I had coffee with a group of friends and told them about my arranged date. They all burst out laughing and looked at me like I am some lonely, deprived farmer.

My wise old friend who has been round-the-block a few times gave her two cents worth and I would like to share it with you guys because I found it rather interesting.

‘In Malaysia, arranged marriage only works if you are rich or poor. Simply because there is more at stake then just two people getting along and live happily ever after.

Most women say they are independent career women but they still have the old school mentality. No one can change over night. I give you one simple analogy. Look at you guys, you go out and you wear your Armani but when you back home first thing you do is wear your ‘kain pelekat’/sarong.

We women, no matter how successful we are in our careers, want our men to be the provider. We want our men to pay for mortgage and the bills. Our salary is for our handbags and shoes; spa and hair salon; and a condo for security in the event the blessed union does not work out.

In return, we give you nookie twice a week and two kids. If you can’t afford or agree with the arrangement, save yourself endless dates, break up chats and go find yourself a village girl and start a blog for your conversation needs.’

After hearing this, I am setting my local Kazakhastan connection on speed dial. I heard over there the going rate for dowry is only 2 cows and 2 goats.

Okay maybe not that dramatic. My mother has proposed to me that I go on an arranged date with her friend’s daughter. She has been pestering me to give it a try for two days now.

‘A friend of mine from the ‘mengaji’ class has a very nice eligible daughter. She is suitable for you. More importantly, she would be good for you.’

Mom, I think she is suitable for you! Okay, this is the cue for me to go and live on my own.

‘Unlike you, she is a practicing Moslem. I know she will guide you to the right path. You are getting old; you can’t go find prospective girlfriend in the nightclub.’

My soothsayer is right once again.

‘Is she Kelantanese, Mom?’

‘I don't know. Does it matter? Anyway, she is two years younger than you and is an auditor in an accounting firm’

Well she better be working. I ain’t no YMCA.

‘Her parents are really nice people. You should meet her. You must. Or I will not cook for you anymore.’

But the maid does all the cooking around here. How sure are you that she is ‘nice’? You would be very surprise what the kids, regardless of age, get up to behind your back.

‘Mom, she better be pretty and oh! you are paying for my date.’

It was only last month I blogged about the best movie I have ever seen, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I am just done watching Before Sunset. It is the prequel to the old student classic, Before Sunrise.

I don’t know how you can get your hands on the DVD but you have to. Buy, borrow, beg, blackmail, steal, you simply have to watch this film. Be warned that for some of you, it will open old memories stored in locked drawers in the back of your mind. Maybe I am exaggerating, like I often do.

What made the movie great is that viewers can connect to both the main characters played by Julie Delphy and Ethan Hawke at the same time. I can relate not to one relationship I had in the past but many.

The script is witty and intelligent yet simple enough for someone (who has read less than 100 books in his life time) like me to understand and therefore connect.

Memories of people that I met somewhat in transition came flooding back like an alcoholic taking a whiff of the old single malt. The ones I got to know at the end of term or during summer hols, knowing whatever we had was transient and you knew no matter how hard you try, things will irrevocably change when you leave.

When I met some of them later, I tried (sometimes desperately) to continue where we left off but some how that was not possible. When you are young a summer can amount to lifetime of change.

And these two characters, who happens to be the same age as me (ahem!) look at their present lives and reflect on how setbacks and failures have shaped them as compared to when they were young and naïve 23 year  olds.

Okay. Let’s all of us drive to *Paris this weekend.

*Kuala Kangsar, known as Paris of the East(Malaysia).

They should sell t’shirts with the above caption at Saisaki, just like Hard Rock Café.

It is the meanest buffet joint I have ever been to. You think getting a drink at Bar Savanh is tough? You have not done Saisaki.

I thought I’d break fast with Japanese food. Some sashimi and sushi instead of the usual Malay and Chinese food. The moment I stepped into the restaurant I realized something bad was going to happen. I see patrons with sneakers (later I found out it was for agility around the serving area) and waist pouch. This was no Kampaichi crowd.

After settling to my table I made my way to the buffet area. I was almost trampled over by old ladies rushing to the teppanyaki table. The scene at the buffet area was amazing. You’d think you are in a Taipei Earthquake Relief Shelter.

****

After 15 minutes I found myself at the front. I quickly lobbed some salmon, tuna and kalamari sashimis onto my plate. Then there was commotion, some pushing and shoving caused by the waiter placing a batch of newly made California Rolls.

I turned back and there was this old lady, perhaps in her mid 60s. I told her not to worry as this is a buffet and she can come back for more later. I moved a little bit to make room for her but that made me lose a bit of balance. In that instant the old bitch skillfully grabbed my salmon shashimi with her chopstick. There was no expression on her wrinkly old face. I felt  like it happened in slow motion. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe I was robbed by a fossil in cheongsam.

****

I was also unfortunate to have been seated near the buffet table. I saw the same people going for seconds like more than a dozen times. At 9, they were still at it.

It is acceptable if you have a big appetite and on the heavy side. But these people are thin. They stuffed themselves just to get as much mileage as possible from their RM50. Singaporeans should come to Saisaki to learn what ‘kiasu’ really means.

Dear women,

Can you please leave football alone to us men? We invented the game. It is ours. Okay you look sexy in the XS size football team replica to p but that’s about it.

It gets on our nerve when you start screaming and bitching during a match especially with words like unfair, cute, yummy, deserve, adorable and hypocrite.

Just because you memorize the names of all the players and their respective team colours, does not mean you know football. 98.5% of you have never been to a football stadium. You only watch it on the telly. It is not the same!

The media edit football for entertainment with multiple camera angles, replays and highlights, and commentators. Football is not like American wrestling and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

It is harder and dirtier than rugby. I know because I have played both. So don’t get worked up when your favourite player (usually Michael Owen, Raul or David Beckham)is fouled.

And very important, please don’t discuss tactics with us. You have not played the game and therefore do not know what you are talking about. Its not even remotely similar to netball. Please relay this message to your ‘kaki bangku’ boyfriends. It is easy to spot them. They have the latest team jersey and plays 5-a-side indoor soccer. And no, you can’t compare indoor soccer with the real thing.

Thank you.

Sign,

Irked, sexist, ol-skool, ex footie fan & footballer.

P.s Below is a short write-up for you to have a better understanding

I used to be a fan back when football was a sport for the working middle class. Football was more than a game. It was a metaphor for life. Football clubs represented communities and culture. The game and its supporters had soul. Now it is as soulless as wrestling - nothing more than just entertainment.

Once a week, for an evening, men can be boys. They forget about work, family, commitment and responsibility. And fathers who work long hours and odd-hour shifts, would take their son(s) to the football match to make up for loss time and strengthen the father-son bond.

I remember my Dad taking me to the great KL - Selangor games at the Merdeka Stadium. How can you not bond when both of you are cheering for the same team? You cheer for the team that represent the area you live in, the area you earn your living or from where your family come from.

Football was a man's game, either as player or spectator. While the husbands and boyfriends behave like little boys, the wives and girlfriends get together and do their own girly things.

Dear Diary,

Why do single, 30 something women have to label everything?

You know how you manage your MP3 songs for your iPod? You categorize, catalogue and label songs into genre, star rating, year, album, composer etc. for easy search, retrieval and referencing.

This is what single, 30 something women do when it comes to men and relationship. Why can’t they understand that every one and every situation is different? Isnt it that simple?

My friend blames this on Sex & the City. He said this show brainwash women around the world with gender stereotyping and male bashing; fueling war of the sexes when really, the other side just want to watch football in peace.

*****

I bumped into a friend who believed that women have the option of either marrying someone for love or for security (you know some money in the bank, decent house, one overseas holiday a year, a second car in the household, blind and deaf mother-in-law a bonus).

I told her the latter hardly exist. Perhaps if we are Cambodians in cosmopolitan Phnom Penh, maybe.

Society has progressed or rather men have progressed. Would you go out with a girl knowing she likes you for job or your house? We are just as insecure of being a good provider as you do with your weight.

It is very much like the employment market. Nobody is indispensable; there is always someone else out there. 

Men do a lot of things to get laid but not absolutely everything. If you think otherwise, you are in trouble.

Women, for the most part, are insane when it comes to how much their pussy is worth. I cannot stand pussy power. They cheapen the male species into nothing but a bunch of mechanical functions governed by their need to procreate.  - SPG

pretending to be a cat.

Tipah Tertipu’s excellent post about a stalker evoked memories of my own experience of misunderstood intention.

It is clear cut for women I suppose. You either label the man a friend or a potential something (more). It is either black or white. For men, it’s different shades of grey. It is probably because sometimes, our ‘other’ brain takes over and therefore can easily change the status quo. If a woman friend suddenly (probably drunk) kiss you, you would kiss her back. Unlike a woman, you wouldn’t feel betrayed and most probably feel more masculine.

****

You spend time with this woman you call a friend. You talk, you do things together. Everything is Elizabeth Taylor & Michael Jackson until one night when you drop her home, she turn around and kiss you. You, with your deprived Christian-all-boys school upbringing, do not know how to refuse an open mouth.

Next thing you know you are in bed with her. You utter the word ‘You sure you want to this’, but it’s inaudible even with a hearing aid. You come to your senses after intercourse and realize your mistake. You panic and keep your distance from her for a week.

When you finally see her, she calls you a little sick lying conniving bastard. Then she’ll say she lied.

“I lied to you that night. You actually have a small penis and you suck in bed. You lasted only two songs”

Everyone in Alexis stops talking and look at you.  You then realize you need to shave your head and grow a goatee to be able to dine in Alexis again.

After an outburst like that you expect her to find her own way but instead you have to drive her home. You then get stuck in the Friday evening traffic on LDP and experience the longest 50 minutes of your life.

Seeking sympathy, you tell both your male and female friends at dinner and they all say the same thing - you are a weak horny bastard. On your way home you play Marvin’s What’s Going On.

Oh btw, I heard this from a friend and no you do not know who he is…

Astrology and numerology are probably the best known fortune telling techniques with any sort of 'rational' or scientific basis, although palmistry also have widely been used in prophesying and divination.

I have been to a few fortune tellers but Dr. Pathmanabalan is my favourite. The affable chap from Madras has a PhD in Astronomy & Numerology (that is what written on his call card) and have offices in Madras, KL, Singapore & Sydney. He has a reputation for guiding seekers of love and romance. Yes, that is his area of expertise.

One thing that I really like about him is that unlike many others, he does not mince his words. He once told a woman to divorce her husband because it is not in her stars to be happily married (to anyone for that matter). So she now lives happily alone.

I have just broken up with CP and I felt pretty lousy. My confidence was at rock bottom. After a millionth failed relationship I felt hopeless.

After taking down the required information i.e., full name, time and date of birth; he started calculating and constructing my future grid. He then read my right palm to map it with this grid.

“Your past, present and future life is full of women”

Oh my god. I am not 22 yrs old, I only want one woman.

“Relax Babu. The reading is not specific to women in your love life. It could be in your career, family and friends”

Phew. That sounds alright. My ex bosses were women, I am the only son in the family and I have platonic friendship with women.

“You will marry someone of not your own kind”

What? You mean a house pet?

“Different race but same religion”

Goddamnit I knew this gonna be bad. A Kelantanese? (they are foreign aren’t they?) I’ll have diabetes and endless family gathering in KB.

“You will meet her in 2005 and will marry her in 13 months”

Will I have kids Doc?

“Hmm, you are very fertile. You will have four children”

Oh fuck. I can’t afford 4 kids. I just want one. Kids cost a lot of money. College, car, mobile phone, credit card, laptops, clothes, iPods! Hell I can afford just one.

“You will have problems with your marriage when you are in your mid 40s, but not to worry, your marriage will survive Babu”

“You will live until 83”

Oh god. Long after my EPF money and savings have dried up. Great!

There you go folks. Can I not name my kid Nik?

Alamanda Race ‘300 World Class Cyclists’ slogan hung on buntings all over Putrajaya need to be taken down immediately. They have got it wrong. They can get sued for misleading the public. There were only 299 world class cyclists.

I lost the last ounce of goodness in me yesterday. Today I feel worthless. For what’s its worth, I would like to apologize to:

The old man on an old steel bicycle & a young girl on an oversize bicycle. I drafted behind them and enjoyed their slipstream. I felt no compassion and guilt seeing them struggle and suffer. When it was my turn to pull, I left them behind to die.

The RELA marshall. I cussed at him for refusing to allow me to take a short cut at the under pass

A soigneur from a competing team. For nicking the water bottle at the feeding zone meant for his rider behind me

Laughing at the cyclist who fell. He had cramps on both his legs, he stopped moving and fell side way almost like in slow motion. He then crawled and sat under the palm tree. It was hilarious. I can’t stop laughing thinking about it now.

My teammates. For retiring on the final lap. I have let the team down. There was nothing left in me. I was about to get heat stroke. I too had cramps on both legs, 5km after laughing at the old twit. I was close to desecrate my lycra bib as my stomach didn’t agree with all the PowerGels I consumed.

It’s still okay to see some geriatric cyclists (somebody should tell them to take up fishing instead) on an antique 7-speed heavyweight steel bike struggling for dear life on the parcourse. You have to take off your hat for their determination and will power.

But there is no excuse to DNF for someone who shares the same age as Lance Armstrong; younger than Mario Cippolini; using a European pro racer spec bike; and wired like an astronaut (yes, even a rain indicator).

I am terribly, terribly upset. Maybe I should sell out like a softie that I am and join that pretentious (Jln Telawi pickup line)poof activity – scuba diving.

Listening to: I guess I better hang these tears out to dry – Dexter Gordon

Shamelessly plagiarized and paraphrased from Richard Curtis (4 Weddings & a Funeral) & "Funeral Blues" by W.H. Auden

I came across Zoe’s sibling (in black) when cycling around Tmn Tun last night. I thought I’d better I go through this and get it over and done with.

Zoe used to prefer touring to racing. She said it was easier to get enthusiastic about a ride one had a chance of eventually completing with the peloton.

In order to prepare this speech, I rang a few people, to get a general picture of how Zoe was regarded by those who met her.

Fat (owner) seems to be a word people most connected with her. Terribly unsporting also rang a lot of bells. So very fat and unsporting seems to have been a stranger's viewpoint. On the other hand, some of you have been kind enough to ring me to tell me that you loved her, which I know she'd be thrilled to hear.

You remember her fabulous climbing skills...how she would dance up the mountain. The recipe for ‘EPO-Ephedrine-Tongkat Ali cocktail' unfortunately goes with her to her grave. Most of all, you tell me of her enormous capacity for joy. And joyful is how I hope you'll remember her. Not stuck in a box in Bikepro and manhandled by curious customers who can’t afford her.

The most splendid, replete, big-hearted, weak-down tube as it turned out, and jolly tramp most of us ever met. As for me, you may ask how I'll remember her, what I thought of her.

Unfortunately there I don't have words. Perhaps you will forgive me if I turn from my own feelings to the words of another splendid bugger: W.H. Auden. This is actually what I wanted to say:

'Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum,

Bring out the coffin...let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead,

Scribbling on the sky the message: She is Dead.

Put crepe bows 'round the necks of public doves,

Let traffic policemen wear black, cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East, my West.

My working week and my Sunday rest.

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,

I thought love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one.

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Pour out the ocean and sweep up the wood,

For nothing now can ever come to any good."

Listening to: Dewa – Aku Cinta Kau dan Dia