Boat People

Pride and prejudice obviously still has its place in Malaysian politics. Even now - more than a century after our Chinese forefathers stepped on our shores, we are still labelled the same by narrow-minded bigots.

As immigrants newly arrived. Pendatang they call it. No doubt these banal politicians would still be repetitively beating that same dead horse a hundred years from now as well - not realizing in their blind idiocy that some of their own ancestors probably arrived on boats as well.

Despite the vicious racist epithets spat out in their overzealous rancor, I sometimes find myself paradoxically smiling. Intolerant bigots usually advance the hackneyed assertion that the original Chinese immigrants travelled here purely to garner wealth to send home to the mainland while maintaining tenuous ties to their adopted country.

Well, perhaps true for some but certainly not for my grandparents.


Now what was that you were saying about immigrants?
Especially my shockingly vehement grandmother. Once she wilfully shook the dirt of the dusty mainland off her stockinged feet, she vowed never to return. When questioned on her historical inconsistency, she has two answers to give. The more reasonable reply which comes with a quaint zen-like idiom.

Paul : Ever thought of going back to China?
Grandma : 好馬不吃回頭草!!
Paul : A translation for our avid readers please?
Grandma : A good horse never grazes on the same old pasture!

Or the more vitriolic reply which comes complete with lively hand-waving gestures.

Paul : But some of the older generation always wish to go home, don't they?
Grandma : Go back to China? Traitorous old fools. If it was so great, why did they leave in the first place?

Followed by a patriotic speech on loyalty to the country. Seriously, you'd expect the national anthem vigorously playing in the background as soldiers march past in salute.

And you still dub her grandchildren boat immigrants? Don't let this angry granny come after you with her walking cane.

All Batty Over Potter

Despite being sidelined in oh-so-many ways, this little town still manages to keep up with the times when it comes to the movie theatre. Came here half expecting to be confronted with the 1950s version of the movie experience with rickety wooden seats and ceiling fans rotating noisily overhead while kuaci and peanut shells snap, crackle and pop underfoot.

No such thing of course though I was reasonably informed not to keep my hopes high. I didn't - and was surprised. Cushioned seats, popcorn and even THX, if you can believe it.

I don't of course. I'm flabbergasted enough by the fact that the movie selection here's pretty current.

Hence our night out with the recurring boy wizard Harry Potter. Though calling him a boy when Harry's all of eighteen would be wrong, wouldn't it? Since I still felt like playing with his magic wand all throughout the movie, I was glad that Harry Potter ( and of course the actor Daniel Radcliffe ) had gone past the age of consent at least.


Harry and Hermione!
Though I seemed to be the only one to think so. In fact even the winsome Hermione Granger seemed remarkably composed even when he had his arms around her during a dance.

Paul : I'd jump him like now!
Patty : Harry Potter?
Paul : Simply can't understand how Hermione would pick someone like Ron over Harry!
Patty : Of course she would pick the redhead. Ron's cute!
Paul : Seriously! Harry looks loads better.
Patty : Harry isn't cute! Ron is so handsome. Those freckles and that wide mouth.
Paul : Large enough to swallow Hogwarts! Harry is a gentleman with buckets of gold in Gringotts and a crumbling mansion!
Patty : Ron has freckles!

Which seems to be the clincher for her. But come on, Ron Weasley?

Bear with me, those who haven't actually read the books - but I've never actually understood how courageous, intelligent Hermione could have fallen for Ron Weasley instead of Harry Potter. Boggles the mind. All I can conclude is that J.K. Rowling had the beginnings of what I term the Laurie Lawrence Syndrome where said author steadfastly refuses to allow two characters to be together - despite how much everything, including the characters and the plot, seem to be heading that way.

Paving the way for insipid, lacklustre Ginny Weasley to step in as the romantic foil for poor Harry. A sad pale imitation of a heroine if you ask me.

Harry, you deserve better. Call me, yeah?

Dog Eat Dog

I think it is an undisputed fact that I am not an animal lover.

Only use I would have for a dog is to have it hot between the halves of a bun with mustard sauce. Even domestic farm animals such as poultry turn into targets for me.

So when our new boarder Fabulous Felix came by with a stray canine in tow, I stared aghast. Slobbering jaws, shedding hair and 50 pounds of gregarious, rambunctious golden retriever. Attack dog, he ain't.

Good God. Are the sacred grounds of Netherfield ( though it be a work in progress ) to be thus sullied? Closing the gates to the marauding wild beast didn't seem to be a viable option. Unmannerly fleabags rough-housing all over the dainty cushions in the living room could mean the end of Netherfield as we know it.


A boy and his dog!
Though I yearned for immediate banishment with an imperious lift of my finger, I restrained myself and settled for shutting the doors on the drooling dog with a stern shake of my head.

Paul : Not in the house.
Felix : Awww. Little Widdle Puppy wants to come in.
Paul : Puppy will get my boot in his face if he tries.
Felix : Awww. So mean.
Paul : Not if he slobbers and sheds all over the floor.
Felix : Little Widdle Puppy says pretty please.
Paul : No! Backyard. Shoo.

Seriously. What is it about dogs and their fawning owners?

Though I'll have to admit his Little Widdle Puppy is endlessly adorable - and quite lovable in his own way. Although Felix - and Kat - do tend to go a little overboard with their endless baby coos! Seems like they spend more time playing ball and stick with the dog rather than offering any sort of stern discipline.

Hence the dog has none. Zero puppy training. Hardly listens to orders. Chases after everything that moves. Leaps madly into erroneous conclusions.

Paul : Time you trained him.
Felix : But he's okay la.
Paul : Until he runs into a snake? Or even a bus?
Felix : He won't la.
Paul : How will you stop him even if he does? Time he listened to orders.

He doesn't even listen to Stay.

Think it's about time the Little Widdle Puppy went to school for some obedience training. Finally had to sit Felix down and warn him of the inherent dangers of letting an unruly mongrel go untrained. Poisonous snakes, larcenous robbers and the like. Raising a dog isn't for the fainthearted. Takes a whole lotta love and commitment.

And though I bear but little love for him, at least I gotta stop the pooch from gamboling headlong ( and heedlessly ) into a speeding lorry. Wouldn't want the horrific blood spatter on my fence.

And I really hate scooping up roadkill.

Breakdown of a Breakup

Even when it seems ultimately beneficial for both parties, breakups never come easy. Inevitably someone gets hurt in the process.

Ever since high school, I've watched breakups happen from the sidelines. Certainly felt much safer when the emotional fireworks began. In the quiet aftermath when the last spark has fizzled out, I'd offer a crying shoulder to my buddy, at the same time wondering how I'd actually fare through such emotional upheavals.

Wistful thinking. As it turns out, it didn't take very long to find out for myself. Although I only recall trying to break one measly lamp ( it was ugly! ) in my simmering rage, my ISO claims a raging Krakatoa would pale in comparison. What I term my very own psychotic break. I barely raised my voice though. Of course my silence is inversely proportional to my rage.

We all grief for our lost relationships in different ways. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

For me, anger always comes first. A veritable tsunami of almost-broken lamps, tossed books and burnt photos. Only months later in the silence ( and relative privacy ) of a movie theatre, I would spontaneously dissolve into tears without warning. Even then I'd warn myself not to shed even one more tear over a careless heel not worth crying over.


Time for some tough love!
So this time as I witnessed my friend going through the painful inevitable, I realized that offering a shoulder wasn't what he needed. For that he already has a choir of soothing sob buds in the form of Kool Kat and Piratin Patty offering sympathy by the drunken barrel.

Didn't think he needed more from me. Heavy dose of reality with a spank of tough love to follow was what he got from me.

Kat : Awww. Poor thing.
Patty : Awww. Poor thing.
Paul : What poor thing? Don't leave it hanging forever! It is unfair for the both of you. Make a decision and stick to it!
Boy : Umm...
Paul : It is not that difficult. If you see a future with him, then work doubly hard to make it happen. If you don't...
Boy : Umm...
Kat : Awww... that was uncalled for. Give the boy some breathing space.
Patty : True also, the boy needs to make up his mind.
Boy : What if I break up?
Paul : All you get is three days to weep and whine. After that, the slap of shame is coming from me.
Boy : Only three days!!
Paul : Okay. Maybe four.

Yeah, I'm not the huggable sort.

Shooting Chickens

So how many ways are there to kill a chicken?

And mind you, I don't necessarily have to administer the killing blow according to wholly halal methods.


My killing eye's out for the fowl next door. Look, I always knew Netherfield's right out there in the boondocks but I never knew it's smack dab in the countryside. Which means everything that it entails; yards, barns, stables - and that damned chicken coop.

Oh yes, cock-a-doodle-doo. Going back to their peasantry roots, my neighbours have opted to keep a chicken coop in their backyard. But rather than have meek little chicks hiding behind curtains in the henhouse, we have a rebellious rooster who crows loudly at all hours. Irregardless of daybreak. Once the aggravating monster even squawked for no apparent reason during the wee hours of the morning. No doubt he got confused by the glare of the full moon.


It's time to hunt!
So what's the best way to get myself some fresh chicken chop by morning? Death by garroting? Death by gunshot? Death by poison? Idiotic foolhardy rooster leaps to the top of the coop every morning - placing itself as the perfect target since he's in direct range of my bedroom window.

Perhaps a bow and arrow?

Of course having a fowl murder happening within weeks of our moving in wouldn't bode well for future neighbourly relations. My more murderous plans will have to wait. Have a slingshot so perhaps a warning shot would do. I think one rock at its head each time it crows at the wrong time.