Before Brad, there was Bob



Robert Redford, at his finest, did many, many intriguing films, almost all of them with sad endings. The Way We Were, Great Gatsby, This Property Is Condemned are all love stories you wish had different conclusions, but wouldn't have wanted any other way.

This photograph, if you're old enough to remember, is from All The President's Men, a movie which depicts what I still hold as the standard for journalistic integrity. Whenever I see Bob Woodward on Larry King, I still see Robert Redford, with his softly tousled blond hair, perched on a desk.

mokciknab muttered at 8:12 pm ~ ~

Idol Worship

For the past few weeks, every Wednesday and Thursday (and now Tuesdays, too) at 4 pm, the entire office will settle in front of our miniscule TV, and indulge in a most plebeian obsession : watching American Idol.

We'll "chup" our favourite spot - me smack in the middle of a huge green sofa, Suhaimi on a pink club chair, and everyone else on anything else that's available - and we'd wait patiently as Ryan Seacrest announces the start of the show. We speculate on who will get kicked out. We speculate on Mr Seacrest's sexual orientation. We speculate if Simon and Paula are getting it on. Most of all we speculate how much more money Rupert Murdoch will have after this show; and why Fox doesn't allow worldwide voting (after all, the shows are supposed to be "direct off satellite", and Fox could always tie up with a local telco --- free ideas, free ideas)

Not surprisingly, Fox demolished competitors in the ratings race between US TV networks, commanding a hefty 29 percent in the adults 18-49 demographic. Impresive, considering that in an increasingly fragmented audience, no recent TV show commands more than 20 percent of available viewership.

Oh, I'm just trying to sound clever because obsessing over American Idol is such inane, guilty pleasure. I doubt I'm alone here, because I'm thinking, all across the globe, thanks to the extensive Fox-Sky-Star web of dominion, there could be so many other giddy fans like me, who are ready to sacrifice an hour of their time to the AI shrine. If you're a giddy idiot, again like me, it's more than an hour *cringe* because I watch re-runs and log on to the forums at idolonfox, where I can be consumed by the excitement over every small remark or gesture on the show, with thousands of other giddy idiots.

I know it's sad. It's not like I don't have a life. In fact I'm giving my life away. As we devour American Idol, my office-mates and I also devour fried bananas, karipap sardin, and-- my personal favourite --Hwa Tai cream crackers drenched in condensed milk. This afternoon Suhaimi and Shazwan watched Melinda Lira get eliminated while munching on tamarind paste, yes, asam jawa, uncooked, straight from the wrapper. When it's "Seacrest, out" on the finale, all of us wouldhave gained 13 extra kilos and a really bad case of heartburn.

Worse than that, is my willingness to forgo what Aiysha calls "quality time", especially with her. Everything has to be scheduled around this danged singing contest. Last week, a client dropped by, unexpectedly, at 3.40 pm. He wanted to give us two new jobs, which were in fact, wonderful assignments. But I was cursing him under my breath for being so untimely. I ended up staying back in the office that day, because I knew there was no way I'd watch the program in peace if I went home to 3 yelping children. Baaaad mummy.

I swear, this has never happened to me before. I was safely immune to Akademi Fantasia, and God knows, wasn't the least interested in any of the contestants of Malaysian Idol (but I'd vote for Aleya, hands down). American Idol 3 was ho-hum to me, too. But this one, this one, aaah, it's hard to put a finger on it. They tweaked it. Maybe they had some actors in. Whatever it is, reel me in. I want to be Mrs Rupert Murdoch next.


Replace the hat with a tudung, and hey presto, I'm his type! Move over, Mrs No 2.



mokciknab muttered at 5:35 pm ~ ~

Malas and under the influence of Memes

Potential clients remind me I have yet to mail them the promised proposals; the school I teach at wonder if I have sent in my lesson plan (yes) and attendance summary (no); there are reams and reams of translation to proofread; and on top of that Adam wants me to devise a dance routine for him and 4 of his friends - he says it's for music class. So what would a busy mokciknab do? Procrastinate, and get sucked into the world of timewasting quizzes. (Got this from Nadia, by the way, who is ha ha charismatic. Oh, some of you know what I look like, so you could go bwahahaha and laugh at my results, too)

Your Seduction Style: The Charmer

You're a master at intimate conversation and verbal enticement. You seduce with words, by getting people to open up to you. By establishing this deep connection quickly, people feel under your power. And then you've got them exactly where you want them!

mokciknab muttered at 5:18 pm ~ ~

Curtains

Like most of you, I am terribly sad that Dina has decided to put a cap on her writing for Gong Kapas Times. Unfortunately, I can't offer any clues to the whys and wherefors. It could be that she's crazy busy. In the end, it is her blog and what she does with it is her prerogative, something a few of her readers might find difficult to accept. I understand, you might want her to at least say goodbye. Unfortunately, that's her prerogative, too.

Dina's a terribly private person, and I found it ironic that she could bare all (well, almost all) in the cyberworld. It's a writer's dilemma. How do you keep you to yourself, when your words are sent out there, identifiable, as children are to parents? Good writing is always honest writing, and you can't do that without giving yourself away. Blogging is a little like taking your clothes off near an open window -- you're naked, and vulnerable, for all to see. It's not too bad if you don't get negative feedback, I guess. This time, Dina has simply decided to draw the curtains.


Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window, Vermeer, 1657

mokciknab muttered at 9:57 pm ~ ~

Neo, but Better Looking


How could you possibly make Keanu Reeves look yummier than he already does? Truly, that is the number one achievement of Francis Lawrence, the director of Constantine. I can't say if it's any good; there was the usual good vs evil (but not exactly) thing going on, lots of visual effects, Christian imagery and anti-smoking propaganda. Elisa and I watched the movie while clenching each other's hands, for Mr Reeves was very, very distracting. See this, if only to instruct your husband on how to wear a trench coat properly. And make sure he wears it for the right reasons.

mokciknab muttered at 11:56 pm ~ ~

Three Wishes

Two belated wishes : May you have a Prosperous Chinese New Year and a new Hijrah Year full of sakinah.

One for today : May each of you have love, compassion and understanding until the next Valentine's Day; and may you be able to give, more than you can receive.


"Two Lovers in the Snow", woodblock print, Harunobu Suzuki

Saiffuddin and I are celebrating a pauper's February 14th. We're writing each other letters today, and then we shall both go to the Taman Tun P.O to buy stamps and drop our billet doux in the post box. Stamps cost only twenty cents, and stationery is from office supplies, but the valentine from Saiffuddin, filled with spelling mistakes and illegible handwriting, will be absolutely priceless. (Sorry, Mastercard)

mokciknab muttered at 10:09 am ~ ~

19, Acland Street, St Kilda

A well-known diplomat-editor, in one of our infrequent conversations, once referred to a woman's nether regions as "God's Little Acre". How interesting, to equate sex with real estate. I do that, too; but the other way round. I lust after houses the way lewd men long for centrefolds.

This is a fact : Martha Stewart framed her magazine, Martha Stewart Living, as pornography for women. Her strategy was to feature impossibly alluring rooms, gardens, craft and cuisine; and make it seem as though it was just within reach. Martha Stewart can make gingham curtains out of say, tarpaulin kapchai covers, and hey so can you-- you, the overworked, underappreciated mother-wife-worker hyphenate. Of course that's an absolute lie. Martha Stewart is, after all, a convict. Yet, women everywhere would pay money to buy Martha Stewart Living or other magazines of the same ilk, for precisely the same reason middle aged men buy Penthouse or Hustler : the fantasy of owning something you could never have.

For the hyphenate mum, the immaculate living room, the manicured rose garden or the perfect little girls in home-made bonnets and old pillowcases recycled into sundresses, are the stuff of dreams, and only dreams. (I do not exaggerate : one edition of Martha Stewart Living did actually teach readers turn lace pillowcases into shifts) Back in the real world, my living room is a hodgepotch of chocolate milk spills, uncommisioned art-work, sprawling kids, cigarette ash, one obstinate cat, and one remote-control wielding husband who also functions in other ways. Lily Pond Lane? Maybe The Ditch is more like it.

If ogling beautiful homes is the same as eye-balling nude women, then I am a pervert, unrepentant and depraved. I have a million of these "home and living" magazines stacked under my nightstand, stashed away in two (gingham covered - I am guilty) ottomans, or water-damaged and rotting on top of a cistern, with a million ideas just waiting, waiting for enough funds, to come into fruition. Recently, like any self-respecting porno enthusiast, I have taken to searching for kicks on the world wide web. And tadaa! I have found the real-estate equivalent of Web Melayu Boleh. (Kids, please don't go googling Web Melayu Boleh. Trust me, it's just a boring site promoting erm, positive self-image and confidence)

You know how some guys, no matter that he is Melayu totok and owning of a black behind, would still hanker after leggy, shapely blondes, thinking that he is deserving of a Maria Sharapova? I am just like that. Income bracket and citizenship notwithstanding, I fancy age old double storey terraces, set on a tree-lined street, preferably in (where else) a Melbourne eastern suburb. I could never afford a double storey terrace in Prahran or Toorak or Glen Iris because they cost more than a million ringgit, and I have no business living in Australia; but if you're with me, this is just berangan, remember?

Terraces are not particularly large but they're elegant, with fine, aristocratic features; and there's always more to a terrace than meets the eye. To stretch the metaphor, a 19th century terrace is more like Laetitia Casta, and less like Jordan.

Over the weekend, I found a website with thousands of Melbourne homes for sale; and although not all of them were blonde terraces, I still had plenty to salivate over. Some of these fine specimens were houses Saiffuddin and I have actually admired, when we were there. We have stood on its kerb, and like a man with prurient interests in another man's wife, we have wondered what secret comforts the abode held within its realm. On this website, everything is laid bare, all the hitherto hidden beauty now revealed before my eyes. Best of all, the site includes what I would call the full-frontal of property : the floor-plan. Nothing is left to the imagination, and the imagination runs wild. I scrutinize the layout and fantasise about flowers, furniture, family, falling into place. I imagine what breakfast or bathing would be like, what my gaze would fall upon as I lay in bed, where I would hang my art. And I do this furtively, just like a porno junkie would.




Oh I know, I already have a double storey terrace. But I'm bored with her, and we don't get along. She doesn't take care of herself and is putting on weight. She doesn't have the right proportions and is unyieldingly Malaysian. As I close my eyes at night, in the dark I dream of a terrace in Acland Street, a bright, breezy house with all the trimmings. If I have her, I swear I'd stop looking.

*These pictures are actually of 19, Acland Street. The house will be auctioned on Saturday, 26 February with a reserve price of AUD 950 K



mokciknab muttered at 3:32 pm ~ ~

Love Letters Straight

or gay, or from the heart, or from the hip. While you wait for me to think of something suitable to write, read some Valentines; Village Voice style.



Or if you're traditional, you can watch this Zhang Yimou film, called The Road Home, one of the most beautiful love stories ever etched on celluloid.




mokciknab muttered at 2:40 pm ~ ~

My Little Brown Bird



Some people used to believe that if a woman saw a robin flying overhead on Valentine's Day, it meant she would marry a sailor. If she saw a sparrow, she would marry a poor man and be very happy. If she saw a goldfinch, she would marry a millionaire.

I would think any woman with her face skywards on Valentine's Day will only get crap in her eyes.

Since one of the most common birds in Malaysia is the swallow, I suppose that's what I saw on a Valentine's Day of old. It should count as a sparrow, methinks, because I do have a penniless husband who nevertheless keeps me blissfully distracted. It's either that, or a husband who likes the word "swallow".

The only robin I want to see this Valentine is robin's egg blue. As in a box of that colour. With some trinket in it. Alas, I should've been more diligent and looked out for that danged goldfinch.

Gentlemen, you have fourteen days. You can buy us anything as long as it's jewellery.


mokciknab muttered at 6:22 pm ~ ~