Forever in My Blue Jeans

One of my customers today commented about my jeans. It wasn't because he had anything against jeans as an appropriate office attire. Eventhough he phrased it in jest, I knew that he, a young man in his 20's, found it odd for a man my age to be wearing blue jeans! He wasn't the only one; the young girls from the next office would sometimes tease me about it too.

Jeans have been around for 80 years before I was born; my father and grandfather would have worn them too if those denim workpants with rivets on the pockets were available in the shops back then. I was already wearing them even before these young people were born. We didn't have many brands to choose from -- only Levi's, Saddleking and Lee. The Chinese preferred Lee jeans at the time; possibly because the brand name sounded Chinese.

These young people probably thinks that the jeans along with other popular culture icons belong to their generation only. Pathetic, isn't it?

Someone wrote in 1969: "Denim is one of the world's oldest fabrics, yet it remains eternally young." Yeah! I'm going to continue wearing them as long as they still make my size 36!


Click to listen. Song courtesy of Bellz.

The Consultant, Again.

A friend sent me this joke. She must have read my old posting about the consultant thing. I don't know the source, but here it is anyway:

A cowboy was herding his herd in a remote pasture when suddenly a brand-new BMW advanced out of a dust cloud towards him.

The driver, a young man in a Brioni suit, Gucci shoes, Ray Ban sunglasses and YSL tie, leans out the window and asks the cowboy, "If I tell you exactly how many cows and calves you have in your herd, will you give me a calf?"

The cowboy looks at the man, obviously a yuppie, then looks at his peacefully grazing herd and calmly answers, "Sure. Why not?"

The yuppie parks his car, whips out his Dell notebook computer, connects it to his AT&T cell phone and surfs to a NASA page on the Internet, where he calls up a GPS satellite navigation system to get an exact fix on his location which he then feeds to another NASA satellite that scans the area in an ultra-high-resolution photo.

The young man then opens the digital photo in Adobe Photoshop and exports it to an image processing facility in Hamburg, Germany. Within seconds, he receives an email on his Palm Pilot that the image has been processed and the data stored.

He then accesses a MS-SQL database through an ODBC connected Excel spreadsheet with hundreds of complex formulas. He uploads all of this data via an email on his Blackberry, and after a few minutes, receives a response.

Finally, he prints out a full-color, 150-page report on his hi-tech, miniaturized HP LaserJet printer and finally turns to the cowboy and says, "You have exactly 1586 cows and calves."

"That's right. Well, I guess you can take one of my calves," says the cowboy. He watches the young man select one of the animals and looks on amused as the young man stuffs it into the trunk of his car.

Then the cowboy says to the young man, "Hey, if I can tell you exactly what your business is, will you give me back my calf?"

The young man thinks about it for a second and then says, "Okay, why not?"

"You're a consultant." says the cowboy. "Wow! That's correct," says the yuppie, "but how did you guess that?"

"No guessing required," answered the cowboy. "You showed up here even though nobody called you; you want to get paid for an answer I already knew; to a question I never asked; and you don't know anything about my business."

"Now give me back my DOG."

Now, maybe I should go and cancel that business card order :) Thanks for the joke, Orla.

Sabotaged!

Not everybody was happy about my blue Kristar as you were, my blog readers. A few days ago, an unknown and mentally deranged member of the public cut off the fuel lines and the ignition cable of my pretty blue Kristar. I suspect that person simply hated my guts or just wanted to steal the gas off my tank. But why the ignition cable too?

So off we went on foot to the nearest bike shop, my blue Kristar and me. After a new set of ignition cable and fuel lines, and a slight scratch on my ego, we were on the road again. Set me 60 ringgit poorer though.

Well, that's life. You win some, you lose some.

I'm a Highway Star!

The Modenas top hats have finally got it right. I don't know if divine intervention was at work but someone must have had a bright flash of inspiration. Someone must have sat under a tree in the factory compound and went through total enlightenment. It had to be, otherwise how would they have come up with the absolutely brilliant idea of calling one of their latest model Kristar!

Kristar! The names of their previous models were never inspiring. For example, Kriss makes me want to go. But Kristar sounds good, very good. They even know which school I went to! I was so impressed I went and bought one a couple of months ago. Here it is.



Life is a lot easier now as I am no longer dictated by the bus company's schedules. And I can go anywhere taxis won't go. Anywhere, anytime except when it rains because I don't like my shoes getting wet. It has 111 hardworking little cc's but it doesn't have disk brakes, the additional brake light, metallic paintwork or an electric starter. You can have all those extras if you fork out another RM500.00 to the bike dealer. It takes me from A to B even though it is not as much fun as the Honda Magna 650 that I used to ride a few years ago.



But think about it: They call it the Kristar! Not Amiretceterastar, not Anasalwastar, not Anisahstar, not Atizastar, not Betabloggerstar, not Blogfanstar, not Elisataufikstar, not Hazelstar, not Honeytarstar, not Magzstar, Mokciknabstar, Pokkustar, not Suhaimisulaimanstar, not Tiffystar, but of all names one can think of, Kristar!

Hey, hey, hey baby! When you're hot, you're hot!

Kri, Consultant.

I read with geli today about a mother who had problems filling out forms when she came to the "Occupation" field. She had wanted to classify herself as "Mother" but the clerk attending to her suggested "Housewife" which is the more acceptable blanket term. I wonder what if she's an unemployed single mother?

So she entered this instead: Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations. And what does she actually do? Well, she has a continuing program of research (what mother doesn't) in the laboratory and in the field (normally that would be indoors and out). She's working for her Masters (the whole darned family) and already has four credits (all daughters). Of course, the job is one of the most demanding in the humanities (any mother care to disagree?) sector and she often works 14 hours a day (24 is more like it). But the job is more challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers and the rewards are more of a satisfaction rather than just money.

The story reminds me of a former classmate, Zakaria 'Pak Ya' Hassan-Basari, or rather what he said the last time we (Pak Ya, SM and me) sat down for a couple of drinks in Subang Jaya more than a month ago. Pak Ya is an engineer by training but he's now a tour guide, a peddler of cheap VoIP services, and a host of other things which you can't really put your finger on because he's always doing this or that.

Even though the closest things to engineering that he might be doing right now would probably be checking the oil level of the family car or fixing the dripping tap at the kitchen sink or changing the light bulbs, he still carry that professional attitude with him everywhere. Heck, he might be in his sarong and slippers but one look at him you know he's someone who's been there and done that (or probably is still there doing it).

He's too polished to pose as a tour guide. And that would usually invite questions from the tourists he was supposed to be guiding. The kind of questions like: "So, what else do you do when you're not doing tours?" or "What exactly do you do?" His curt reply would be, "I'm a consultant."

SM and I were stunned for a moment. Then he would elaborate in his usual effervescent manner, "A consultant is term for people who has nothing to do but will do anything for a fee. If you want anything -- products, services or information -- you come to me and I'll find it for you!" I quipped, "Right, that's what I do too. That's what we all do."

Wow! That makes me a consultant too. How very glamorous, huh? Hey, it is a much better label than those I put on my business card: Commissioner for Oaths and Licensed Auctioneer. Yuck! I have had a lot of hard time explaining to people what a Commissioner for Oaths do. Sometimes I even have to say that I'm something like a Magistrate because I get to sign on the dotted line where a Magistrate or a Sessions Court Judge is required to sign (but too busy to do it) and the document would be just as good. But it does give me an incredible boost to the ego to say that, ha ha ha!

A consultant! People consult me when they need to make Statutory Declarations and lawyers consult me when they need to submit affidavits to the courts. Bankers consult me when they want to dispose off foreclosed properties and investors consult me when they want to buy abandoned houses at heavily discounted prices, too. Yeah! Heck, even Johari Public has to consult me if he has lost his IC or driving licence, whatever!

I must go and print new business cards. How would YOU classify what you do?

Happy Mother's Day

There is only one beautiful child in the world and every mother has it. A Chinese proverb.

This is for all mothers who often come here and read my silly blog. This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go. For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without. Mothers who blog, mothers who don't. This is for you all.

So hang in there.

p/s: The next time you see your mother, don't forget to kiss her hand. If there's a wonderful mother you know, send her my warmest regards.

New Dato' on the Block

(fom left) Ahmad Fakri, Fadzil Khir and Mat Taib

This picture was taken in 1967 showing three of my classmates when we first joined a residential school in Ipoh. Yes, we wore short and fitting t-shirts too in those days but we didn't flash any belly buttons. Only skinny kneecaps. Some of us made it good like the trio in the picture; Fakri is teaching Engineering at UiTM, Fadzil is in Town Planning and Mat Taib is a big-shot motivational speaker in Shah Alam. Some didn't, like yours truly. But I blog and they don't. (Hey, that accounts for something, right?)

Most of us were kampung kids coming from rural Malay schools and we had to study in 'Remove' classes for a year to prepare us for an all-English curriculum for the coming three (if you didn't make it past LCE) or five (if you did) years. Well, almost all-English except in Agama and Bahasa Melayu. Heck, sometimes even Bahasa was taught in English by Mr Kamaruddin, the BM teacher. He preferred to be addressed as 'Mr' instead of 'Encik' and he would rather explain the nuances of Bahasa Melayu grammar to us, in English. I guess it was because everyone in the staff room spoke English and he needed somebody to practise his command of the language. It was fun though.

Back to the picture. The lanky kid in the centre is Fadzil Khir of Kulim, now officially Dato' Mohd Fadzil bin Mohd Khir. He was conferred the title by HRH the Sultan of Kedah during the Sultan's birthday celebrations in Alor Star recently. I know it is kind of belated, but here's my heartiest congratulations to you, Dato'. Addressing your old classmates as Dato' is going to take some getting used to.

As for me, my eldest son has just broken off with his girlfriend. So, there goes my only chance of being a datuk.

Letter from Kelantan.

I got a letter in the mailbox, several pages thick. It was as thick as those you would usually get whenever you buy electrical appliances on hire purchase. But it wasn't; it was from my daughter's school in Pasir Puteh, Kelantan.

Dana was hauled up by the school authorities for a very 'grave' offence -- she switched dorms without permission! For that, she was grounded for the whole semester and was made to sit through a long and humiliating grilling session on the importance of discipline until she cried, threatened with expulsion and was made to sign several pages admitting to the gravity of her 'crime', a declaration that she will not repeat the offence, listen to this, any time anywhere as well as the heavy repercussions that she will get should she breach any of the school rules again in the future! Whew!

A copy of whole set of letters was extended to the Education Ministry in KL, no less, as well as to me as her guardian. As if that was not enough, even I was asked to sign a declaration to acknowledge the seriousness of my daughter's offence and my unquestioning acceptance of whatever punishment, including expulsion from the school, they might deem fit, should my daughter even as much break one of the flower pots or something like that!

Switching dormitories! Did they ask Dana why she was so brazen so as to defy the sacred school rules and, Heavens forbid, move to another room? Would they even consider had she asked? No, they didn't. And I don't think they would even want to listen to such a humble request either.

Actually my daughter did call to tell me about it a few days before she 'committed' the offence. She was having a problem getting along with one of her dorm mates who was giving her a hard time. There was a spare bed next door so she thought she might just move over.

I am not going to sign the letter. But they definitely are going to get a different kind of letter from me. In English. With c.c. to the Ministry. Time to kick some ass!