Not That Special

Romantic love is over-rated. Fuelled by sentimental notions shoved up our ass by Hollywood and countless romance novels, we are too quick to attribute amazing things to it that, frankly, it would baulk at if only it knew. Label me a jaded old cynic who has been kicked in the teeth once too often if you must. But just spend maybe the next few minutes to consider what I have to say. Who knows, what I have to say might turn out to be a load of bollocks. Then again, it just might not…

Ever heard people say things like, “If he truly loves me, he’ll always be here for me”? Or what about the one that goes, “If she really loves me, she will understand”? What a load of codswallop!  Whenever I hear statements like these, I have to suppress an overwhelming urge to slap the one saying it till either one of us goes silly and start foaming at the mouth. These people aren’t romantic at all: they are – how can I say this nicely? – just plain deluded. Its either that or they are, at the very least, spectacularly lazy. They are just not willing to put in the work to keep their partners.

Do we really believe that we are so special that our partner will continue to love us no matter what? Yeah! And National Geographic will call me up tomorrow, shove a million bucks into my pocket, and tell me to go around the world to shoot photos for them. Oh, by the way, they’d like to have the photos submitted to them only some time in 2052 – but then, only if I can manage it.

Think about this for a second. Are we really THAT special? If you even thought of answering with a ‘Yes!’ you can save a few minutes and stop reading this. You can instead use that time you’ve saved to Google the nearest lunatic asylum and get yourself admitted.

The truth is we are NOT that special. Nobody is! And that’s not the sad part. What’s really sad is that most of us conduct our relationships (either knowingly or not) as if we were. We carry on believing that we can say or do anything we like and people would still be here for us. Suddenly, one day when we look into his or her eyes and see that there’s nothing there anymore, we start wondering, “Where did all the love go?” We then act all hurt and blame our partner for not loving us enough. Way to go, genius!

Human beings (that’s you, me AND our partners) all have a threshold to pain. Some may have a higher threshold than others. But make no mistake. Everybody has one! The fact is if you cut someone I guarantee you they WILL bleed. After all, they are made of flesh and blood – just like you and me. Wolverine (of X-Men fame) might be able to miraculously heal from his wounds. But I’ll share this nugget of truth with you for free – he’s a comic book character. In all likelihood, your partner isn’t. Cut them enough times and something is bound to die.

Guess what happens when the pain of enduring our callousness gets to be greater than the pleasure of loving us? Yes, Einstein, will they leave. Is this so surprising? Hey, wouldn’t you leave, too?

I have no doubt in my mind that Siti loved Jamil more than life itself. But Jamil had a habit of regularly coming home very late almost every night after drinking away all of the grocery money – all too often smelling of a GRO’s cheap perfume to boot. One fine morning, Siti stuffed her things into a Mydin plastic bag, boarded a bus at Puduraya and disappeared. But is your Siti’s threshold equally high? Would it take that much before she reaches for her Mydin plastic bag? Or would it take much less?

And let’s talk about Rafiq and Shida. It was pretty clear to me that he loved her more than any woman can ever hope to be loved. But Shida had a temper. And when she got mad she would say the meanest and most hurtful things imaginable. Whether or not she ever regretted her actions I will never know. But I do recall her telling me on numerous occasions that Rafiq should understand and accept her for who she is. Yeah, right!

Guess what? They went separate their ways recently. Rafiq now repairs cars for a living somewhere in Manjung and is much happier than he has ever been in years. What about Shida? Well, I don’t really know what became of her. I pray that wherever she is, she has somehow learnt to curb that temper of hers.

Yes, love is a wonderful thing. But it is never the indestructible bunker we think it is or should be. Chip away at it often enough and it will crumble just as sure as if a cruise missile slammed into it. In the end – better than insisting that our partner must accept us warts and all – I believe that to truly love someone, we must first accept that they (like everyone else) have a threshold for pain. It is then up to us to have enough courage, grace and compassion to not take them over that threshold – ever.

Love dies all the time. Rather than make a unilateral declaration that our partner’s love had somehow been defective, perhaps we should take a closer look at just how much pain we’ve caused – and stop if it isn’t already too late. All said and done, we just aren’t THAT special.

Then again, you’re never ever nasty to your partner, right? Think again!

The Ugly Newbie Trap

Sometimes the motivational books get it all wrong. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for enthusiasm, total immersion and all that stuff. But occasionally, these things can get pretty ugly – especially in the hands of a newbie.

Some three decades ago I was a gung-ho first-year law student convinced that he was destined to become the next big thing after Perry Mason. Of course, all the other 379,461 first-year law students at the time felt exactly the same way, too. But this didn’t really matter much to any of us. As far as we were concerned, we (and we alone) were the real deal; the others were just there make the numbers.

Though it felt pretty cool then – now some thirty odd years later – I feel like poking myself in the eye with a red-hot iron bar every time I think about it. Have you ever noticed how first-year law students (sometimes even second- and third-year students, too) seem to desperately want to sound like a hot-shot lawyer every time they open their mouths? Even the most mundane conversations (like maybe buying a packet of cigarettes, for instance) will be peppered with citations of case-law, statutes and Latin maxims. Yeah, I’m sure the shop-keeper (milkman, unsuspecting friend or just plain old mum and dad) is dying to know the legal principles involved and will be rushing off to the nearest law library to research the authorities cited. To this day I can still tell the newbie law student – even on Facebook: his comments and status updates will spew the same case-law, statutes and Latin maxims I used to spew from thirty years ago! *where’s my red-hot iron bar?*

The funny thing is that – no matter how many classes I teach at ILKAP – I always find that the more seasoned judges, state legal advisors and public prosecutors never seem to have the need highlight their legal expertise. The more established (more emotionally secure?) professionals seem to eschew the use of jargon and shun obtuse language in favour of simple, understandable sentences. Now that’s cool!

This affliction isn’t peculiar to just to law students either. Budding MBAs, for example, are equally guilty, too. On a visit to my nephew’s flat (who is an MBA-candidate) I discovered that the boy (and his friends) really needed to get the laundry done. When I broached the subject, one of them actually quipped, “No, Uncle. We’re not lazy. We’re just waiting for the right economies of scale.” Yeah, sure!

Law-students and MBA-candidates aren’t the only ones snared by the ugly newbie trap. Budding engineers and doctors are often equally guilty. Have you ever noticed white gleaming hard-hats meticulously positioned and prominently displayed through the rear windscreen of cars? Yup, chances are they belong to an engineer (or maybe technician) not two years out of engineering school. What about the guy in a sarong and T-shirt enjoying a roti banjir and teh tarik at the local warung… yes, the one with the stethoscope around his neck and a white doctor’s coat. Yup, you guessed that one right.

Being an avid photographer, I had hoped that photographers were somehow exempt from the dreaded ugly newbie trap. Alas, they aren’t. These days I can always tell the newbie who has just quite recently bought his first DSLR, read a few magazines and started his fledgling Flickr account. His conversation will incorporate the word ‘megapixel’ at every opportunity, underscore why he never edits his photos and that he will soon be upgrading to a full-frame camera. And when he is out there shooting, he will invariably be wearing a pained look of intense concentration on his face, move around the location as if oblivious to others in the vicinity and lug around approximately thirty kilos worth of equipment.

Funnily enough the real pros I know never seem to carry themselves in this way. They are seldom impressed by pixel count, will readily edit a photo when the need arises and are equally at home with their compact point-and-shoot as they are with their state-of-the-art DSLR. And when they leave a location, they will only take with them photographs and leave behind footprints. There is no need in their minds to have anyone at the location go, ‘Wow! Was that a pro photographer?’

The antics of the ugly newbie is a constant source of consternation for me. But when I stop to think about it, my consternation will always quickly give way to amusement. After all is said and done, at some point in time, I, too, was much like them.

But more importantly – as a newbie in many new areas – I realise that I, too, am the ugly newbie in many things.

The Bond Awards

The Greatest Bond – EVER! - Let’s start with the easiest. This one goes to Sir Sean Connery. Frankly, nobody does it better… Fans of Roger Moore might violently disagree. But hey! They should just stick to watching The Saint.

The Meanest Bond Award - Bond is British. But one guy took it a step further: Bond is now British as well as BRUTISH! This honour goes to Daniel Craig

The Luckiest Bond Award – This one goes to Timothy Dalton. Why? He got to play opposite the most beautiful Bond girl ever: Maryam d’Abo

The Unluckiest Bond Award - What can I say? George Lazenby wins this hands down. Why? Well, he actually went off and got himself married (albeit to Diana Rigg), didn’t he? And to top it all off, she got snuffed out by the bad guys.

The Best-Looking Bond – I’d say this would have to go to Pierce Brosnan. Then again, Bonds shouldn’t look pretty: they should just look like Sean Connery

The Should Have Stayed Home Award - How shall I put this? Roger Moore was sort of OK-ish as Simon Templer in the Saint, wasn’t he? He should have stayed there.

Langkawi Five-0

“You’re the biggest goddamn 12-year old I ever met!”

In some twisted way, that was probably the second nicest thing anyone said to me during our reunion at Langkawi last weekend. I was really touched.

It all began when about a year ago when a dear friend (and former employer) mooted the idea of a reunion for our batch (the 1975 intake of MRSM Seremban). Frankly, I was a bit sceptical because the plan specified, of all things, that the entire group shall be flown to Langkawi on a chartered flight. My mind immediately protested: collecting everyone’s portion of the charter was going to be a logistical nightmare. I would have been better off if I were to start building the plane with my bare hands right there and then. This way, we stood a better chance of arriving at Langkawi in the same aircraft on the slated date.

Not too keen on embarking on a do-it-yourself project of constructing a 150-seater airliner in my backyard in Umbai, I voiced my concerns to my friend. His reply was a cool and collected, “Don’t worry! I’ll pay for the charter flight.”

Since he was obviously quite ready and willing to foot the bill for the flight, it occurred to me that the least I could do was help him organise the reunion. This was when he voiced his concerns, “But we’re going to need a big enough bastard to manage the project…”

Without thinking (as usual), my reply was a cool and collected, “Don’t worry! I’m just the bastard you need.” Almost immediately alarm bells went off in my head and the words “Oh, shit!” began reverberating in my ear for the next few months.

When all was said and done, my friend’s pocket proved deep enough not just for the chartered flight but also for almost all of the other expenses for the reunion – including accommodation and F&B. And by some stroke of luck, I (and the team that volunteered to assist me) also proved to be big enough bastards to keep everything together and deal with the million and one silly requests (demands?) of the attendees.

So, on 11 February 2012, Sandy Beach Resort, Langkawi received their 62 fifty-year old guests: the males dressed in Hawaiian shirts and leopard skin nut-cracker swim trucks and the females in bikinis that needed less material to make than a handkerchief. It was indeed a sight to behold. I think one or two of the other guests at the resort actually threw up.

Imagine 62 fifty-year olds who went to secondary school together. Now, put them all in on an idyllic island (without their spouses and children). Next, pull out all the stops. Then – just to make sure that things really got out of hand – ignite a small spark. It was Woodstock all over again! The fun and frolicking was so contagious that even the other guests at the resort couldn’t resist joining our beach party. I had never seen so many people have so much fun in my life – and, mind you, all without the aid of a single drop of alcohol or other mind-altering substances.

Before we left the next day, we rented the resort’s seminar hall just so that we could spend some quality time together, chat and basically chill-out. One thing led to another. Before long people started to go out in front, microphone and hand, to say things that they have always wanted to say but never had the chance (or courage) to say.

Then it was Kay’s turn.

Thirty-seven years ago when we enrolled at MRSM Seremban – although she was only 12 then – Kay was prettiest girl I had ever laid my eyes on. I was instantly smitten and – much to her dismay – I spent the rest of my days in MRSM chasing after her. I should have realised that pretty girls don’t really go for socially-challenged dorks who gave the Elephant Man a run for his money. But I didn’t at the time. Now, some thirty seven years later I realise how embarrassing I was and how traumatic it must have been for her. Often, through the years, I’ve dreamt of apologising to her for my antics. But having balls the size of raisins, I never had the courage to do this. Hopefully, she has forgotten all about it. After all, that was thirty-seven years ago. Nobody’s memory is that good!

But I was wrong.

Towards the end of her speech she said, “I remember when I was 12, Sofian was chasing after me all the time. All I could do was think of was how to run away from him… “

If there was ever a good time for the ground to open up and swallow me whole, that was it! The nearest exit was about 8 metres away and if I pushed my tree-trunk legs really hard, I could possibly escape before she finished what she wanted to say.

Then she went on, “… but now, if he asked me for a hug, I’d gladly give him one.”

There was a big roar of applause. The next thing I realised was that I was flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. In my semi-conscious state, it hit me like a candy-covered pile-driver: that was perhaps the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in a very long time.

On the flight back, squeezed against the cabin wall of my window seat, I thought about the reunion and what we had achieved. Yes, we had fun. Yes, we got the chance to let our hair down. Yes, we managed to blow off a tremendous amount of steam.

To me, that was all secondary. I have no doubt in my mind that what we had actually achieved was a lot more than that. In the end, the reunion helped us rediscover the value of the friendship we had forged over our years together – and how really precious our friends are to us.

We may have had our differences. In fact, we still do. But when all is said and done, I know in my heart that our friendship will always trump over our differences.

Backseat Driver

Mother: What’s wrong with our driver? Where did he go?!

Daughter: You complain too much, Ma. This happened with Pa, too, remember? And I don’t think either one of them is coming back…

(Photograph courtesy of Muhsein Sofian)

12 Differences Between Pro and Amateur Photographers

 

1. The pro envies the amateur’s artistic freedom; the amateur envies the pro’s lifestyle
2. The pro buys the cheapest equipment that can get the job done; the amateur buys the most expensive equipment for projects he will never do.
3. The amateur has to earn money to finance his photography; the pro has to resort to photography to finance his life.
4. Models fall in love with the pro – and then regret it; amateurs fall in love with the model – and then regret it
5. Amateurs drive BMWs; pros drive Protons
6. Amateurs READ articles in photo magazine and think, “I can write that, too!”; Pros WRITE those articles and think, “Anyone can write this. But why don’t they?”
7. Camera-shop owners love amateurs; camera-shop owners hate pros
8. Amateurs think pros are at the top of their game; pros know that he is just an order-taker (most of the time)
9. Amateurs THINK pros make tons of money; pros KNOW that amateurs make tons of money (not necessarily through photography, tho)
10. Amateurs like to be seen with 30 kilos of equipment; pros think nothing of being seen with a crappy point-and-shoot camera
11. Amateurs try to dress like pros; pros try to dress like amateurs
12. Amateurs dream of going pro some day; pros dream of becoming amateurs some day.

 

Never On A Sunday

During the Christmas holidays – or any other public holiday for that matter – the world and his brother-in-law will descend on Umbai for the ikan bakar. Sleepy back roads, normally the domain of a few cows and goats, take on the appearance of Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman at rush hour. Compounds of nearby houses, usually vacant except for the odd underbone motorcycle or two, are miraculously transformed into temporary car parks – often without the consent of the houseowner. And the normally peaceful night is shot to pieces by the constant ringing of the ikan bakar operators’ cash registers.

Hold That Pose

When it comes to things literary, I can be a snob at times. It is seldom (very seldom indeed) that I get excited about the work of writers who are not yet dead. And if the writer happens to be younger than I am, hails from Malaysia and hasn’t got a book to his name, it’s likely I’ll never notice him till he kicks the bucket – twice.

But my days of literary snobbery are over! In a Facebook status update recently, a dear old friend asked me to have a look-see at his son’s blog, ‘Hold That Pose’. Frankly, I went in not expecting to see anything new. However, I ended-up reading the blog from beginning to end, immersed in each word as if they were the sweet, calming breath of a long lost beloved.

I Love My Stan Smiths

I recall buying my first pair of Stan Smiths. It cost a RM45 a pair back in 1977. This was an insane amount for a pair of shoes when, for example, a clerk at MAS at the time earned only RM175 a month. It was even more insane when you happen to be a 15-year old student with no income to speak of.

But buy them I did. I even tried bargaining with the lady. Since I had rather dainty feet (size 6, actually), I argued they should be cheaper because less material was used. I thought this was rather clever. Then the lady replied, “OK, I understand. But if you want your money’s worth, young man, may I suggest you get a size 11?”

Coming Home

Dear Helene,

Sometimes coming home isn’t easy.

When you’ve been away for a bit too long, you no longer know what to expect. Fear creeps in. Doubt begins to gnaw. What was once a sanctuary – a place of safety – now seems like a treacherous network of dark, foreboding tunnels. One wrong turn, a careless miscalculation, a hesitant pause could all spell disaster.

This is how I feel coming back to ‘Tea and Scones’.