Where's the head

Ah....so if you're a Muslim and you have some beef with another Muslim, you swear on the Koran to prove your innocence.

If you're a non-Muslim with shit to settle with a Muslim, you need to face a lie detector to achieve the same, as suggested to Teresa Kok by one stupid Utusan reporter.

At the press conference in DAP headquarters today, Kok was asked by an Utusan reporter if she was willing to take a lie detector test to convince Malaysians that she had no part in the azan controversy - Malaysiakini

.And once upon a time, it was fashionable for the MCA guys to chop chicken heads in temples to be the Forest Gump.

You know, I think it's a good way to do things.

Cheap, fast, efficient.

Stupid assholes.

Sorry, Vincent

Met up with Ben.

He had this pack of cigarette with him, very colourful packaging.

It was van Gogh's Starry Nights.

Ben thought it was cool.

I love Ben like a brother, but I was totally disgusted with the packaging.

What's the problem with commercial design people?

The guy gave his LIFE to art, to this world, to truth, to God.

To us, for Christ's sake.

Sorry, Vicent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you, indeed.

Cipollini Teriyaki

I heard from Mitch that you'd feel like you could write a novel about Shanghai the first time you saw her; a short story after a month; a sentence after a year...

In a way, it's true.

I don't know what to write about Shanghai, completely speechless, after just one month.

I hung out with a bunch of expats the other night, eating Japanese.

Malaysians in finance and tech; Brits in media; a big time Hollywood producer in flip-flops; some Singaborean girls in Cartiers and Pradas, faces powdered with ground Dollars.

Seemed like I was the only "non-drinker" at the table, and the only bachelor boy.

Few rounds of sake later, the totally blinged-out Singaboreans were all over me, rubbing their pussies on my thigh.

They thought I was a professional cyclist with a battered groin.

After the Olympics, we "athletes" get all the fun and cunts.

But I was all blase.

Been there; done that.

I was thinking of someone else, far far away.

The Great Gig in the Sky

I was thinking of the few years in Malaysia, between New York and Shanghai.

Very eventful, to say the least. Any more eventful than that I would have gotten a cardiac arrest.

All in all it has been a happy failure, those years, like most of my adult life has been.

It's mid autumn today, the day to admire the moon with your loved ones, and the loved ones are my saving grace during those Malaysian years.

I'll be out there in the park tonight, lying on the lawn looking into the great gig in the sky, watching the moon with you, many, many miles apart.

I love you, and I miss you.

And you know who you are.

No Kidding

Logging onto Blogger is very difficult here.

It usually takes about 10 tries just to load the page.

To log onto your account will take another 10.

To upload a post will take another 10.

I'm not kidding you.

The Big Whore

There’s a river running through the city of Shanghai, and it's called the Huang Pu Jiang (Yellow Pu River).

The east side of the river is called Pudong (East of Pu); and the west side of the river is called Puxi (West of Pu, pronounced as Pussy).

Pudong is like the Putrajaya of Shanghai, while Puxi feels like Kolompo stuffed with 15 million people.

For me, Shanghai is boring.

Not just Pudong, but Puxi as well, despite its slutty name.

But that could only means good things.

Because what bores me about Shanghai is the blatant, and often vulgar materialism that you see everywhere from the glamorous Nanjing Road down to the back alleys of Xui Jia Hui.

And that means Business Opportunities.

And because I was so bored with Shanghai, I have given a structure to my daily life, something that was completely absent my whole adult existence. I now plan my days down to the half hour. I sleep 7.5 hrs a day, on time; I work out on time; I ride on time; I network selectively and judiciously; I research carefully; I go out purely to feel the commercial pulse of the city.

I quit drinking altogether.

I didn’t come here to party.

I came here to get lucky.

In less than a month, I have become as boring and as soulless as Shanghai, the True Whore of the East.

Cars in Shanghai

Car-spotting in Shanghai:

VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW Porsche VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW Audi VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW Ferrari VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW Bentley VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW Taxi (VW too) VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW VW…….

Eric wanted to sell me his 9-month-old Citroen C2, with only 7K km on the odometer, for RM40K.

I said no, thank you, because I don’t need a car, and also because in Shanghai:

You buy a car.

It will be delivered to you as per manufacturer’s spec.

Nothing may change, ever.

Not even the colour.

Let alone the tailpipe.

Or the rims.

Or the airflow system.

Or the steering wheel.

It’s Their law.

Hidup Malaysia!

The Sutra

I still eat at the Muslim noodle shop quite often.

It turns out the noodle puller isn’t a Muslim after all.

He is Tibetan.

He wears the skullcap because of the job.

Imagine that in Malaysia.

Sure heboh wan.

I have been teaching him conversational English phrases, and he writes the phonetics down in Tibetan, on paper napkins.

In the beginning I only taught him 2 phrases a day.

Now I teach him 5.

He is so gifted he will use the newly learned phrases the very next day. Pitch perfect too.

Just now he told me why he is so eager to learn the language.

Growing up on the 3600m-high plateau of QingHai Hu, his family was so poor they had to give up his only sibling to an Englishman when the brother was barely 5 years old.

Now, 7 years later, they have finally been put in touch on the telephone but the poor little Londoner brother could no longer speak Tibetan, and could only cry his longing.

Every family has a sutra that’s hard to recite.

Every John Doe has a heartbreaking story to tell.

What do I care?