A New Year, A New Daughter-In-Law

It's a new year, and it's a new daughter-in-law for me and wife. No, I'm not replacing my daughter-in-law with a new daughter-in-law for the new year. Nobody does that as far as I know. People change or replace oil filters, but not daughters-in-law. Calm down, Azalia.

Actually we've just been blessed with another daughter-in-law when my younger boy married the only girl of his dreams (I don't think he had other girls or other dreams). His first morning at kindergarten seems to me like this morning. And how he quickly progressed by learning all the cranky wrestlers' names and fake moves. Time flew and who knew. His wife, Siti Sarah, is our new daughter-in-law. "New" here is strictly contextual and technical: she's new to us and we're new to her. That's all to it. Azalia, our first daughter-in-law, has been with us for slightly over a year now. So by all industry standards, she's no longer new to us, but she's not old, please. We're no longer new to her and we're, well, plain old. Semantics can be chaotic, sorry.

With two daughters-in-law now, I've become father-in-law twice. Two titles in two years, I'm luckier than Liverpool. But I'm still called father-in-law, because there's no English or Malay or Kelantanese term for somebody with two or many or too many daughters-in-law. There are thousands of living and dying languages in the world today and I'm sure there's one or two that make this important distinction. Or maybe it's not important. I mean it's not important and not urgent to differentiate or discriminate people based on the number of daughters-in-law. So there's no real need for any word or terminology for it. There's no medical breakthrough linking somebody's sugar content or arthritis to the incidence of daughters-in-law in his vicinity. This is why it's still unlawful for any desperate insurance company (meaning all insurance companies) to load up more premium on anyone with multiple daughters-in-law.

Whatever it is, I must say that this time around I'm better prepared. To be honest, there's nothing much to prepare. Nothing in the sense of having to conceive a clever transformation program or a five-year plan. If you're a colourless and redundant retiree, there's absolutely nothing to prepare. Just remain colourless and redundant. Your cholesterol and calcium would stay safe. Your daughter-in-law might even choose part of your name for her secure password. That's it. You're in seventh heaven.

Maybe not. Because there's nothing to profit from the status quo and ceteris paribus (what?). I still think daughters-in-laws in this day and age are a precious learning opportunity. Deeply literate and fiercely independent, they epitomize most of the newfound ideas and wisdom. You know, complex beliefs like "bigger burger is better burger". Or simple ones like "Wayne Rooney is either a born moron or born a moron" (my idea, but what the hell). You'll fall for their their fancy English and faux Malay. And they don't write the (archaic) way we write. They don't write, actually. It's just LOL, LMAO, he he, @$%# and all the wordless counterculture. Obviously there's so much for us to engage, learn and achieve here. It's easier for mothers-in-law to get on because they rule the kitchen. All daughters-in-law, new or not new, know well enough not to upset the foodchain. But a father-in-law is a pointless afterthought, just like the oil filter. He needs the extra guile and craft to get in the groove. But, who'd really know, with time and some luck "Di Ambang Sore" might find its way into his daughter-in-law's playlists. LOL.

Five REAL Reasons Why MU Fell in Basel, or Basle, or Whatever.

Manchester United (MU) crashed out of the Champions League after an inexplicable loss to FC Basel. For the second time in less than a year, MU played like FU (Felda United). The whole social and anti-social media erupted into an all-out feeding frenzy, pouncing on the debacle in Basel with both delight and dejection: seismic, catastrophic, comic, and, simply, sick. The Gary Speed inquest is hardly done, and here's another one. Overnight the world over was awash with clever theories and hindsights. Senile Sir Alex, ugly Rooney, dud de Gea, no Cleverly, get Sneijder. Even Park Ji Sung, far right in above pic, wasn't spared (a bit unfair because he's supposed to only run, nothing else). One football writer offered five reasons for the scandalous performance. Not to be outdone, another suggested six. But both completely missed the point simply because they either hate MU or love MU. They're biased to the bone. As a long-suffering but impartial Manchester City fan, I'm just happy to jump in with my five REAL reasons:

1. Monotony: after 25 years of playing the same style and putting up with the same Scottish Gaelic language, MU as a team are bored to death. MU is, by and large, the proverbial one-trick pony. Only they're very very good at this one trick. If there's anybody who's successfully mechanised the art of football, it's MU. You could still see Keane, Pallister and Parker playing week in, week out this season even though they've long retired. With no semblance of variety and makeover, players (including Park Ji Sung) get tired, demotivated and even deluded. They collectively collapsed when they got found out at Old Trafford against Man City and in Basel against part-time watchmakers. And, of course, those one-nil, clean-sheet craps in between.

2. Manchester City: For the first time in 40 years, MU are substantively and earnestly upstaged by their perennially pathetic neighbours. So potent was neighbours' threat that MU had to resort to desperate taunting and name-calling: noisy neighbours, bitters, 35 years, football lessons, plastics, sheikh's toy. The Fergie-lapping media was just happy to fuel and foment the ill feeling. It's not so much Man City's newfound riches that irk MU, but more of their swaggering and irreverent pitchside ways. The 6-1 derby hiding at Old Trafford was the last straw. All in all, MU players are a mentally depressed and disturbed lot, Park Ji Sung included. You can't move if you're unhappy. Simple.

3. Otelul Galati. Or something. Until today MU players and the entire coaching staff are still wondering what they've done wrong to deserve a home-and-away fixture against this team. Champions League is treacherous enough as it is. Playing an obscure team with a strange moniker often adds an unwanted distraction and romance, not to mention Jonny Evans. The city of Galati is not far from the high forests of Transylvania (ha, ha, you know who slept here). So it's a bit of a stretch to expect MU to beat up Count's boys home and away and get away with it. All the rumours about his stake-to-the heart death are just that: rumours.

4. Michel Platini: You can't see the connection. Neither can I. But there has to be some connection. This is UEFA, remember. His loathing of big, rich and non-French teams is an open and shut case. If he could have his way, he'd have the French cycling team in the Champions League, taking on BATE, Apoel and Genk in a group of death. Lyon's cynical and convenient 7-1 away win is proof of his complicity. Circumstantial, but proof all the same. Resign, Platini, now.

Did I say five reasons? Actually it's four. I miscounted. Or I just couldn't improvise another one. Nonetheless, good reasons, all of them.

Mindless Miscellany (No. 9)

We're into the last gasp of a frenetic 2011. The year just seems to be in a huge hurry to complete itself. Libya's back to the Libyans with Gadaffi now gone for good. If anything, his passing saves everyone the pain of figuring the right spelling for his name (Gadaffi, Ghadafi, Kadaffi, and 100 other variants). Europe is imploding as Germany plays Ah Long-in-chief. The US, well, never mind. Steve Jobs, the visionary, is now history. Man U mauled 6-1 by neighbours (just can't help). Yingluck is out of luck: she won Bangkok then lost it to the floods. Indonesia is holding on to its maids despite Malaysia's repeated promise of one mandatory rest day and six optional work days in a week. You don't have to trawl the world for a good laugh. There's plenty right here at home in Malaysia.

1. The Curious Case of The Hundred Handout

If you think Malaysia is overly kind to foreign maids, just consider what it's giving to its citizens: If you have a school-going child, and you or your child isn't an illegal immigrant, you'll get RM 100 in cool cash, no question asked. If you have five children and five Porsches, you'll get RM 500 (even if all your five Porsches are illegal). Of course, we, ever curious and suspicious, have some questions now: Is this black money? Is this one-off? Can we use the money to buy a condo? Can we still vote for Elizabeth Wong?

2. Tired Teachers?

Minister of Education recently advised the MOE staff to ease off a bit. They should find time to relax, exercise, destress, breathe, live and so on. MOE has a staff of 500,000, hard to believe. What comes to mind is the teachers. Are they working too hard? Based on my calculation, the total number of schooldays in 2011 is 180, as against 185 non-schooldays (i.e. holidays). More holidays than working days in one year. And that 180 includes unproductive schooldays like Sports Day, Before Sports Day, After Sports Day, Teachers' Day, Hari Kantin, Jogathon, floods, Malaysia Cup Champions etc. I know teaching is tiring and stressful, but it's only half a year. Plenty of time to rest and recover. No issue here.

3. Ah, Kelantanese Again

A genetics study on the Malay race by Universiti Sains Malaysia (USM) confirmed what I'd long suspected: that Kelantan Malays were the first to set foot in Peninsular Malaysia, some 60,000 years ago. My formal training in history or anthropology is limited to the History Channel and Masterchef, but 60,000 years seems such a long time ago. Or is it a gross misprint or miscount, and it's actually 6,000 or even 600 years? 60,000 or 6,000, I'm just delighted. Being Kelantanese has never felt this good. Now I've the bragging rights over friends who're Jawa Malay, Minang Malay, Bugis Malay, Rawa Malay, uncertain Malay and other ethnic Malays who, according to the same study, came much later (though earlier than the Banglas). As first comers, Kelantanese certainly deserves some privileges. Like RM 200 instead of RM100. And oil royalty.

4.Thinking Tanking

Do you know that there's a Malaysian Malay Professional Thinkers Organization or Persatuan Pemikir Profesional Melayu Malaysia? No, it's not a scam or spam. It's a bona fide NGO led by a prominent professor. With a convenient catch-all name, this NGO has taken on a wide spectrum of local issues ranging from the serious ones like the UMNO-PAS merger to semi-serious ones like nasi lemak at school canteens. I've nothing against NGOs, they're fine and useful as a concept. But how do you get to be a member of this exalted NGO? Any minimum qualification? Can a non-thinking professional like Carlos Tevez be a member? No. He's born in Argentina. Fair enough. Then how about a hard thinking but non-professional retiree born in Kelantan?

5. Readers' Ripostes

As a redundant retiree, I've all the time and space for news and stories on my Yahoo! homepage. Politics, sports, music, health, archaeology, whatever. And I love readers' comments. They're clever, whimsical and, at times, coarse. Plenty of wit and humour and misspellings. Follow the ongoing slugfest among the US presidential hopefuls. Readers are having a field day ripping into their gaffes, flubs and faux pas. And why not. Mrs Bachmann wished Elvis happy birthday on the anniversary of his death. Amidst howls of "idiot, go away etc", one reader coolly suggested " Elvis doesn't care, why should we". One reader thought Mitt Romney is a moron (he's actually Mormon). Rocked by sexual harassment claims, Herman Cain badly botched an interview. Asked on Libya, he simply bumbled and failed to muster anything coherent. One reader suspected that Cain mistook Libya for labia. Brilliant.

Lembaran Terakhir: Ahmad Jais (1936-2011)

The first time I heard "Di Ambang Sore" over the old Radio Malaysia in 1965, I'd to catch my breath. The melody, the music, the lines, just blended and melted into one supreme and sublime song. On a scale of 1 to 10, it's 11. And that pure and flawless voice simply swept me away with all of its unrestrained and surging smoothness. Barely twelve, I fell for Ahmad Jais and his serenades of love and loss. "Sejuk senja ku nantikan, namun dikau tiada datang". Who wouldn't.

Those who'd summarily dismissed him as another one-or-three-hit wonder were left to rue as Ahmad Jais brand flourished. And how: 15 benchmark albums, 100 timeless tunes, countless kudos. His legions of lovers, drawn in equal measure by his unprententious persona, grew fast, far and wide, quite a feat in those dark and dreary days without YouTube, Facebook and Masterchef. Some of his ardent admirers grew up swooning over his signature staples like"Gelisah" and "Sumpah Setia" to become accomplished lawmakers and professors (no wonder).

Ahmad Jais made no attempt to emulate P Ramlee because he knew enough he could never rival the versatility and virtuosity of the only genius this country has ever produced. So he remained Ahmad Jais, and rightly so. But his lush vocals and lovely ballads stood out in a vibrant local music scene dominated by nonsensical and insanely commercial pop yeh yeh largely blamed for giving us paranormal and forgettable tunes like "Si Cincin Emas" and "Ngalompak A go go". To be fair pop yeh yeh did have its inspiring moments with creative forces like A Romzi and The Hooks (the slap bass on "Sengsara" had more chops than Red Hot Chili Peppers, ha ha ha), but that's about all. Nothing came close to Ahmad Jais, the master crooner. During my Tiger Lane days, his songs provided the occasional solace and deviation from the gruelling demands of chemistry experiments and dull afternoon debates (mostly in Kelantanese English).

For those pining for a Malaysian equivalent of Indonesian doyens like S Effendy, the wait was over with Ahmad Jais. They did collaborate at one time, a testament to the high respect and recognition the two leading lights had of each other (listen to "Jumpa Mesra"). The Indonesian music has since progressed so much that none of their talents could find any motivation to work with their struggling Malaysian counterparts until very recently: when artistes on both sides descended into artistic indecency by labelling each other "diva". While Indonesia has practically stopped the flow of its maids into Malaysia, its divas continue to fly into KL to link up with local divas for live gigs, promotional blitz and more money. And with new maids now being offered higher pay, medical, rest days and singing lessons, Malaysian households will soon be getting their own divas. Sorry for digressing.

Ahmad Jais's melodic and lyrical style finally hit its best-by date and succumbed to the relentless advance of the newer and noisier genres in the 80s. You know, the rockish, rappish and rubbish variety. Regraded as nostalgia and esoteric, his songs rule Radio Klasik (FM 87.7 in KL) and retain a cult following, mainly those at "Di Ambang Sore", so to speak. This fiercely passionate crowd just refuse to let go and move on, and the songs are as fresh as they're 40 years ago. The iPod generation may argue that Ahmad Jais lacks the musical complexity and artistry of, say, Yuna, Ana, Gaga. Well, to each his own, and stupid is as stupid does, as the saying goes.

Ahmad Jais passed away Tuesday, 11 October 2011, at 75, leaving a rich legacy of endearing and evergreen songs. I've more than 50 in my drawer, each and every one is a veritable treat and treasure. One or two my two school-going girls should be able to (sarcastically) hum along by now due to my frequent late-night airings. He's no longer with us, but his renditions will continue to calm our nerves and liven up our daily blight and grind. "Jinak merpati makan di tangan, jangan dikurung di sangkar hati". You'll break down and cry.

What's more befitting than closing this encomium with his definitive number. But which one? It's never easy to pick out. They're all so bewilderingly beautiful, each with its own personal mood and character. I've to choose at random. So here's "Seloka Kasih":

Bermadah puan lembut alunan, terpikat hamba dik halus budi.
Jinaklah hamba di taman hatimu, benarkah puan cinta padaku.

Bila mata bertentang mata, kelunya lidah untuk berkata.
Jangan diturut katanya hati, kelak nanti merana diri.

Manis madah mu tersusun rapi, terbayang jugak wajah berseri.
Mulut tak hangus berkata api, memang tak nampak sakit di hati.

Kilas mata ikan di air, sudah kutau jantan betina.
Bukan mudah jadi penyair, lagunya ada pantun tak kena.

Seloka puan bijak bistari, terpaut sudah si anak muda.
Kuharap luka sembuh kembali, walaupun parutnya tetap ada.

Kalau pandai meniti buih, selamatlah nanti badan ke seberang.
Siapakah serik bermain kasih, walaupun dia di tangan orang.

The Mauling of Mister Potatoes.

Utterly and altogether unbelievable. For more than 40 years I'd been fantasizing about something close to this. It finally happened, and more. Manchester City routed Manchester United 6-1 at Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams, football Fort Knox or plain swamp was battered and buried, taking with it the ghosts of that freaking overhead kick. Nobody, not even the deepest City-loving romantics, were quite prepared for what's unfolding in plain sight: a complete dismantling of the 19-time champions heading for 20. The feeling hasn't really sunk in. It won't.

Remember the snide and cynical broadsides from Rooney the white Pele my arse and the Fergie-lapping tabloid toerags after the Community Shield? (Football lessons, Barca and Real rejects, poor old City, as ugly as sin, bunch of strangers etc). The pain was brimming over and reaching out for retribution. What a rich reversal and a cruel vindication. No fluke, no freak this time. Just a brazen display of exquisite and articulate football I hadn't seen in 40 years of following City. No football lessons here. Only merciless mauling of Mister Potatoes.

Potato chips lovers, including those at Putrajaya, should take heart when, only two days after the Old Trafford hiding, Man U won a Carling Cup fixture. Against Aldershot. All the what? Quite a nameless team at the wrong end of the 4th Division. Owen scored a goal amidst local fans' cheeky chants of "We're going to win 6-1." Call that a quick recovery if you want.

"We're Manchester City, we'll do what we want." The new shout of swagger ringing across the Etihad just about sums it all up.

There's no better time to tell jokes and rub the occasional salt. Here's an assortment of jibes picked out from the social network:

1. Sick swan
2. Six and the City
3. Man U trauma line: 016 16 16 16 16
4. What's the difference between Man U and a black cab? A black cab lets in five.
5. What do Col Gadhafi and Man U have in common? Both slaughtered by the locals.
6. Man U expected to win the second and third set?
7. 4th official: How much time do you want to add, Sir Alex?
Alex: Just get the whistle blown.
8. What time is it? It's six past De Gea.
9. All Man U players looked upset. Except Rooney. He can't count to 6. He just looked confused.
10. David De Gea's mum rang him up at half time. Told him to be home before seven.
11. Finally, the best of the lot:
Monday morning in the Fergie house.
Mrs Ferguson: Get up, Alex. It's just gone seven!
Alex: Goodness me. They scored again.

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Break-in Redux

Now repeat after me: "This country is going to the dogs!".

Somebody broke into my house - again, for the second time in less than a year. And maybe by the same twisted scum of the earth. We'd yet to fully recover from the first one and now this. Horrendous, and hard to believe our (wretched) luck. But I'm sure this isn't the worst on record. Not in a country with two million illegal students and one million illegal policemen. I've heard of houses broken into twice in a month. I love this country just like the Zimbabweans love theirs. Malaysia is definitely transforming and is well on track to becoming the only developed country with hudud laws by 2019. Bring on the laws, guys. Lop their hands off for all I care.

It's a sad Saturday. The dark, gathering clouds were ominous enough. We'd only one nagging suspicion: that it's going to rain (ha, ha). We left at two and came back at about 7.50 only to find a broken window with pure and natural air gusting in, a telltale sign that something was amiss because we hadn't had fresh air in our house for 20 years. I sprinted up faster than Usain to find all rooms plundered and pillaged. Clothing and things strewn all over. I'd never seen a refugee camp but I could picture it when I saw my bedroom or what's left of my bedroom. Only my son's room appeared untouched, because it's plundered and pillaged everytime. Apart from my watch and wife's knock-off jewellery, nothing much was missing. I finally found an old Manchester City t-shirt I'd been looking for the last ten years (thanks, thief!). Lucky thing no Mercedes was taken (because there's no Mercedes to begin with).

While the pain of losing a watch should ease off the morning after, the cerebral trauma should linger for a while. Something like post-partum, only worse. We've to be prepared for symptoms of cognitive failures like confusion, anger, hearing loss and constipation. A friend who's also a multiple victim recommended an elegant quick fix for break-in depression: blame it all on UMNO and Perkasa. It's not quite clear how he contrived this placebo. There's no conceivable way the venerable political institution and the well-meaning NGO could've had a hand in his misfortune, and certainly not in burglaries. He recovered in seven days. I guess it's mind over matter.

Now the police report. Actually, I was in two minds about filing a report. With the country's entire police personnel already short-handed by the thousands of reports lodged against Anwar Ibrahim, Ambiga and Mohamad Sabu, my bothersome break-in report wouldn't stand any chance. But my good sense prevailed, for two reasons. One, with all those ETP, NKRA, KPI, MACC, EBITDA, filing a police report is now faster than figuring out what those abbreviations stand for. Two, police might be enlightened enough to be able to crack this case and recover the loot. The odds are no better than seeing Elvis at Mydin, but who really knows. Without a police report my wife can't claim her fake bangles.

With nothing to lose, I drove to USJ 8 police station and filed a report with the investigating officer, one Inspector Faisal. I used to work for a Fortune 500 multinational champion and I could tell with 90% precision that this particular law enforcer was 100% unmotivated. A repeat burglary isn't an unnatural sex act, fair enough. But the least he could've done was to feign some interest and curiosity. I've been religiously paying my income tax for the past 30 years, I'm sure a good part of it has gone into sustaining a functional police force. It's hardly paying back.

We're having a late dinner when a police officer came to visit the crime scene. He's a CSI-type, with camera, gloves and all. He dusted the broken glass for fingerprints. No fingerprints, the shithead wore gloves, probably local and gay, he said (not verbatim). He took some pictures, and more pictures upstairs, and that's it. I wasn't totally impressed, but at least he tried. They did the exact same thing for the first break-in a year ago. I'm beginning to believe that this is a police SOP (Standard Operating Ploy) to scam us into thinking they're serious.

I was expecting police cars flashing and blaring around my area the next day, harassing and hounding the workers at a couple of construction sites nearby. Nothing. Maybe it's Sunday. Nothing on Monday. Tuesday, still nothing. I understand, for the police to proceed they need clear leads, like the perpetrator's passport, his name cards, or, better still, Mr Perpetrator announcing himself at the police station. But utter inaction sends the same stark message to both the victim and the villain: that break-ins are no big deal and they're very much part of our multicultural sophistication which also includes running red lights and Malay hantu movies. At this rate, you'd be forgiven for deciding that the transsexuals are creating more value for this flagging country.

The Girls Take A Pet

When I woke up this morning, my nose sniffed a whiff of musk, or was it skunk? Somebody must have poached my Kiehl's Original Musk Blend No 1.

Since my first day of retirement, I've been trying to reverse my age and debunk Mayo geriatric studies by oversleeping. This is still a project in progress. Whenever I wake up from a lengthy slumber, my olfactory nerves will react violently and I'll smell things. A side effect, I suppose. Due to thinner air, morning time is a smells sanctuary. In my case, its the plain, everyday odours that get amplified: morning breath, dirty laundry, school bus, Banglas, neighbour's curry, neighbour's dogs, neighbours, but never musk or skunk. Then it struck me. Yesterday my two girls took in a cat as our pet. It's a ten-month old brownish black American Curl, one of the few known feline varieties that can tolerate Malaysian weather and public. The skunk was him.

We'd never had any pet, except for a short period in the early nineties, when my two boys took in a rabbit or a guinea pig or something in between. The short period was actually all of two and half days, long enough time for him to scarf down something close to our one year's supply of carrot. This guy was born to eat and un-eat, so we had no choice but to un-pet him. It's all peace and pet-free until 2000. That's the year when my youngest (Sarah) was old enough to muster the magic word "cat". She bugged and badgered me senselessly until I finally relented - in 2011. To be fair, my mind was failing and I was deeply disturbed by this revisionist idea that Kelantan was never colonized by Winston Churchill. Sarah caught me off my guard, to say the least. My OK was only partially audible and would amount to no more than a hearsay in any court of law. But it's all sweet and clear enough to her that she broke down and cried, tears and all. Who wouldn't, I mean, after 10 years and lost hopes. Israel would've allowed the Arabs in the West Bank to have their own pets in less than a week.

Although I've a slight condition with snakes, I really have nothing against cats. They're a fun and friendly lot when they're not dispensing anything. My only peeve with pets in my household is the very real prospect of my ending up as a champion janitor despite all the verbal and written promises and pledges made by the girls before we take any pet in. Apart from the little joy of gratifying the girls with this gift, I'm hard-pressed to find an upside to living with a cat and a high cholesterol (my cholestrol, not cat's cholesterol). Maybe, just maybe, this cat, for all it's worth, is an answer to a retiree's natural urge and yearning for adventure and failure.

Although financial cost was never an issue, we got him on the cheap. Actually he's free, given away by Aida's friend, Nadia, who's now left with only 15 cats. His given name was Cooper. I wasn't sure which Cooper: Gary? Henry? Mini? We thought we should change the name to something closer to us. It took us less than 10 years to agree with my proposed name: Dzeko (pronounced Jeko), after Manchester City's Bosnian hotshot Edin Dzeko, who's actually pink, not brown or black. I know Balotelli would be better, but no cat in the world would respond to a name like that.

Wait for updates.