In praise of the well-dressed man

In this part of the world, there is little mention about how casual Fridays are getting out of hand. Personally, I love it when the gents dress with circumspection; i.e. to suit the occasion.

Don't get me wrong; I do enjoy men in their comfy casuals like slouchy t-shirts and jeans / footie jersey and cargoes, but there's something about a well turned out man that just makes one's mouth water.

It used to be a rite of passage for a guy to get the first pair of suit bespoke by a tailor introduced to him by his father. However, as casual fashion becomes more and more pervasive, this is a lore that one only read in books of the silverspoon genre. More and more workplace tolerate dressy casuals and suits become something that is relegated to either rarefied circles or tolerated for weddings/funerals/etc.

I think one of the reasons why Arthur of Inception received a great deal of attention in fandom is because of the way he dressed. Who would have expected a sombre looking guy in a three-piece suit to be kickin' ass and taking name in such style?

Observe:

 

He brought back the panache that was embodied by Sean Connery when he was James Bond; a man in a sharp suit armed with a rapier mind, ambiguous moral code and laser honed reactions. A capacity for violence masked by the veneer of civility lent by the suit is incredibly alluring and seductive (but only when directed against the bad guys, of course).

But that's a fictional character, you gentlemen may say. What about an ordinary Joe who doesn't have a personal trainer to keep his waistline trim or the funds for a bespoke wardrobe?

Well, a man doesn't need licence to kill to be a lady killer, you know. For the formal occasions, look for a well-fitting suit (you may need to alter off-the-rack acquisitions) in a style and colour that flatters you (navy is a safe bet for all skin tone). Team them with cotton shirts in hues that enhances your complexion and a natty tie (matching, naturallement); learn to accessorise with cuff links or even pocket squares. Polish your shoes. Buy socks that is NOT white. Experiment with what looks best for you.

But what about  the physical constraints and discomfort of wearing suits in equatorial weather? It may surprise you but there *are* fabrics for tropical weather suits. Cotton, linen suits can be very dashing and are lightweight to accommodate high temperatures (but not humidity). There are also summer-weight wool blends that can work beautifully in tropical latitudes. You *do* have options.

For those who don't wish to look like a mindless corporate drone, why not add your own personal signature to your style? If you need ideas, visit The Sartorialist; he documents ordinary people with extraordinary style with his fabulous photographs.

Traditional dress like baju melayu and kurta can also be incredibly flattering. I recall fondly the guys participating in bara'an (Javanese tradition of visiting house-to-house in a large group to sing praises to the Prophet Muhammad PBUH during the first few days of Eid-ul-Fitr to bring blessings to the host) decked in their Hari Raya finery of baju melayu complete with songkok and kain sampin. No matter what colour of material they chose, or the body it draped, the ensemble brings out the best in them: emphasising the breadth of the shoulders, minimising the portness of the tummy and even giving height to the vertically challenged ones.

Therefore, gentlemen, do take due consideration when selecting your garments. Because we love to appreciate you at your best. That's not saying that we don't appreciate you when you want to get down and comfortable, we are just saying that a little pride in your appearance goes a long way.

In praise of well dressed men, here is Barney Stinson serenading his true love in life: his sartorial elegance.




Ganked from manticore's FB update, thank you very much.

A matter of perspective

I am not a very artistic person; the only time I ever got an A for art class was because my group member drew the project and we all slapped paint on it. However, I have always enjoyed paintings and like the saying goes, "I don't know much about art, but I know what I like."
Periodically I go to the National Art Gallery to look at the exhibits. I love the works of Abdul Latif Maulan; his work has a viscerality and intensity that imbues his subject with a larger-than-life energy. I am particularly fond of his tepak sireh series; they evoke a nostalgia of a time long gone and elucidates Malay sensibilities and culture beautifully.

An artist captures a moment, a thought, an emotion, a memory in his/her artwork. A skilled artist can present it in such a way that an untrained audience can appreciate the message conveyed in the piece and it enriches their experience. The plebeian me only appreciate art that is clear; i.e. abstract paintings and sculptures hold little interest for me.
The subject matter in art is a matter of personal preference. Human or animal figurines, still life and landscapes can tell a complex story with nuance and dimension that is both proffered by the artist as well as imposed by the viewer themselves. If the art resonates with you, the experience can transcend your sensory memories and invoke emotion and passion.

War art is not new; it is a popular subject and theme for artists since the development of cave paintings. Classical paintings in Europe often portrays war scenes from historical battles. I was introduced to this idea from my favourite Mary Jo Putney book, River of Fire. The only difference between the war art in the classical painting and what we see now is the diversity of artistic media available; from oils, chalk, water colour to digital photography.

I find the idea of capturing the experience of war using art intriguing. The US Marines and US Navy have artists in their ranks who are deployed in wars, carrying art supply along with their heavy packs. A mini view of the Navy art gallery as well as the Marine combat art is available online.

Illustrating war provides a very intimate view of the combatants; telling stories that would otherwise be watered down or distorted by the media. It helps to humanise the combatants and to underscore the humanity (or lack of) of the all of the engaged parties. I don't know if anyone who look at these images and still see war as romantic; to me they underscore the price that are paid by both the combatants as well as the non-combatants in the conflict.

Will art help to make an unpopular war more palatable or a popular one more acceptable in general? I don't know. Michael D Fay and Kristopher Battles are two Marine artists who capture the engagements in which they participated in Iraq and Afghanistan. Their work is beautiful, even as the theme and subjects can provoke strong negative emotions. Sgt. Battles and Chief Warrant Officer (Rtd.) Fay offer us another facet to the war that is often contemptuously dismissed, particularly by opponents of the American occupation.

Frankly, I think the American occupation in Iraq and Afghanistan accomplished little of what they set out to do; it is unlawful and a gross violation of human rights and national sovereignty. I do wish that the American troops will withdraw from both countries and let the Iraqis and Afghan people rebuild as they see fit. If they are wont to kill one another without an occupying force "maintaining peace", by all means let them. These are lands that have not seen peace without an iron fist; their people are not ready for the American brand of democracy, as well meaning as those tenets are. It is doubtful that the occupation actually helps to reduce terrorism in the world. However, the hidden strings being pulled and people benefiting from this atrocity that is paid with blood and pain on both sides of the conflict means that there is no easy way out of it.

This is beautifully illustrated by Dark Side of the Sun by the glorious Tori Amos.


Let us all work towards peace for everyone.

Imprinting of the rainbow flag? Really?

There has been a lot of discussion over the cause of homosexuality. Many would prefer the biological explanation; if it is natural, then it is not wrong. These people delight in research that lent credibility to their arguments, primarily those dealing in the search for the "gay gene".

Well, just because something was researched "scientifically" it doesn't mean that it will be a truism. The scientific community is filled with debunked theories. JB Satinover elucidates why homosexuality is not easily explained away with genetics.

If someone actually could pinpoint a particular gene or gene clusters that "causes" homosexuality, will suppressing the gene make a gay individual straight? And if it does, is it ethical to do so or to force gay individuals to undergo said treatment?

Personally, I think it takes a whole lot of different factors that determines something as complex as a person's sexual orientation. For those who have no plans to stick to vanilla heterosexuality, the world is a jungle out there. Sometimes, things are not so black and white; there are many men who get married and still have male lovers on the side (same with women) who will not consider themselves as gay or bisexual. This is why reading the term MSM (men who have sex with men) used in infectious diseases and other medical journal makes me snerk.

(Mind you, I do believe that labelling or defining yourself by your sexuality / sexual orientation is doltish.)

I am, however, a fan of the environmental influence on a person's sexual orientation theory. While experimentation with the various flavours of sex can come from a person's sense of adventure, situation (e.g. living in boarding school) and curiosity, sexual and emotional attraction is a different kettle of fish altogether.

But no matter how much Holywood would like to romanticise homosexuality and making it sound normal and attractive (I have heard of idiots who claim or want to be gay because it is cool), it is still a thorny path to tread and fraught with challenges both emotional and social.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright ...

Everyone is jumping both feet down Tiger Wood's throat for being a rotten, cheating bastard. Frankly, I am surprised that it is only recently that this shit hit the fan for him.

However, I don't get why this is so. He's not the first athlete who cheated on his partner; check out Ashley Cole and Beckham. But because his PR people portrayed him as this regular Joe who is home-loving but could hit golf balls out into the orbit, people forget that he is exactly that: a regular Joe.

Let's face it: regular Joes cheat. Even those who don't earn eight figures annually cheat. Some says it's in men's DNA, but that's bullshit. Women cheat just as much as men (perhaps even more); it's just that they are more discreet about it.

This piece articulated my feelings about the whole Tiger Woods debacle.

And for those guys who think that their gf/wife would never cheat on them, read this and know fear.

*snerk*

Standing on the shoulder of giants

We learn from one another and build upon each other. This is never more true than in the medical sciences where hideous tests on prisoners of wars translated into hypothermia treatment and understanding the process of wound healing.

Radical bioinformatics that will make all experiments in silico is still some time away, so scientists who want to study biological processes but don't work with live animals (either in vivo or in situ) commonly use tissue culture from derived cell lines. The most famous of which are the HeLa cells that was derived from the tumours that riddled Mrs. Henrietta Lacks, an African American woman who died of cancer in 1951.


The thing was, permission was not obtained from Mrs. Lacks' family to obtain the sample by either the physician who took the sample nor Dr Gey, the guy who propagated the cell line. Mrs. Lacks has been described as "a black woman whose body had been exploited by white scientists".

Frankly, I get Dr Gey's situation; you get samples for your experiment, you don't tend to question too much. After all, they are hard to come by. These days, what with university and hospital ethics committee having a voice in how you conduct your research, these sort of things are in the past. As the idea for informed consent evolve and people began to understand and assert their rights, no one will blindly sign forms just because someone in a white coat told them to do so.

Then again, may be not. Ask anyone who has to collect human samples for their research experiments.

But I digress.

The issue here is her tissue (notice the alliteration? I'm kinda proud of it XD). Although Dr Gey received no monetary rewards from the development of the cell lines (or so it stated), but there have been hundreds of inventions and innovations that had come about thanks to these ever multiplying immortalised cells. If the decendants of Arthur Conan Doyle could still dictate the way the source material of Sherlock Holmes is treated (and getting paid gobs of money for the right), why shouldn't her children, who are also not well-off and presumably struggling, benefit from the companies who have made millions out of the cells that had killed their mother?

*ponders*

Of veiling kathoeys and bearded bois

What comes to mind when one says, Iran?

Nuclear warheads pointing westward? Bare-chested bearded men flagellating themselves down the avenue a la the best Folsom Street tradition? Xerxes and his funky curls?

I was privileged to experience first hand the beauty of the country and marvel at their historical monuments. The food is marvellous and travelling there can be pretty cheap. You get the pleasures of the four season and easy food (for Muslims).

But do many people realise that Iran is actually transsexual friendly? Apparently they lag second behind Thailand for the number of sex-change operation conducted annually. Yup, that means chopping off the family jewels and constructing a new plumbing system. Or creating new package where there wasn't any. If you want the gory details, go google it yourself.

Now, you may think ... nah ...

But seriously, the Shiite clerics are pretty enlightened about a number of things. The late Ayatollah Khomeini issued a fatwa to allow a trans-woman to undergo surgery, after asking his physicians to explain to him the difference between a hermaphrodite and a transgendered person. He believed that a good Muslim need to have a proper gender identity in order to fulfill his/her spiritual obligations and if that means going under the knife ... then so be it. Once they are the gender of preference, they are obligated to adhere to the conventions pertaining to their gender; e.g. veiling for women and beards for men.

This however, does not mean homosexuality is legal. They adhere to the strict interpretation of the Shariah law whereby men who have same-sex relations (the biblical knowing, okay?) can be sentenced to death. But a woman can marry a man who was born a woman (and vice versa).

The Government also issues a new set of documents to people who had undergone gender reassignment surgery for their new identity. So no getting flagged at the airport because the passport picture doesn't match. Isn't that wonderful?

So Fatine, hie yourself to Tehran, pronto!

Salting the wound

It is quite common to hear stories about men, who, after divorcing their wives (and marrying another), skedaddles without paying the ex-wife child support. This is worse if the ex-wife hasn't got the means to support the family; either through lack of education or disability. These men are scums of the earth what ought to have their names printed in the newspapers in font 100 (at least) declaring their irresponsibility (apart from the tarring and feathering and proper enforcement of court-ordered paycheque deduction).

But what about men who have been faithfully supporting the wife and child and then discovering said child is not his? What if after the divorce, the ex-wife marries the man who is the biological father of the child and still HE has to pay for child support of a child who carries none of his DNA strands?

Would love trumps the biological imperative for continuing one's genetic inheritance? In the case of Mike L., this appears to be so; proving that not all men who left their wives are scums and that women's cheating have a long and just as terrible a consequence as when a man cheats.

DNA testing: opening Pandora's box in more ways than one.

:p

Wax and Dye

In May, I had the privilege of perusing an exhibition showcasing the best of Teng's work at the National Art Gallery. Datuk Chuah Thean Teng was a batik painter, a technique adapted from the Nusantara artform of applying wax blocking and vegetable dye to print fabrics. He was a superb craftsman who mastered a varity of media; from wood block prints, ink on paper, metalwork, pastel and poster colour.

His portraits of lush and voluptuous female figures, tinted in rich colours brought to mind the raw sensuality of Gauguin. The delicacy of his brush strokes and the dreamy feel of his landscape brings to mind Henri Matisse. his bold and fantastical abstracts earned him the apellate of the Picasso of batik. He documented life in the village; heavily featuring female figures from bare-breasted aborigine women to the modest and retiring tudung clad Malay girls. His paintings narrated of a lifestyle that is no more, articulating the linkage between nurturing family, land and humanity.

Just to share some of my illicit snapshots and thoughts. My last visit has shown that the NAG is more stringent about photography in the galleries; signages and guards abound.


Observe the little girl in this painting; her scowling demeanour and heavy lips lending her a rather sinister cast. The long suffering patience of the mother. Except for the hair, it could have been my mother and I when I was a bratty child (still am, sadly).


The perspective of this picture is both unexpected and charming, no? The shadows contrasting with the bright colours of her sarong and the manically cheery sky ... I don't know what it is but I like it. The sultry air is almost visceral.


This is the mural he made for the Faculty of Agriculture of University of Malaya in 1960.

R.I.P. Teng. You will be missed.

Bleeding for (a) good (cause)?

I have heard of people who are addicted to blood donation. I never thought that I could be one of them. I have always found the experience to be enjoyable; a comfy chair, a book in hand, nice, soft hands petting your arm to coax the life-giving elixir out ...

Why aren't more people doing it?

*ponders*

Soul barer ... Jamal Abdillah

I confess. When it comes to Malay songs, my taste seems to freeze somewhere before 1990. I'd like to blame the domination of the sound waves by Eddie Hamid's wailing rock ballads (laments of limp-wristed losers whose girl left them for better prospects) that sounded the death knell to easy listening Malay music, but that would be too sweeping (and I don't know enough to elucidate on this matter).

Jamal Abdillah has been rightly named the King of Pop in Malaysia, generating tonnes of hits and starred in movies that made girls sighs and the explosion of baby girls to be named Azura. Gifted with a voice not just mellifluous and resonant; his passion and emotions imbued lifted the song to more than just melodies. His hits are mostly melancholic songs of heartbreak and loss, such as “Seniman Menangis” and “Sepi Seorang Perindu”. When performing a duet, he is excellent at not drowning out his co-performer with his powerful voice, a talent that is missing in many singers.

Jamal first came into my musical consciousness with Tidurlah Wahai Permaisuri, a most unlikely lullaby that I've always thought was sung by a languishing courtier to the object of his affection. There, you know it now. I have a taste for melodramatic romance. Shut up.

Last night TV1 had shown Jamal's latest consert dubbed "Kembara Seniman" that he performed at the Istana Budaya. It started with a musical of his journey as a singer and ends with an energetic performance of a wonderful of medley of his hits. I was impressed with the musical bit as he really bared his soul (so to speak), alluding to his struggle with addiction and inner demons. But he really blew us away with the concert segment, especially how he belted out all the numbers with a near effortlessness that has been missing for a long bit. His rendition of "Gadis Melayu" made you boogie along and "Seroja", as usual, brought tears to my eyes. (And people wonder why I want to kill Mawi for massacring these beautiful songs. Tsk.)

Bravo, Jamal!

PS: Is late and am lazy so no clicky links. Google away.

Subtlety is not my forte

When I was younger, I loathed British comedies and shows because I didn't understand what was said. The plumy accents, the phraseology, the affectations ... okay, I admit. It was because my English sucked out loud that I watch American shows because they had subtitles, all right? They don't seem to do so for the English ones except for It Ain't Half Hot, Mum (and even those subtitles missed a great deal of the subtle humour) and Sapphire and Steel (which I adored for Joanna Lumley's dresses and shoes. I was six. Shut up).

This video brought to mind the auld whodunnit British series with Basil Rathbones and his ilk stalking across the screen, examining the clues and wraps the show up with some dramatic pronouncement of the real villain. Watch it till the end and tell me what you think.

The many sources of aurgasm

A number of my friends have fallen victim to my blathering on and on and on about music; usually over artists / music genre that they never heard before or care about. *grin* You could recognise them after the fact of my bending their unwilling ears by the glazed look in their eyes and the discreet drool slowly dripping off their chin.

Tonight, I was introduced to a new source of aurgasms: qasidah. It is a form of poetry that is paired with melody and beat, recited in honour of some special personage. In Malaysia, it is commonly sung as tribute to the Prophet Muhammad, PBUH, at weddings, cukur jambul and other ceremonies with a strong religious overtones (which is many for Malays).

The group Al-Kawakib presented three qasidah tonight at the 51st Al-Quran Recitation Assembly at the Putra World Trade Centre. I saw parts of it on live telecast, courtesy of TV1, with one part interrupted by a remote control battle with my niece. I'm proud to say that tonight? I won. The qasidah was part of the performance during the break before the rest of the qari and qariah presented their recital in the second half.

There were roughly 12 men in the group, with three in the last row with hand drums to keep the beat. Their ages range from early twenties to late fifties. There were four lead singers lauding praise to the Prophet Muhammad, PBUH, with the rest either keeping beat or backup harmonies. Each singer had a red-bound song book placed on rehal (an instrument to support the Al-Quran when reading on the floor, commonly made of wood) placed before them; they appeared to be handwritten. The beautiful melding of tenor and baritone brought tears to my eyes, their voices resonating with love and devotion.

For a song to capture me, it need not even be in a language I understand. It is all about the melody and the emotions expressed in the voice that moves you. I have cried listening to flamenco songs; for all I know, they were singing about losing their goats in the Pyrenees. But the mournfulness of the song was unmistakable, tugging at the beating organ behind my sternum. Sigh. I am such a sap.

The power of emotion relayed through voice cannot be underplayed. To many ears, the recital by the qariah from Kazakhstan was rather flat and monotonous; she had no flourishes or rills common to most qaris. To me however, her recital was heartfelt; I thought that her approach suited the surah she was reading wonderfully. She recited Al-Hadid from verse 20 onwards and if you read the meaning, you'll understand what I mean. The clear, bell-like tones of her voice was simply wonderful to my ears. Her purity of note brought to mind the silky flutes of 60s instrumental songs that always made me think of a really good acid trip. Okay, perhaps the comparison was not apt, but I think you know what I mean.

Perhaps I can win the remote control war again tomorrow night. I need my daily dose of aurgam.

*grin*

Belasungkawa: Yasmin Ahmad

Yasmin Ahmad was an extraordinary story teller. She became famous for her exquisite, subtle and sensitive holiday advertisement for the GLC giant Petronas. Her trademark quirky tales of ordinary citizens in everyday situation became a benchmark for advertisments and films. Bet that there will be a course on Yasmin Ahmad's film in cinema-making courses soon, if not already. The clip below was the last interview she made with StarOnline, detailing her thoughts and hopes for the country and her raison d'etre.



There was an uproar that Yasmin Ahmad did not start life as Yasmin. I don't think that is relevant at all unless you are prone to small-mindedness and titillating, self-righteous gossip. Dr Mohd Asri Zainul Abidin responded to this issue eloquently in his blog, giving us hope that not all religious scholars have a mindset stuck in mediaeval times (ILU Dr Asri!).

I think people forget that her legacy went beyond such pettiness. She left behind films and writings that made people think and look at the world differently. She lifted the veil that obscured us from seeing what made us the same and helped obliterate the differences between us as Malaysians, what ethnic group you may be. And that is a legacy that will continue to touch lives of people even years from now.

Goodbye, Yasmin. We will miss you and pray that God keep you always by His Side.

Women from Venus ... definitely

The most common perception is that men are raving sex animals while women are just cold fishes (unless they are the alluring Jezebels out there to ruin good men for their nefarious purposes). But if both men and women are willing to be honest about it, the truth is a lot more complex. If you are in the habit of reading advice columns, the Sexual Agony Aunts will make you believe that a woman can get fulfillment simply by reaching out for what she wants and that she is no different to men in terms of sex drive.

To a certain degree, this is true. But why is it with sexual liberation, women are cheated into moving further away from their hearts? Because as cliche as it is, women wants the emotional connectivity before they surrender into intimacy.

And this is something new. Right.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes ...

Life and death is a cycle. One day we will all be dust, fertilising the soil with the shell that used to house our personality and returning our chemical elements to the carbon and nitrogen cycle.

I am fascinated by funerary rites. Every culture and religion has their own way of dealing with the dead. Some are elaborate, verging on hedonistic (check out the Sulawesi Tana Toraja funeral). These would take months in preparation as the family of the dead would accumulate funds to finance the best and most amazing send off for their loved one. The more fantastical funeral is reserved for the family elders while the younger ones have a less elaborate funeral. For them, death is a celebration of the long and wonderful life of the deceased.It is an expensive endeavour, hence the large gap between the time of death till the laying to rest.

Nearly all would have a funeral procession of some note. For the Malay Muslim, it is a sombre one with those attending reciting prayers for the dead under their breath or in a low voice. The Hindus and Taoists have an elaborate procession, with music and attendants on foot and in cars. The Christians are quite varied, depending on geographical location, with most having a solemn procession. In New Orleans, however, the black community celebrate the funeral procession with rousing music (the famous Jazz funeral) and dancing attendants.

Malay Muslim funeral rites are quite inclusive of the family members. They are encouraged to pray and to recite passages of the Quran to be "gifted" to the deceased. I was privileged to be allowed to help wash my grandmother during her funeral; her frail, stiff body cradled by her daughters and granddaughters. We gently washed her pale, cold flesh with scented water, pat her dry with care before she was wrapped in white, clean funeral shroud.

Commonly, there is a "director" of the event, usually called tukang mandi mayat, who will help obtain the supplies needed and to give the directions for the preparation of the deceased. Such individuals are highly respected and are usually given a token of appreciation by the family of the dearly departed at the end of the funeral. They are usually volunteers trained by the religious authorities. Although many uses the professional services provided by bodies like Lembaga Tabung Haji and the khairat kematian people of the mosque in the neighbourhood, but many still use the volunteer tukang mandi mayat.

The family members are expected to report the death and make arrangements for the burial. Usually, the nearest cemetary is used but for those who passed away far from home, they may be transported back to be buried. The closest male relatives are often the ones to shoulder the dead to the cemetary and help to lower the body into the grave. The imam will lead the prayer before leaving for the cemetary and to give the funeral rites.

For Malay Muslims, lamenting of the dead is forbidden. It is said that breast-beating and excessive displays of sorrow will hurt the deceases soul. I think the same goes for Christians, no matter the denomination (I have only ever been to a Catholic funeral mass and an Anglican wake). But for many cultures, demonstrations of grief is a must. The Taoists funeral rite even involve people who cry for the deceased, wailing and lamenting loudly how the dead will be missed. I had a first-hand taste of this at the funeral of a dear teacher of mine, the late Mrs SS Tan, who taught me English and Literature. She was also my form mistress (class teacher) in Form One. I went just before they prepared to leave for the memorial park to give my last respects.

When I arrived and saw her photograph, tears welled and fell unbidden. It had been so long since I had seen her and she did not remember me when I greeted her on Sports Day a few years after I had left her class. In the picture, she looked just as a I remembered: the kind eyes, her fine fair skin with a dusting of blush, the rose of her lipstick and the luxuriant wavy hair framing her face. It only struck me then that she really is no more. A strange thought since I was never a favourite student or anything of that sort. But the remembrance of her kind and firm ways, how she taught to me the difference between 'despite' and 'in spite of' and her enthusiasm in showing us how to analyse the literary works assigned to us opened the floodgates and I cried. It was terrible since I did not anticipate tears and had no tissue paper or handkerchief on me. There I was trying to cry in a discreet manner and wiping my tears surreptitiously in one corner as the Tao priest conducted the funeral rites, and came a member of the family, handing me a packet of ang pow.

"A gift from the family," he said.

I was bewildered and tried to give it back. For the Malays, it is customary to give a small token to the bereaved family, not the other way round. He had quickly walked away and left me clutching the little red packet. It was later that my friend told me that I was given the ang pow because I had cried at the funeral and that it was an honouring to the deceased.

No matter how a funeral is conducted, lavish or no, I realise that the funeral is for the living. The dead doesn't care what happens to the shell that once housed their souls, but the ones left behind do. Honouring the deceased and participating in the rites help to garner a kind of closure for the family and friends. Then comes the reminiscence and telling of happy stories about the deceased, past misdeeds erased like they never were. Don't believe me? Look at how Michael Jackson was lauded after he passed away. I think it is better to concentrate on the good times rather than the bad when one thinks about a deceased; after all, the dead cannot defend him/herself and digging up past resentments and anger surely cannot be a healthy endeavour. Which is why I admire the idea of an Irish wake, where the grieving family and friends sit and drink and eat while exchanging reminiscence of the deceased.

My father often reminded us that it is more important to attend a funeral than it is to attend a wedding. He said that showing support and to help when a person is in bereavement is more crucial because that is the time when you are needed the most.

I can fully get behind this philosophy cheekily; you don't need to bother about a date when attending a funeral.

Miserly emotions not required

We would all love to be the first and only love of someone's life. And hopefully, we feel the same way about our partner.

This woman, however, had the courage to be the second love of her husband's life. Her generosity of spirit and love is humbling. She's no saint and I'm sure many a wife would identify with her exasperation at her husband's inability to score his clothes in the laundry hamper. Her wry acknowledgment that she may fare poorly in comparison to his first wife resonates with honesty and an expansiveness of spirit.

Ah, vive l'amour ...

Pride Without Prejudice

Well, apparently denial/The Nile is not merely a river in Egypt; it is also a coping mechanism.

Go figure.

Learning Sans Ego

It was reported at a meeting of the Society for Healthcare Epidemiology of America in San Diego on Saturday that something as simple as balling up your paper gown and stuffing it in your gloves prior to disposal has a 26 - 62% rate of success at reducing hospital acquired infections. This measure has been included as one of three "Positive Deviance approaches that the CDC has found reduced infection rates at hospitals. PD is based on the premise that in any group there are natural problem-solvers".

The innovator: a humble patient escort named Jasper Palmer.

I'm glad to hear that august surgeons, clinicians as well as other hospital staff are willing to learn from Mr Palmer. Many a time people are not willing to learn from those they deem to be beneath them, no matter how egalitarian the society. It is nice to hear that people are serious about the problem of nosocomial infections that they are willing to listen to sensible solutions proposed by someone without a PhD.

Lovely.

Paging Dr No ...

Huh. Apparently in Sweden even convicted murderers can be accepted into medical school. I guess the 6 and a half years in prison gave him plenty of time to study and get awesome enough grades to get in.

But seriously, wouldn't you worry if your physician is a convicted felon? So he's smart, brilliant etc etc, but if he has race issues and you are definitely too coloured for his taste? A bit iffy, no? Vetting for entrance into medical school has always been a hotly debated issue, ranging from scholastic performance to extra curricular activities and even mental and psychological aptitude for the work. I guess now the Swedes will have to include query of legal issues in the application forms. In Malaysia, if you were ever in trouble with the law (say, you used to boost cars in your misspent youth or was busted during a nightclub raid), you can kiss your university entrance goodbye, much less the august medical schools.

So what makes good doctors? How do we make sure that the ones with the right stuff to become good doctors are given the chance to get into medical school? Should we allow a brilliant Nazi sympathiser (and every other colour of this sort) to get in because of his/her scholastic excellence?

*rubs chin thoughtfully*

Everybody Dance Now!

I love the idea of dancing. I love it so much that I took ballet classes for seven years. Not that I was any good; I am too lazy and too afraid of pain to make a proper commitment to dance. But I love to move to music, even if the movements are unpolished and uncoordinated. After all, I'm not earning a living from it am I? (Thank God.) My odd forays into the clubbing scene cemented this love; I just never got into it much due to practical reasons. Oh yeah. And also I am afraid of losing my hearing.

Children have an innate sense of rhythm and feels free to enjoy their exuberance of music, but we bred the enjoyment of dance out of them, especially the boys. Young males are brought up with the idea that dancing is for poofters and that it is unmanly. WRONG. Being a dancer is harder than being an athlete; you have daily training and conditioning, more punishing than many athletic regiment. Male dancers often lift weights; their movements require a great deal of strength. I love watching men dance; the symphony of their body and the beauty that they can express because of their strength is marvelous to behold.

Who could watch the old Fred Astaire movies and not wish that they could move like him?

I saw this on anniehow's LJ. She is right in how rewatching the video just kept the smile on her face. I think we were all born to dance. As we grow older, we grow more inhibited; we are scared of expressing ourselves with our body. We are too afraid of being thought foolish, we are too self-conscious of how other people perceive us. Watch this and see how delicious dancing can be, even if you are a stiff-kneed seventy year old.



Don't that look like fun? Next time you find your feet tapping to some beat, let your body flow along with the music. Who cares if you look like a reject from Dancing with the Stars? Just enjoy the endorphins.