Log---Day One

The LCCT surau smelled of socks and repressed feet. And damp sejadah. My flight was postponed or in a more consumer-friendly term, re-timed. 6 hours and 35 minutes. Outside the surau is a mess. A cramped group of angry campers seeking their 'space'. Personal space. Whatever that means. I spent my 6 hours reading half of The Known World. I heard it's Oprah's favourite book. Well, airasia kan.. In any bargain, there're quality, service and price. Choose any two.

Flight was swell. A german passenger beside me wore only his boxers and whenever his girlfriend kissed or fondled him, out came his member, shrugging for release.

Hotel was swell. Everything's swell. New smell. New wind. New accents. New definition of new.

And Bali people are really friendly. 7 hours into their threshold and I'd already sharing jokes with three people. They find me funny.

Lucu sekali kamu ya mas.

One shopgirl told me Berani sungguh mas jalan seorang, hebat. She'd no idea I'd practice the Indonesian accent infront of the television. Televisions are education here. I fit right in.

Mas dari Jakarta ya?

Jauh ya dari Riau sini.

Ohayoo gozaimasta.

The Kuta strip of beach is breathtaking. A morphing piece of nature. In the morning time, part of it was shrouded with mist and the water is lemon-freeze cold. A sweet moment of silence. Dewing pearls on stranded coconut leafs. Clear. Blue. Sky. No one in sight. Garhhhh~ I found it funny too but I was in dire need to roar. As if procalaiming this heavenly shore is (temporarily) mine.

In the afternoon, the beach roared back, smashing patterns of green and grey into chaotic swirls. I rented a surfing board and the guy who rented it taught me how to 'be one with the sea'. The first time I tried, I was already in my groove. Suave. He wasn't too surprised to see that I could already surf even though it was my first time. Some people are born with the sea mate'. He said in his Balinese-Australian accent. Crikey. It was exhilarating. It's like a wave is no taller than the other, and I want the best of em all. I fell down a couple of times, having the surfing board tied to my left foot, it carried me with the waves like a dog ushering its blind owner.

In the evening, when the day neared its destined ending, the beach was packed with people. Ants of people. Most of them Indonesians. British people gathered under shades of coconut trees, drinking Bintang Beer (those stuff is soooo pahit) and selecting grinning young prostitutes for their leisure activities at night. As one man's right hand explored the girls' thick lovehandles, his left hand was pulling an invisible lever. He shouted Tally-Ho. Astaga. His wife distracted herself with lean young australian surfers. All is well eh?

Bomoh

Kemenyan to welcome guests and visitors.

Cendana to relinquish sad memories and chilli to induce passion.

A pinch of BlackPepper, the king of spice for truth and basil to remember.

When I heard the news of several european countries banning witchcraft activities and highlighted how witches are still being murdered in several countries (Malaysia included) I thought "There goes the roots of humanity."

Witchcraft is also practiced in Malaysia by Bomohs and Ustazs. Oh yes, Ustazs. You 'modern' people would think witchcraft is a pile superstitious mankydot but by all means, it'd worked wonders. Why you ask? Well, nature is the sustenance of life and has been used in medicine to cure all physical illnesses. Nature could also be harvested for herbs and spices that could render one's state of mind, manipulating emotions and distracting pain.

Bomohs are descendants of people who had worked with nature and its virtues to harvest and discover the enigma of nature's product. Throughout decades, Bomohs had passed on their knowledge to younger generations to help the hardy and poor. As Bomohs dwells in a realm of jinns and trees, they are more intuitive and sensitive to human emotions, honing their treatment methods. But why is it that Bomohs has a destructive image in the Malaysian society?

For starters, most of them had engulfed themselves with eternal greed. Instead of using their knowledge to cure illnesses, they'd often caused them when rivalry seeks a bitter end. Money, money and lust. Bomohs nowadays are also prone of using jinns' help instead of natural remedies like herbs and spices. Yelah, shortcut. It's easier when using jinns but the downside of it is that lives are to be sacrificed to make certain spells work. Like mixing chicken blood or boiling a pregnant cat or cremate a dead dog.

Interestingly though, Bomoh's spells won't work if the person whom the spell was casted upon never miss his/her prayers or simply refuse to believe in superstitions. That is because the human brain is much more powerful to resist or be manipulated by spiritual or physical extortions.

Well let's just say that when we get older, we will garner friends and enemies. And if you're unfortunate, your enemies (especially when they're malay) will send you a couple of Ah Long Jinns to make your life miserable. You can resist these attacks but the jinns will remain in your conscience until you seek spiritual medication. I suggest Harun Din's Clinic lah. If you're in politics, ward off these balistic attacks by strengthening your Iman and hiring some good Bomohs.

I'm not encouraging the hiring of Bomoh but what to do lah. There are plenty of Jinns sent in by invisible PosLaju to our doorstep to distrupt our lives. Supply-Demand. Orang Melayu kan tak senang tengok orang lain senang. Tengok orang puteh senang ok. Minda dijajah lagi nak buat macam mana.

Whatever it is, it to be reminded that God is beyond all repertoire of delusion.

God is Great.

Propapolitic

Everyday oso Altantuya. Everyday oso Altantuya.

Why are the Malaysian Media feeding us so much of Altantuya in one go? It's like the second Norita Murder case; every single day until we tak tahan and decided that 'Ala, sorang je mati...' You know what I mean? It's the century old formula: Feed the pig until it dies turnturtle. Or something like that.

We humans have a very hard time attaching our hearts to facts and are more intuited when we see obvious display of emotions. That is exactly what the media is doing: you will see Witnesses, Dates, Venues, Details on the front page of almost all newspapers everyday, which is successful of pulling our heats together to grief(for a few weeks).

And on the second or third page, there will be pictures of Baginda and his family having tearful seperations, supporting each other, waving from afar, praying for God's mercy. Hah tengok, kita pun dah kesian.

And sooner or later we will lose interest on the murder trial and will be more interested to see Baginda's teary release and be reunited with his friends and family. (Remember the ending of Norita's case?) Everybody loves a happy ending. And the conspiracy lurking beneath the corinthian carpet dissipates and dissapears, leaving the absent smell of smoked flesh. Justice indeed.

I'm in favour for Altantuya, not because I'm keen to see Baginda behind bars but I think there's a whole new level of corruption and misuse of power in the government and Baginda is the only living person who holds the key to this greesy golden vault.

So please, people. Filter your reading or read the newspapers with a clear mind. Or else we will be wheeled into the psychological deception reel.

My Beachy Weekend

Bay Beacon
Balance
The Impressionist

Vacant Chairs (except mine lah)
Putera
and his Abang

Selipar Bata

Glory

I read The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst last semester, one of the many books I bought from the Booker and Orange selection. It was excellently reviewed after its debut so what the heck lah. Why not give it a flick?

It was written tastefully and there's a whole lot of gay jargon I couldn't have mustered. But interestingly enough, even when I couldn't really understand most of the sexually charged chapters, the word Glory Hole was somewhat intriguing. It sounded straight. Fun. Must google. Laterlah.

Today is Laterlah. The word Glory Holes has a lot of meanings. It is the method of curing petroleum, a unique feature in some dams to control the flow of water in rivers and the hole-shape of molten glass.

Glory Hole is also a special feature in public facilities. Holes in public toilet's cubicles/partition.

Flashback alert.

Dang. Those are called glory holes? Of all things, glory? Im sure that all men who'd used public toilets are familiar with these holes, along with the impromptu (not to mention raw) political forums on all three sides of the partition. Enlightening stuff, those forums.

As a person who has the habit of going to the toilet immediately after any meals taken outside home, I too have my share of experience.

My earliest recollection was a scary/horny one. I think I was about 14 when I had the courage to use public toilets. There were small holes on the partition and a 50 cent size hole that was bolted and plastered over. I sumbat all the holes with tissue paper and went along with nature of things. Until a man who was in the partition beside me blew away the tissue balls from his side of the partition. I was flabbergasted or in simpler words, terkejut nak mampos. A beady eye peeped in one of the holes. The man poured water all over the tile floor, prompting me to look down. Nah, a shadow of a pot bellied man. He noticed this too and arched his back, revealing a shadow of an alien mallet. It scared the shit out of me and left the toilet in a hurry. Run. Run. Big fat man coming to get you.

Since then, I'd never had the guts to use any cubicles with glory holes. That is, until I entered matriculation. Let's just say I had put the holes into use. Enchanging voyueristic pleasures. The animosity was so mysteriously arousing,then. Then was then.

Now if a little beady eye popped into view in one of those glory holes, I'll pretend to be shocked and slammed the hole with my elbow. Those sort of things don't interest me anymore, with the reluctance of libido as proof. Yesterday when I was at Centre Point (mall), I used a cubicle with glory holes and when I saw the flickering of light in one of the holes, I did what I'd usually do (Shock&Smack) but this time I waited in front of the sinks, waiting for the peepingtom. Then out came a greying man, spotting a set of expensive office attire. He smiled and greeted "Assalamualaikum."

Hmph.

Two Decades Later

Turning twenty is surprisingly twenty-ish. I woke up twenty, did 15 laps, followed Umi to the site, read The Impressionist while waiting to be officially twenty.

My twentieth birthday was pretty normal. Nope, very normal. There were no expectations, no surprises, no drama and notably no teenage angst.

When I was 19, I rode my bike when it was raining heavily and had gotten myself 'tribal' with the raingod. Hah.

When I was 18 I woke up early in the morning and read a cheap novel by a komodo dragon infested lake.

When I was 17, I bought 5 kinds of ABC at the Pasar Malam and finished all of them while watching porn.

When I was 16, I sulked during my birthday, contemplated suicide because I felt like I'd achieved nothing on the much-commercialized sweet 16.

To celebrate, we had dinner at Atmosphere, a revolving restaurant at Yayasan Sabah. It revolved! Coolness. I took dozens of photos of the Restaurant, being the usual photo Jakun. No one seems to care. So click-click away lah. Pedulik.

I ordered something weird. Something kononnya exquisite.

This dish's name is err... matured lamb something something something with lamb juice and something cheese. The New Zealand imported lamb was chilled during its journey, making the lamb a bit more seasoned in taste and smell. Served with blue cheese, baby tomatos, foei gras, poached dalca, honey and the usual mint sauce. When every bite I'd taken cost 10 ringgit each, the meal is sure to be delicious (even when it's not)

My 15 year old Hadi is undergoing the famous Deen brothers tantrum, throwing sarcastic remarks and tossing inconceivable slurs. He was particularly annoying that night so I'd warned him beforehand: "Anymore ruckus from you and I'll make sure this twenty year old foot grace your 15 year old face."

And cheesecake. Once again, cheese reigns supreme! As I finished my second helping of cheesecake, I scribbled something on my DayPlanner: Tomorrow, swim 20 laps.

Botak

"As Muslims, we should not sacrifice our religion for the sake of wanting to be popular," Harussani, Mufti Perak.

"I have no regrets. My hair will grow back." Sharifah Armani, Actress.

"But if a woman going bald is behaving like a man, what then is a man who grows his hair long? The same people who think that women should put their hair underneath a tudung seem so offended by a woman with no hair. If hair is so alluring, then surely no-hair is a real turn off? Is it offensive to find a young woman so confident of herself that she has no qualms about cutting all her hair off? Perhaps, this is what really rattles these ulamas; she contradicts their idea of what a woman should look and be like. Besides, as Amani puts it very well, it will all grow again. (Can someone please supply me with the exact ayat in the Quran which prohibits baldness in women?)" Marina Mahathir, Dr. M's first daughter.

"Maka Islam mengharamkan perempuan menyambung rambutnya atau memakai rambut palsu.Pengharaman tersebut kerana merubah anugerah Ilahi.Maka, betapa pula dicukur dan dibotakkan kepala?" Nasruddin Hassan, Timbalan Ketua Pemuda Pas.

"There are MakNyah brothels at Chow Kit street, tomboy meth dealers at Bukit Bintang, homeless flood victims in Johor, Khairi and his abominable quest to be the PM before turning 40, a corrupted chief minister in Sabah and a Mongolian translator who was strapped with TNT (and exploded) by two policemen before being accused by the Malaysian media of being a first-class slut. And we're fussing over a two-minute air time of Sharifah Armani with her head bald. Chi Chi Chi." Afiq Deen, 173cm, 62kg, single.