. Love or Lust? Time will tell. Even if you have a good Poker Face. Its irresponsible yes, when there are spouses, significant others or families involved. But hell, we're blessed (or cursed, depending on how you look at it) with such a powerful and undefinable emotion called L-O-V-E which sometimes fudges the lines of logic and common sense. The right thing to do would be to control it, keep it in when its supposed to be kept hidden, show it off when its time for its magic to work on someone. But unfortunately, we mere mortals are often at its tender but unrelentless mercy. It chooses to be manifested when you least expect it to. This apparent reticence for predictability is to be expected from an emotion some say originates from Divinity or Destiny.

The beautiful thing about love is that it is all around. What would the world be without it? The sad thing is that we always seem to give our love to the 'wrong' people.

This, ironically, is what makes it so special.

Oh Yeah!

Adam Levine et al, 25 Mar 08, The Singapore Indoor Stadium.



Mark your calenders people!

Daydream Believer

I've been revisiting old memories lately.

Digging up old photos, remembering the times when I wanted to be a writer, getting yesterday's feelings. I think its got something to do with what is happening in real life.

Emotionally and at work.

Or maybe its just the occasional Emptiness playing tricks on me. The 5-minute void that makes you believe you were once destined for greater things. Happier times. Contentment even.

Daydream Believer.

That's a song isn't it?

I know, but I don't dare to say it

It is between us only. I know it will come to this, when your legs gets wobbly. Your mind and your heart switch places. I know you too well.
The letter sits on my desk. Setting a time and place for our destiny to be unraveled in front of us. So helplessly shoved and dragged into a decision, so premature, so binding.
In my mind, I replay the scenarios that might transpire, the sad ending, the bitter ending, the happy endings.
And only in the "happy endings" there are several. To me, "happy endings" are aplenty. The roads we chose and the plans we laid, are still unformed and in infancy. It may still be a "happy ending", you will never know.

As I look it, I am desperately happy. Well, it is the kind of happiness that you find when you are beyond sadness.
I don't really want to impose myself too much, seeking the path of least resistance. I am so encased in my "happiness", I don't know where to start laughing. Driving fast seems to help, but I can stay in my car forever.

Now, you seems to be unhappy with "us". The simple life that I sought for "us".
I have made my decisions and they might not be as difficult as yours. But loving you helps a lot.
You have to have guts, take it now or never ever to speak of it again, and spread your wings and fly.
Far away, and leave me to whisper into a hollow, all the regrets, sorrows, fears and apprehensions, and stuff it with mud and straw.

Time is the essence and the essence is now.
All we need is one step, your worries might not go away, but you will have me for life.
For good or bad, in health or in sickness.

Unkers@TheTheatre - Beauty World

Cha Cha Cha!

That song from the musical is so god-damn addictive, it rings in your head hours after the final curtain has come down.



This is Wild Rice's remake of the Michael Chiang cult classic of 1988. And on this, its 20th Anniversary, Director Ivan Heng has added a few new scenes to spice things up abit. Plus our very own baba Andrew Lloyd Webber, Dick Lee, has composed 6 new songs to add to the already very catchy repertoire.

Well I must say I didn't catch this 20 years ago. Not when it had its 2nd run in 1992, or toured Japan in 1994, or had itself turned into a TV show for the President's Star Charity in 1998. But better late than never I suppose because really, we have something to be proud of in this very local-flavoured production.



Beauty World is a story about Ivy Tan Poh Choo (newcomer Elena Wang), an orphan from Batu Pahat, who discovers that a Jade pendant given to her as a child may hold the secret to the whereabouts of her Father in Singapore. So she uproots herself and makes her way to the eponymous Beauty World cabaret, where she endears herself to the resident Mummy (Neo Swee Lin), steps on the toes of the Chief Pussy (Denise Tan), gets an extreme makeover (quite pretty this Elena) and falls in love with Ah Hock, the bouncer (Daren Tan). Ivy's nerdy boyfriend Frankie Wong (Dwayne Tan) comes looking for her from Batu Pahat and has to grapple with the shocking revelation that his girlfriend has turned into a Cha Cha Cha girl.

Its all rather campy really. But in good fun. The sets were gorgeous, the singing certainly above par and most of all, it was something home-grown which made it all that much sweeter.

I'll much rather spend some good money on local theatre than watch a masked caped-crusader terrorise an opera singer in some angmo production.

Bravo guys, well done!

Until You Walk in My Shoes...

When I was in University, my father wasn't doing too well financially. I remember every year when it was time to pay fees, I would be extremely worried about having to drop out of University if he couldn't cough up the money. For the first two years, he always somehow found a way to pay the bill. I know now that on some occasions, it involved borrowing from loansharks or rolling credit on his 17 visas and mastercards...

In the third year, he sold his car - one of my favourites, I must add - a 1970 Ford Escort 1.6 Ghia. He said he was going to use the money to pay my fees. But he took the cash and went to the casino up in Genting Highlands. The plan was to double the money so he could pay my fees and have some cash leftover. As all stories of this nature go, he lost every last cent. I hated him for it. I despised him. I ended up applying for (groveling) at the registrars offices for a student loan to cover the final two years. I had to find a faculty member (a lecturer!) to be a joint guarantor with someone else. I eventually found two people kind enough to help.

If I knew then, what I know now, about what it takes to raise a family, I might not have been so quick to despise him. I might not have been so quick to hate him. I might have swallowed my pride a little easier when I had to go and find the money myself. I wish I could thank him now, for all the pain and humiliation he might have had to suffer when he made the decisions he made.

I understand now.

Prince Mumbles

OK incase you're wondering, this is not a review of Jay Chou's latest movie Kung Fu Dunk, out 7 Feb, in time for the Lunar New Year sick-of-visiting-relatives crowd.

I left the camera in the car, so I don't have pictures of his concert which I just attended. And what a ride it was!



Strangely, as the mumbly Prince belted out ballad after ballad, rap after rap, R&B-tinged cheena song after R&B-tinged cheena song, I sat there and mumbled to myself that boy, I am so glad the fella's Chinese. Proud lah you see. Which angmo in Hollywood or MTV today can claim to be such a talented singer, composer, musician, film director and dancer? You either have a combination of some of these talents in an individual. But to have all 5 resident in one slitty-eyed, brooding Chink is cause for unique celebration in the Chinese diaspora.

I shall not carry on gushing uncontrollably but yes, you get the idea. I am impressed with the bloke. Along with millions of other doe-eyed schoolgirls who really, I think, like him because he's cool, rather than for the kind of slick, fusion Western-Oriental pop he has made his own.

Jay, in my opinion, has 3 broad sub-genres in his repertoire of music. Rap-infused R&B tunes where his trademark mumbling has polarized a sizeable Chinese-pop generation, angsty melancholic ballads that would shoot star-crossed lovers to another galaxy and lately, an experimental infusion of styles in his songs which form a sort of great-tasting rojak. Case in point of the latter is the Texan hillbilly swing he incorporates into certain tracks on his latest album, On The Run.

He gave us equal doses of each talented portion tonight. Squeezing in a good 20 numbers into the 2.5hr gig and serving up plenty of chatty repartee with the mostly under-30 crowd. Pity that on certain songs, the acoustics of the Indoor Stadium did not perform up to scratch. Too much echo. Making portions of lines where Jay raps (i.e mumbles) quite inaudible.

Nevertheless, a great gig by the Prince himself. Even more so when you consider he spent his Birthday playing to the gallery.

StyleFiles@Unkster - PropArt The Cuban Way

A little-known fascination of mine, is a curiosity and appreciation of Propaganda Art.

In the Socialist states of the former Soviet Union, China and Cuba, Propaganda Art, especially in the form of posters, flourished because the combined artistic talent of the countries' artists were reaped to publicise all that was good about the Marxist way.

China had Mao plastered all over the country. The USSR, the moustachio-ed Lenin and Stalin. And Cuba, well, a trip to Bangkok's Chatuchak Market would attest to the almost Canonization of Che Guevera, CIA-executed and trusted lieutenant of Fidel Castro. I think Mr Guevera is the Bob Marley of Socialism due to his iconic popularity.

My interest in Prop-Art is not so much in the ideology it hopes to transmit. But in its use of designs, colors and imagination to convey ideas. The Cubans, to me, best embody this concept. So today when I discovered a shop that sourced for and imports original Cuban poster-prints, I was estatic.

Until I saw that they were going for SGD$120 a prop..err..I mean a pop. Without framing!

Sigh.


With Cuba - Raul Martínez, 1966


Mobile Cinema - Eduardo Muñoz Bachs, 1969


All To The Square - A. Prieto, 1970


A Forest Is Growing - Antonio Reboiro, 1967


Position 1- Eduardo Muñoz Bachs, 1967


Better Not To Be, Than Not To Be A Revolutionary - René Mederos, 1968


A Week Of Solidarity With The Peoples Of Asia - Jesus Forjans, 1967

Lightning Will Strike You Down One Day

As I sat on the aging plastic deck chair staring out at the sky, watching the lightning in the sky and listening to the deafening roar of the accompanying thunderclaps, I reflected a little on life.

I have changed a lot the past few years. 3 years ago I was searching for identity and trying to find out who I really am. But now I have a better understanding of what I want out of life. And I find myself somewhat trapped in a situation which may not be the most conducive to achieve everything I want out of life.

Have you ever felt that way? You know what you want, and you know what you need to do to get it, but the situation you are in at that given point of time makes it impossible, impractical or too risky to go out and get what you want.

What does a man do in such a situation?

I am trying to take control of my happiness and take what I can whenever the right opportunities become available. Life happens only once and if you don't live it to the fullest you will never have another chance. And, you never know when you will be struck down by lightning!

The problem with this approach, is that we can't all have our cakes and eat them at the same time. Its a zero-sum game. For me to be completely happy, I fear it would mean certain unhappiness for one or two or three other people.

Ah Ma

Ah Ma looks alittle spaced out hor?, she turned and whispered to me while sucking the pincer of her big Sri Lankan.

Yah, I replied, cracking the carapace of my own crustacean between the teeth as I glanced over at the white-haired Bibik from across the table, She does.

Then it dawned upon me how Grandma behaves like our pooch Ginger these days. The bitch is 9, and in doggy years, that's 63. Not exactly a Le Grande Dame but old enough, I suppose, to be spending the greater part of her waking hours seated, Sphinx-like, on the sofa and staring blankly into space.

I communicated this sudden revelation to her in hushed tones and was promptly reprimanded for being rude. Comparing Ah Ma to a half-blind canine on her birthday? Tsk! How inappropriate!

Don't get me wrong, I love Ah Ma. She's not the type of Granny who would hug and kiss her grandchildren but I know she loves me too. You know what they say about grandparents and their First-born male grandchildren. Well if you don't then lets just say we have the privilege of being called Ah Boy. Its a tradition I am told. Why I have yet to fathom.

Ah Ma's a fantastic Peranakan cook. And when you read childhood stories about how some people helped their Grandmothers cook, I am proud to say that I have assisted the fastidious Bibik in the kitchen on many occasions, pounding belachan, making rumpah for all her wonderful curries and yes, even cracking open Buah Keluak. Its a pity I never learnt how to actually cook. But with Peranakan dishes, if you can whip up a decent 6-course meal, you could probably send a rocket to the moon. Its that complicated.

Anyway when Mum said for the coming Reunion Dinner, Ah Ma would probably not be cooking, I felt that the Lunar New Year would lose much of its meaning for me this time. And yet I understood that it would be inevitable. Looking at how bent she was becoming and frail. Ah Ma could possibly still manage with my aunts around as her hands and she, the cooking-brain. But I think its about time we let the old lady sit back. Although really, they don't built them old folk like they used to. Ah Ma, touch wood, hasn't made a single trip to the hospital or has anything seriously wrong with her. She's just aging, and I must say, until the time we noticed she was staring into space, quite gracefully.

Its not easy, for a woman to watch her husband die when her eldest boy was 10. And then to bring him up only to see her son give his life up to cancer before her. When Daddy died, I think a big part of Ah Ma died as well. The fiesty lady who used to knuckle me on the head for being a petulant child became so withdrawn. And on her mein, the lines of Why Not Me, seemed etched gently on the contours of her face.

I read in the papers today about how our dear Minister Mentor stressed the importance of constantly keeping physically active and the need for mental stimuli in the golden years in order to carry on living meaningfully. Slowing down, he says, would be a sure recipe for dying.

Maybe we should let Ah Ma cook afterall.

If she has communicated her love for us through her food all these years, then perhaps this would keep my favorite old person going for many more.

Happy Birthday Ah Ma.

Inconvenient Truths

Today at work, I had the same remark thrown at me for the upteenth time, albeit by someone close I haven't seen in a couple of years and half in jest.

Are you Gay?

I responded to the query in a way I usually respond to such questions nowadays, by leaving it pretty much open-ended and grinning like a Cheshire cat. I'll rather leave people second guessing because, hell, do I really owe you an answer, much less an explanation?

And its the same thing when asked if I am going through a mid-life crisis, prematurely of course. A smile and a stupid pout. So what if I am?

You see, this behaviour is not borne out of a devious need to be reticent or dumb. Its a response borne out of sheer irritation at asinine assumption.

I mean the 'signs' are all there no? Recently divorced, flashy car, gym workouts 4 times a week, a good friend and confidant to girls but somewhat commitment-phobic, articulate and opinionated with a penchant for muscle Ts and singlets. They either think you're trying your darnest to be a 25 year old or you're, that's right, homosexual. At 35, you're not expected to behave this way. You're supposed to be happily married with offspring in Kindergarten, drive a MPV, do grocery shopping and take the kids to Piano class on weekends and be adorned with solid-colored Polo Ts 2 sizes too big to hide your prosperity 'belt'.

Bollocks!

That's a mental mould created by a society that's been brought up to believe that if you're not happily settled into the routine of fatherhood and 'husbandry' by your mid-30s, something is seriously wrong. You're different. And although not neccessarily verbalised by the trigger-happy thinkers, a freak case.

Even my former boss said he heard I was playful. And when queried about what he really meant by being ' playful', he asked me what I was doing with a Yellow sportscar and matching gaudy sneakers? Shallow little fella this one. I would say an Emotional Quotient of a Petri-dish.

I have pondered, trust me, on whether denying all charges and readily admitting to being lonely, depressed and thus retail/gym/boy therapy-dependent, would somehow throw alittle popular logic on the situation, change perception and bring balance to the force.

That would be a convenient lie though, much to my personal chagrin.

Because I like inconvenient truths. The world is not always black and white is it?

Rediscovering Unkster

I've switched to illy. I rave about Mazdas now. And Soulmates...hmmm....what Soulmates?

But I think Curly is right. This Blog needs a shot in the arm again.

The Unkers will be Back..at least we think we will....

Unkers@TheMovies - Eastern Promises

We stumbled on this inadvertantly.

I mean with a movie title like Eastern Promises, who's to know it isn't some arty-farty Zhang Yimou flick of undying love. The plan was to catch the latest Adrien Brody vehicle and Venice Film Festival darling, Darjeeling Limited, about 3 brothers' train-trip through India where they have to deal with their emotional baggage as well as metaphorical physical baggage whilst culture-shocking themselves. But since tickets were all but sold out on a Saturday evening, it was a welcomed surprise to turn to a gun-metal slick Russian Mob-fest instead.



Confession. I have never been a fan of Mob movies. Hell I can't remember anything from The Godfather. And when the American Gangster trailer played out in all its full Denzel Washington/Russel Crowe glory just now, I stifled a yawn. But faced with the prospect of Alvin & The Chipmunks, we thought Viggo Mortenson and Naomi Watts, together with Stylish-Violence Specialist, Director David Cronenberg, would make a better bet. And we were right.

Mortenson was a revelation! If you remember, he's Aragorn from LOTR. And in Promises, he has found a new Arwen in the very very delectable and classy Naomi Watts. Well, I had a crush on Watts when she had a crush on that big ape Kong not too long ago.

The now short, slicked-haired Viggo plays Nikolai, Russian driver and 'undertaker' to a Russian Mob boss' homosexual son Kirill (french actor VIncent Casell). Kirill's papa, Semyon (Armin Mueller Stahl) is chief mob-ster of the powerful Vory and runs the Trans-Siberia Restaurant as a front for under-age prostitution, contraband smuggling and cut-throat assasinations. When a teenage Russian hooker dies at childbirth in Trafalgar Hospital where Anna (Naomi Watts) works, she uncovers the girl's diary which leads up the dark and dangerous path to Semyon's Vory and an inevitable romantic entanglement with Nikolai.

Believe me, you will want to watch this more than once just for Mortenson. He really makes Promises his own. Cronenberg is known for his complex exploration of the human psyche and in Nikolai, this is as 3-dimensional as it gets. Expect plenty of blood and gore though. And of course, the much talked about Russian Baths scene where Nikolai fights off 2 killers from the Chechen Vory, completely naked. Yes girls, Aragorn in the buff!

The show is 140mins long. The pace is super-tight. And there is hardly a wrong turn or dull moment in its own unassuming yet 'tastefully' hellacious way. You get realistic insights into the Russian Mafia too. Like how 2 eight-pointed stars tattooed on your chest, above the heart, means you've earned the right to join the happy 'family'.

Watch out American Gangsters, the Russkies are in town.

8/10