Ewe Paik Leong, The Wordslinger

Two great Japanese writers who committed suicide

2023-03-12T06:02:00.007-07:00

Yasunari Kawabata (June 11, 1899 – April 16, 1972)

Yasunari Kawabata won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1968 for his trilogy Snow Mountain, Thousand Cranes and The Old Capital. In 1966, he had been nominated but had failed to win. Born in Osaka, he graduated from Tokyo Imperial University in 1924. He was president of the Japanese P.E.N from 1945 to 1965. His novels were distinguished by his sparse and poetic style.

On April 16, 1972, around 11 am, Yasunari was sorting letters in his family’s Kamakura home, 50 km, south of Tokyo. Around 2:45, Kawabata told his family that he was going for a walk and took a taxi to the coastal town of Zushi City, 5 km away, where he maintained a workshop in Marina Mansion. When he wrote, he lived alone and worked alone in this studio. Tsuguo Edanami, the driver, dropped Yasunari at Marina Mansion in Zushi City after 3:00 pm. When he did not return home at night, his domestic helpers, Toshie Shimamori and Nuiko Kazawa, visited Marina Mansion after 9:45 pm.

In Room 417, they found Kawabata dead in the bathroom with a 1.5-metre gas hose in his mouth. The other end of the hose was connected to a gas stove sitting at the entrance of the bathroom. A bottle of sleeping pills was found in Yasunari’s bedroom. Police classified the case as suicide but Yasunari’s widow disputed this verdict as there was no suicide note. She claimed that her husband slipped and fell and the gas hose got entangled around him.

Masanao Kurihara, a psychiatrist who had been treating Kawabata for several years, said that the author had been suffering from insomnia and had been taking sleeping pills even while he was busy. Masanao concluded that Yasunari was depressed as he could not write anymore. The writer once told Masanao, “My eyes are sleepy and my movements are slow. This is like a drug addiction (sleeping pills). I personally think that creation is the life of an artist, but I can’t create. And I think it’s pretty tough on me.”

In 1977, Yoshimi Usui penned a novel claiming that Yasunari had a lover who left him, leaving him devastated and prompting his suicide. He was sued by Yasunari’s family.

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Yukio Mishima (January 14, 1925 – November 25, 1970)

Yukio Mishima’s real name was Kimitake Hiraoka. He was nominated three times for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1963, 1964 and 1965. Yukio was a novelist, playwright, essayist, actor and model. After graduating from Tokyo Imperial University, he worked in the Japanese Ministry of Finance. His first novel Confessions of a Mask, published in 1949, shot him to fame and he turned full-time writer, creating more than 40 novels, plays, and short-story and essay collections during his lifetime. His schedule was to write from midnight till dawn every day. His works were themed with death, suicide, nationalism and self-torture due to inner demons.

On 25 November 1970, Mishima and four members of the Tatenokai—his small private army—Masakatsu Morita, Masahiro Ogawa, Masayoshi Koga, and Hiroyasu Koga visited the commandant Kanetoshi Mashita of Camp Ichigaya, a military base in Tokyo. Inside, they barricaded the office and tied the commandant to his chair. Yukio stepped out onto the balcony to address the soldiers gathered below. He was disappointed that after World War II, America had re-written Japan’s Constitution, restricting its military powers. According to him, Japan had lost its cultural and religious roots, had become obsessed with materialism, globalism and Communism. Excerpts of speech are below:

“It is a wretched affair, to have to speak to Jieitai men in circumstances like these. I thought, that the Jieitai was the last hope of Nippon, the last stronghold of the Japanese soul. But Japanese people today think of most money, just money. where is our national spirit today? The politicians care nothing for Japan. they are greedy for power. The Jieitai, must be the soul of Nippon. The soldiers! The army! But.... we were betrayed by the Jieitai! Listen! Listen! Hear me out! We thought that the Jieitai was the soul of national honor! The nation has no spiritual foundation. that is why you don't agree with me! You don't understand Japan.…

“There you are in your tiny world. You do nothing for Nippon! Will any of you rise with me? You say that! Have you studied Bu (the warrior ethic)? Do you understand the way of the sword? What does the sword mean to a Japanese? I ask you. Are you men? Are you bushi? I see that you are not. You will not rise. You will do nothing! The constitution means nothing to you. You are not interested. I have lost my dream of Jieitai! I salute the emperor! Tenno Heika Banzai! Tenno Heika Banzai!”

After his speech, Yukio went inside the office of Kanetoshi Mashita and disembowelled himself. As he lay dying, Masakatsu Morita tried to cut off Yukio’s head as part of the suicide ritual but failed after three attempts. Hiroyashu Koga spared Yukio further agony by completing the task. Then Morita performed hara-kiri himself and his head was lobbed off by Hiroyasu Koga.

Yukio Mishima was cremated and his ashes interned at Tama Cemetery in Tokyo. In 1985, Hollywood made a film about him titled Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters.

/end

Famous Taiwanese writer San-Mao (1943-1991) suffered several heart-breakers before she committed suicide

2023-03-09T05:53:00.001-08:00

Taiwanese writer San-Mao, whose real name was Chen Mao-Ping, was born in Chongqing, China, on March 26, 1943. Also known as Echo Chen, she had an older sister and two younger brothers. When she was six, San-Mao moved to Taiwan with her family because of the Communists’ take-over of China. At 13, while studying at Taipei First Girls’ High School, she suffered a mental trauma that was to affect her for a lifetime. One day, as she had scored zero in Math, her teacher—may the bitch burn in Hell—made her stand in front of the class and drew two circles around her eyes. The other pupils laughed at her. The teacher then ordered San-Mao to parade in the corridors. San-Mao fainted and later dropped out of school. Her father, a lawyer, enrolled her in Taipei American School where she learnt Chinese painting, flower arrangement, piano and literature. During this period, she became depressed and attempted suicide by slitting her wrist but was saved and given psychiatric treatment.

In 1967, she started studying at the University of Madrid and the Goethe Institute. At 27, she returned to teach German at the Taiwan Cultural University, and became engaged to a German teacher 20 years her senior. But her fiancé died of a heart attack on the eve of the wedding. San-Mao attempted suicide a second time by overdosing on sleeping pills. She survived and,wanting to start life afresh, returned to Madrid where she re-ignited her relationship with Jose Maria Quero (pix above), a marine engineer, whom she had met while studying there earlier. In 1973, the couple married in the then Spanish-controlled Western Sahara, where Jose had secured employment. During this time,

San-Mao started writing for Taiwan's "United Daily News Supplement" and her works grew increasingly popular. Tragedy struck on September 30, 1978, when Jose died in a diving accident at La Palma, part of the Canary Islands off the north-western coast of Africa. After his death, the author continued her worldwide travels and writing.

In 1989, at 46 years old, San-Mao started a romantic relationship with Wang Luobin, a famous musician 30 years her senior, and who had spent 18 years in imprisonment by the Communist Government. They had admired each other’s works even before they had met. After having travelled from Taiwan to meet him in Uruqumi, Xinjing a few times, she wrote to him: “We are a kind of people without age. Ordinary worldly concepts can neither restrain you nor me. I don't want to call you teacher. Respect and love are not the same title. I don't think your heart is old." In another letter, the travel writer confessed: “It's not a coincidence, it's destiny, I can't resist it, it's a long way from thousands of miles. You can't ask me not to love you. At this point, I'm free.”

In Chen Tien-Hsin’s biography about her sister San-Mao, the former refuted their relationship. She wrote: “For Wang Luobin, she wrote to us and told us that she sang Wang Luobin's songs since she was a child, but now she knows this person; Wang Luobin is very old, so she regards Wang Luobin as an elder, but Sanmao expresses love to her elders. People may think it is love between a man and a woman, but she believes that this kind of emotion comes from the appreciation of artistic creation, and it is also a kind of emotional transmission between the elders and the younger generations. She did not mention that the two will become lifelong partners."

In early 1990, the movie “Red Dust” was released, its script written by San-Mao. On December 15, 1990, San-Mao attended the 27th Golden Horse Awards Ceremony, harbouring hope of winning an award. "Red Dust" clinched twelve nominations and won eight. San-Mao competed in the Best Screenplay Award, but did not win—she was heart-broken. The word in movie circles was that influential quarters pressured the judges not to award San-Mao because her script portrayed the Taiwanese Government unfavourably—she was angry.

At 7:00 am, January 4, 1991, a nurse making her round in a ward at the Taipei Veterans Hospital noticed that a patient was missing from her bed. She found the patient in the bathroom hanging from a metal IV stand with brown silk stockings around her neck. The deceased was San-Mao, who had earlier undergone an operation for endometrial hyperplasia. As the IV stand was shorter than her, she had bent her body to suffocate herself. The writer was buried at the Chin Pao San Cemetery in New Taipei City. Interestingly, after San-Mao’s death, Wang Luobin wrote a love song dedicated to her.

From 1976 till her death, San-Mao published 26 books, the most prominent being Stories from the Sahara. The book has to date sold 13 million copies since its original publication 45 years ago. Over her lifetime, the adventurer-writer had travelled to more than 50 countries. Her former red-brick house—where she had lived alone—in Chingchuan village, Hsinchu County, Taiwan, has been converted into a museum.

Writers are depression-cursed souls whom tragedy often likes to strike.

Writers in double-suicide pact with their lovers: why? Or shall I ask, women in double-suicide pact with their writer-lovers: why?

2023-03-09T04:31:00.003-08:00

Takeo Arishima (1878-1923)

Takeo Arishima was a renowned novelist, literary critic and essayist during the late Meji and Taishio periods and also a co-founder of Shirakaba magazine, first published in 1911. His notable works The Descendants of Cain (1917) and A Certain Woman (1919) were translated into English. He was born in Tokyo in March 4, 1878 and attended Sapporo Agricultural College. For unknown reasons, while studying in college, he attempted suicide with his lover Kokichi Morimoto, but survived. After graduation, he worked in the US as a foreign correspondent for the Mainichi Shimbun and studied at Harvard University.

Back in Japan, the writer married in 1910, but his wife died of tuberculosis six years later. In 1922, Takeo befriended Akiko Hatano (left pix), a married woman who was editor of Fujin Koron, a prominent women's magazine, which he regularly contributed to. Their relationship escalated into an extramarital affair, which was later discovered by Akiko’s husband. Tormented by emotional despair, Takeo and Akiko committed suicide in the mountain resort of Karuizawa, 100 miles from Tokyo, by hanging themselves. Due to the isolated location of the chalet where the suicide took place, authorities discovered their semi-decomposed bodies only a month later, identified by the suicide note left behind. Takeo and Akiko were buried side by side in the Tama Cemetery in Tokyo.

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Osamu Dazai (1909-1948)

Osamu Dazai, pseudonym of Shuji Tsushima, began life on June 19, 1909, as the eighth child of a wealthy family in Tsugaru city in Aomori prefecture on the tip of Honshu Island. He was one of Japan’s most celebrated 20^th century writers—brilliant, depression-prone, suicide-inclined and an alcoholic. His works numbered more than 30 novels and short-story collections. His last novel No Longer Human is considered a classic in Japanese literature. At the age of 21, he graduated in literature from Hirosaki University and enrolled in Tokyo Imperial University to pursue French literature. During this time, he started to drink and womanize. Partway through his studies, he dropped out to live with a geisha, Hatsuyo Oyama (left pix below).

His family disapproved of their relationship and disowned him. Osamu and Hatsuyo attempted suicide but they survived and went separate ways. Shortly after, another romance made him attempt suicide again with Shimeko Tanabe—a bar hostess in Ginza (pix below).

The lovers tried to drown themselves at sea. A fishing boat rescued Osamu but Shimeko died, and the writer continued his studies after reconciling with his family.

However, intense writing and failure to get his degree snapped out another suicidal claw in 1935, and Osamu tried to hang himself but failed—his third suicide attempt. In 1938, Osamu renewed his relationship with Hatsuyo and married her but emotional stability did not become his ally. He became addicted to a drug and had to be rehabilitated at a hospital. During his stay there, Hatsuyo committed adultery with Osamu’s best friend, Zenshiro Kodate. When the writer found out after his discharge from hospital, the fallout was self-defeating, and husband and wife overdosed on sleeping pills. Again, they survived, and Osamu divorced her. In 1940, Osamu married Michiko Ishihara (pix below), a teacher, and, in 1945—to escape the bombings of Tokyo by enemies—began a new life in Kofu, 113 km west. The couple later had two daughters and a son.

During his marriage to Michiko, another woman cast a hook in Osamu’s heart: Shizuko Ōta (pix below). She was one of his fans and had visited him with two literature-passionate friends in 1941. The first casual meet led to more one-on-one contacts outside Osamu’s home and—as he needed new writing material—he used her diary entries to produce the novel The Setting Sun. Their working

together on the book resulted in an affair between them and, in 1947, Shizuko bore him an illegitimate daughter, Haruko. By now, after having produced numerous works, Osamu was riding the crest of his literary fame but suffering in the trough of alcoholism-related ill health.

Soon after, Osamu met Tomie Yamazaki (pix above), a beautician. She had lost her husband to the war only after 10 days of marriage. The writer abandoned his wife and children and cohabitated with Tomie. He and Tomie committed suicide by plunging into the rain-fed Tamagawa Canal in Tokyo, on June 13, 1948. Their bodies were discovered on June 19, Dazai’s 39th birthday, their waists tied together with a red cord. Alas, Osamu Dazai had succeeded in taking his own life at his fifth attempt, and was buried in the Zenrin-ji temple in suburban Mitaka, Tokyo, with his lover.

Dazai’s legacy is not only his writings but his creativity bestowed on his two daughters—Yuko Tsushima and Ota Haruko—bore by different women. They later became successful writers in Japan.

Writers over-loving a person embrace death over depression when circumstance wrecks that love.

"Willie Mongin has guts when he spoke out against disallowing bikini-wearing at swimming pools," says Jessica

2023-02-26T23:47:00.003-08:00

"Some quarters would like to see our beaches filled with women attired in black robes frolicking in the water," Jessica says, leaning back in her wingback chair. "Willie Mongin, Puchak Borneo MP, doesn't belong to those parochial-minded people. I bet some fuckers here don't even know that there're nude resorts in Thailand and even in Bali."

A spark twinkles in Jessica's eyes. "No, no, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying nude camps should be allowed here but merely pointing out the difference in mentality between the different tourism authorities."

"You visited Singapore last month. Does that country allow bikinis?"

"Don't know. I was at East Coast Beach, showing off my boobs! No one stared at me with goo-goo eyes."

"Can I see some pictures?"

"My pleasure." Jessica shows me her photo gallery in her cell phone. "That will cost you another tray of lady's drinks!"

"Where did you stay?" I take a glug of my Asahi beer.

"Fullerton Hotel. Five-star, regular room, siphoned my wallet by SING 700 per night." The bombshell points to a photo. "That's Anderson Bridge, hotel's in the background. Right in the middle of all heritage attractions." She tosses her gaze at the bartender. "Mike, lady's drink, another tray. Make it applejack this time."

"You've been to a nude camp?"

"They're called naturist camps in Thailand." The nightclub's number one hostess throws her head back and titters, "Seven out of ten couples at nude camps are grannies and grandpas Expect to see few nubile virgins and virile studs." Jessica winks one purple mascaraed eye. "Better burn your money in Hot Legs Nightclub!"

“This is one of the worst cases of bad feng shui I’ve ever seen,” groans Sifu Sabrina

2023-02-23T07:12:00.009-08:00

“Look at this photo.” Sifu Sabrina holds up a print with her manicured thumb and forefinger. “The client wanted a consultation on Skype after sending me photos of different parts of his single-storey bungalow in JB. This pix shows the garage. A side door from the garage leads to the living room. There’s also a main door in front. The garage’s cluttered with trash and shoes on racks, including a washing machine.” The female sifu shakes her head, her long tresses quivering along with the movement. “No wonder the owner’s facing bickering with partners, back-stabbing by staff, and quarrels with wifey.”

“Remedy?” I ask, craning my neck forward for a closer look.

“Put rubbish in a store room. In this case, at least install closets so that all trash is concealed. And the washing machine that promotes disharmony because of its vicious spin cycle should be shifted to another spot. Other actions can also be taken” — the feng shui doll cracks a wry grin— “but I won't reveal them or I'll go out of business. Remember, always keep a place uncluttered.”

/end

Professions that are akin to flaunting fake boobs, according to Chinese sinseh Master Mah

2023-02-22T20:48:00.001-08:00

Perched behind a counter in a Chinese medical hall, a pimply-faced store assistant swings his gaze to a woman seated nearby and grunts, “Next, Paulina Phuar.” He gestures to Master Mah’s desk in one corner of the store and trots over to hand the sinseh a manila folder.

The young woman goes from the waiting area to settle down at the chair across the sinseh's

cuffed desk. Two firm curving breasts push her top prominently outward, while her exquisitely shaped legs bare from her thighs downward draw a long ogle from the sales assistant.

Master Mah glides his gaze from Paulina’s face, cleavage and to her waist. “What’s your problem?”

“I’ve frequent dizzy spells.” Paulina massages her temples with the pads of her thumb and forefinger.

“Let me check your blood pressure.” Master Mah slips the cuff of a digital spyhgmomanometer over the upper arm of Paulina, jabs a button and reads the LED display. “Systolic pressure’s slightly high but dystolic pressure’s normal.” He places two fingers on Paulina’s wrist. “That can be due to work-related stress.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “Nothing wrong physiologically as indicated by your pulse.” He flicks his gaze at Paulina’s face. “You feel the environment’s spinning around you?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

A reedy breath floats from Paulina's lips in surprise. “Public relations practitioner.”

“Your dizzy spell is psychosomatic. The mind and body function as one unit. Because your mind's always spinning the truth, going round the mulberry bush, so to speak, your sense of balance has been affected.”

The whites of Paulina’s eyes expand. “Sweet thunderation! I can tweak what you’ve said into an important medical discovery! You know, create a duck out of a feather.” She adjusts her spectacles. “Appoint me as your public relations agent and I can guarantee you interviews in the Medical Journal of Malaysia and the British Medical Journal.”

“Holy blazes! That’s interesting.” Master Mah’s lips quirk as he arches an eye brow. “I never knew that PR’s like your fake boobs! What you see is not what you get. I’ll give your proposal a thought.” He writes something on the manila folder and hands it to the store assistant. “Three packets, once a day, drink before sleeping.”

Paulina opens her handbag and takes out her name card. “Call me when you’ve decided.” She waits at the counter and the store assistant hollers to a twenty-something man, “Your turn, Mister.” Stepping forward, he hands another manila card to the sinseh.

“What’s wrong with you?” asks the venerable geezer, looking down at the card. “I see, first time here.”

The man adjusts his polka-dot necktie. “My throat’s sore and my gums have boils.” A moustache bisects his nose and upper lip and he’s sporting hair combed straight back.

“Say aaaah.” Master Mah shines a slender torchlight at the man’s throat. “Throat is inflamed.” A pause. “Jeepers creepers! Your incisors’re sharp as fangs!” He asks in jest, “Are you a vampire by night?”

“Nay, I can do better than that.” A heave swells in the patient’s chest. “I’m an insurance salesman.”

“What the fuck! Another profession like fake boobs?” Upright shoots the sinseh, his eyes widening. “What you’re guaranteed, you don’t get.”

“Why you say that?”

“My relative encountered this case. Her granny—with medical insurance— collapsed on the staircase landing, croaked. Then fell to the bottom of the staircase. Autopsy showed a heart attack. The beneficiary filed a claim as a heart attack had killed her. The mother-fuckers refused to pay. They counter-argued that granny—when still alive—fell down, and then the fall triggered the heart attack. No payment. Death caused directly by the fall, an accident, not directly by the heart attack. Tiew nia ma chow hia!” The geezer casts his gaze down on the manila card, writes on it and hands it over to the patient. “Collect your medicine at the counter, please. Drink twice a day.”

A sneer sprouts on the salesman’s face. “Loopholes and self-legitimized scams are our forte.” Her expression is as insolent as who-the-fuck-cares?

The next patient is garbed in white long sleeves with white wing collar and bib. He is a few years shy off 40, has a dog-like face, low-browed, with jug ears and a nose hoggishly flat.

A smile slithers across the sinseh’s wrinkled lips but it does not reach his eyes. “Whoa! You uphold the scales of justice! How honourable!”

“Thank you.” The lawyer allows himself a proud smile. “I won a case this morning.” His hazel eyes light to attention. “Saved my mobster-client from jail. He was so happy he doubled my fee!” The flimflammer unbuttons his sleeve and rests his wrist on the small pillow. “My client was charged for possessing heroin.” A little cough puffs out the lawyer’s cheeks. “Sorry, ahem, the charge sheet stated 30 grams, but the chemist’s report—when produced in court— stated 25 grams. The case was dismissed on technical grounds. Yay! Discrepancy due to evaporation?” The dark-attired snake releases a hyena-like chuckle. “I got someone to fiddle with one of the documents!” He laughs again until his eyes water, and wipes off the tears with one hand.

Master Mah checks the patient’s pulse, then says, “So, you trash justice under the façade of upholding justice? Good, very good.” After a few beats, the sinseh finishes his diagnosis. “You’ve caught a cold.” The patient removes his wrist from the small pillow.

Racoon-like eyes from the lawyer’s ugly face assess Master Mah. “Wanna talk business? If you get sued for malpractice, gimme a call.” He jags a brow and grins, revealing piranha-like teeth. “Introduce me a client, you get a 15 percent commission. If that client gets me another client, you get an over-riding of five percent.” He fumbles in his trouser pocket for his wallet and slips out a name card. “Like multi-level marketing.” A politician’s smile veers on his lips.

Master Mah’s flinty eyes dance up to his patient. “The other day, I saw a dead snake and a dead lawyer lying on the DUKE Highway.” He skews him with a look. “I slowed my car as I passed the mangled bodies. There were tyre skid marks around the dead snake but none around the lawyer’s corpse.”

/end

"Hooray!" cheers Mummy Lulu. "North Korea has fired an ICBM as a warning to Washington and Seoul."

2023-02-19T23:55:00.004-08:00

"Hooray!" snaps Mummy Lulu, eyes lighting up with glee. "North Korea has fired an Inter-continental Ballistic Missile into Japanese waters as a warning to the US and South Korea who are holding military exercises in the area." The mama-san wags her gnarled finger, varnished at the tip. "Professor Peter Kuznick, Director of Nuclear Studies Institute of the American University says this ICBM shows North Korea's capability of hitting anywhere in the world, including the United States. Yippee! " The feisty lady punches the air. "So, don't try to bully China and North Korea by encircling them with military bases."

https://www.wionews.com/videos/north-korea-fires-icbm-class-missile-says-japan-563510

/end

Two auspicious objects that are not auspicious at the front door, according to Sifu Sabrina

2023-02-19T06:15:00.001-08:00

“Here’re two quickie tips,” Sifu Sabrina says, her butt squashing the cushion of an ottoman. “First, Cai Sen’s image, the God of Wealth, should not embellish the front door of one’s residence. You’re directing wealth luck away, sending it to your visitors."

Second, a door mat with auspicious couplets relating to wealth, health and luck should also never be displayed at the front door. Every day, you’re stepping on those words, smearing them with bad chi. How can good vibes be invoked with daily trampling? Don’t ever buy such mats. Manufacturers of such mats know nothing about feng shui! Auspicious posters hung on walls will do a better job.”

/end

“The US has 750 military bases overseas; China, only eight!” Mummy Lulu snorts. “So, who’s the war-monger?”

2023-02-18T08:45:00.004-08:00

“Bongbong Marcos is a slice of the old stinky pizza Ferdinand, his late father—an unreliable flimflamer.” Mummy Lulu narrows her eyebrows. “After securing agreements for China to import more rice, durians -- please watch his speech -- mangosteens and other agricultural produce during his visit in January 2023, he has now allowed US to set up four additional military bases in the Philippines, making a total of nine.” The mama-san’s eyes become as cold as shiny marbles.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32UAQ__k9QM

https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-64479712

“As a result, the US has encircled China in the South China Sea with military bases, stretching from South Korea and Japan in the north to Australia in the south." The funky old lady flattens her lips. “Bah! Talk about ingratitude! Bongbong’s jabber about his committing to regional peace and stability and deepening of friendship with China is Devil-cursed PR garbage! On the other hand, Rodrigo Duterte was a God-blessed straight arrow in foreign policy.” Mummy Lulu pauses to moisten her lips.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RcptWfu7OIs

She continues, “David Vine, anthropology professor of American University in Washington DC, and author of The United States of War says, “That’s precisely the wrong direction we should be going in… We need to be drawing down our military presence in the region while building up our diplomatic presence…A war with China can spin out of control into a nuclear war that can literally threaten human existence on earth.”

/end

How to spot a horny woman and take one home, according to Jessica and Wati of Hot Legs Niteclub

2023-02-18T00:45:00.001-08:00

“Who’s that new GRO talking with Mamasan Lulu?” asks Chow Kah. “Pretty face but dressed like an officer worker. Must be boring to have her as company.” Mid-thirties and well-heeled, my drinking buddy is wearing black loafers with tassels on them, a bluish polo shirt hanging out of his gray slacks, and a thick gold watch that gleams like soft butter on his wrist.

Seated beside Chow Kah, Jessica is dropping crushed ice cubes into glasses with a pair of thongs. Braless, her cleavage is peeping out of her strap top and her long legs are encumbered by a brief pair of shorts.

“Don’t judge an apple by its outer skin,” I say, leaning back on the velvety settee.

“It’s true,” Hussein grunts, both hands resting on his beer belly. “Last month, a girl who wears a tudong started working in my office. Weeks later, her character was revealed. She’s got four boyfriends, keeps four separate handphones for each boyfriend.” The middle-aged playboy’s eyes are two mahogany marbles that are almost lost behind the puffy pouches that buttress them.

Wati adjusts her the strap of her brown top. “Exterior clothes are not important, it’s the lingerie that reveals a girl's sexuality." Her 36-34-38 figure is packed in her five-feet-seven frame, and her smooth hands with slender fingers ending in long varnished nails are resting on Hussein’s lap.

I toss my gaze from Wati’s face to Jessica chewing her thumbnail, her legs on the sofa. “Like how?” I ask, swivelling my eyes back to Wati’s bronzed shoulders kissed by loose strands of silky cinnamon-colour, down a curvy figure that always drives patrons wild.

“If she loves to wear sexy panty and bras, she's highly sexed. If they’re plain white or plain black, she's as cold as frozen meat.” Wati picks a stick of satay from a platter and feeds Hussein.

“Has your theory been tested?” I ask.

“From my experience with spa girls, it’s true,” Hussein says, chewing a chunk of chicken meat. “When a spa girl undresses and she’s in sexy undergarments, I know I’m in for a good time. If she’s wearing plain white bra and panty, I know it’s wham-bam, thank you-maam.”

“Yes, girls who wear sexy panty’re easier to sleep with," Wati says.

“I also heard about this theory before,” Chow Kah says. “But what an experience I had testing it.” He slides sideways to entwine an arm around Jessica’s waist and they become a pair of Siamese twins.

“Share the story.” I take a sip of my Singapore Sling.

Chow Kah’s small eyes hop-scotch from face to face in the KTV room. “Last time, I was a dating a colleague. She stays alone with her father, her mother had passed away. I went to her condo to see what kind of lingerie she wears. I pretended I wanted to smoke and went to the balcony. To my excitement, I saw a silk, lacy leopard-spot panty with matching brasserie and another hot set of frilly undergarments hanging to dry. Full steam ahead I went to court her. One evening after watching a movie, I drove her to Titiwangsa, stopped in the car park.” The veteran night-clubber’s shoulders slump as he continues. “We chatted and I leaned forward to kiss her. She slapped me. I was so embarrassed and apologized profusely."

“Tough luck, end of friendship?” Jessica asks, decanting red wine into Chow Kah’s glass.

Chow Kah fills his mouth with crushed ice and red wine, and chews while he studies my face. He takes a big swallow. “Lucky, we remained as friends. Couple weeks later, I cooked up an excuse to go to her condo again to double-check what I had seen earlier.” He puts his glass down and points to it for a re-fill. “This time, I saw plain bras and panty hanging in the balcony. I couldn’t resist asking her about the sexy lingerie. ‘Sorry, are those undergarments yours?’ I asked her. Why you ask, she replied. Weeks ago, I remember having seen frilly panties? I told her. She explained that those frilly panties belong to her 80-year old grandmother. Sometimes she visits her family. That day, the crone was sleeping in her room, that’s why I didn’t see her.” The philanderer casts his gaze about the furniture. “Where’s the song menu?

“Now I remember.” Eyes squinted in thought, Wati puts a finger to her chin. “The Journal of Psychohealth published the first documented case of a 20-year-old Bangaldesh married woman who’s oversexed. She and her husband had sex five or six times in the early days of their marriage. A year later, he couldn’t continue the rigor, so she divorced him. Year 2020, Volume 2, Issue 1.” The hottie hunches her shoulders in a giggle. “Why don’t you contact the journal to get to know her?”

“Cheh!” Chow Kah makes a face. “Too far, Bangla girls are not my taste, too. Any other local sources?” Jessica slides the menu from the bottom rack of the coffee table, places it on her darling’s lap, who delivers a quick peck on her cheek. “Thanks, dear.”

“There’s Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous Malaysia.” Wati grabs her handphone from the coffee table and fiddles with it. “Try your luck there, become a member, and hook up with over-sexed women. But these're people trying to cure their sex addiction, not seeking sex, so your shenanigan may backfire.” The Indonesian bombshell springs to her feet, takes a step forward and shows her handphone to Chow Kah. “Look, here’s their website. Good luck!”

https://slaamalaysia.wordpress.com/

Hussein lifts a gnarled finger. “I want that website's address, too.” His eyes brighten with enthusiasm.

Wati stares at him with her eyes hot, her teeth tight together, her lips parted a little.

/end.

"Fuck hypocritical America," hollers Mummy Lulu. "It's the biggest spy nation in the world instead!"

2023-02-13T22:02:00.001-08:00

"Fuck hypocritical America," hollers Mummy Lulu. "It's the biggest spy nation in the world instead! And former FBI security advisor Phil Mudd says that the security threat of the balloon on a scale of 1 to 10 is only 2/10!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xnL_ffr-HPE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lwk3wwtdyZg

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cc9B0iHcjtE

“You can’t spot a pervert or a kinky sicko a foot away,” says Mummy Lulu. “Sheesh, I never knew he was that kind.”

2023-02-12T22:50:00.006-08:00

Mummy Lulu lifts her penciled eyebrows. “You heard of David Carradine?” She picks up a Menglembu groundnut from a two-tiered plastic platter, cracks the brittle skin and tosses the seeds into her mouth. The first tier of the platter overflows with Menglembu roasted groundnuts; the second, Shandong roasted groundnuts.

I shift my weight on the upholstered bench. “Yeah, the Kung Fu TV series actor.” A waitress brings me my Asahi Super Dry, opens the bottle and departs. “Why suddenly you talk about David Carradine?” I fill my glass with beer. “Died in a Bangkok hotel, fifteen years ago.”

Mummy Lulu and I are tucked in a booth halfway between the door of Hot Legs Niteclub and the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms in back. It is Happy Hours and Mike, the mustachioed-cum-bearded bartender, is whistling while polishing mugs with a terry cloth.

The mama-san swigs her Schnapps, her jigging throat reminding me of a turkey’s wattle. “I was planning a trip to Bangkok. Jessica told me to avoid the Swissotel Nai Lert Park Hotel coz David died there.” She replaces the empty shot glass in the silver tray crammed with five other full glasses. “Might be haunted by his ghost, Jessica said.” Mummy takes a swallow. “Wow, these nuts are still crunchy after being kept for so long. How’s the Shandong?”

“No worries, the hotel closed five years back.” I tackle a Shangdong groundnut. “Good stuff, I can hear crock crock in my ears. But Menglembu has a milder burnt aroma. Pagoda brand?”

“Yep.” Mummy Lulu grabs a handful of Shangdong groundnuts and drops them in front of her. She sits upright and starts to crack the nuts. “You know in what condition was David found?” The vertical lines between the funky lady’s brows deepen. “Inside a closet, hands tied above his head, cords tied around his neck and genitals. He was wearing fishnet stockings and a dark wig. A piece of woman’s lingerie was also found on his bed.” The mama-san spreads her mottled hands, their fingers varnished fire-engine red, her mouth dropping open. “What the fuck was he doing with those clothes? His embarrassed family invented a theory that David was possibly murdered by the Thai mafia and—by extension— dressed up in those clothes by his killers. Baloney.” Big, horsey reveal themselves as Mummy chomps on the seeds with a firm clamp of her jaw. “His ex-wives Gail Jensen and Marina Anderson later revealed that David had a history of performing kinky sex acts, and had often bought sex toys. Shosana Arazy, the owner of his regular sex store, confirmed that David had several back orders which had not been collected. This man had sick tastes, and very likely died from autoerotic asphyxia gone wrong.”

“Never judge an apple by its outer skin. Inside, may have worms.”

Mummy Lulu suddenly hacks, picks up a shot glass and upends it, draining it dry. “You kinky, Ewe?” She delivers a few slaps to her chest with a flat palm. “Ahem, ahem.”

“Straight as a ruler. Why you ask?” I study the mama-san’s face, almost counting the number of wrinkles on her forehead. “What about you?”

“On its fringes, but I harbour a must-do kinky fantasy though.”

“BDSM?”

“I fantasize performing autoerotic asphyxia on a partner by smothering my gnarled, shaved pussy on him. I’d love to sit on his face until he near-suffocates to death. And that man must be a writer—not any other profession.”

“Eeeeeek!” The muscles in my throat convulse several times before I’m able to speak. “What’re you implying?” I jolt upright in my seat. “Mother of God, that act's risky. In the USA, about 500 deaths are reportedly yearly because of autoerotic asphyxia gone awry.” I gesture towards the bartender with a jerk of my head. Why don’t you try Mike? It may be ticklish, though.”

Mummy Lulu fist-bumps me with a grin, and my grin matches hers.

/end

The forgotten heroines who fought the enemy during the Japanese Occupation of Malaya

2023-02-12T07:16:00.005-08:00

They're aunties with rolls of fat under their chins and ridges at the corners of their eyes. They're uncles with grey hair and corrugated foreheads and perhaps carrying the baggage of senility. But as members of the Malayan Communist Party in their younger days, they fought the Japanese Imperial Army together with the British Force 136. I write not to praise these resistance fighters but to remind the younger generation of the historical facts. The evil that men do lives after them, wrote Shakespeare. The good is oft interred with their bones. So let it be with the Malayan Communist Party -- often demonized and condemned in unfair ways -- which has left its footprints in our history books.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Br3omNXNIyI

“Virgin hair in high demand in China,” says Kyaw of Hot Legs Niteclub

2023-02-08T23:48:00.004-08:00

Big yellow teeth glistens behind Mummy Lulu’s thick red lips. “Hi, Chow Kah!” She approaches his table in the KTV hall with a curvy lass in tow and stops a few feet away. “I’ve a surprise for you! My latest hostess! Ta-ta!” The mama-san gestures with an open palm to the average-height hostess who tosses a shy glance at Chow Kah and looks away. “Her name’s Kyaw, new Yangon talent.” The crone hands a one-page menu over to Chow Kah. “Try her company for tonight?” The night-clubber points to a spot on the menu and hands it back. “Sorry, but Jessica’s on leave today and tomorrow. You did not book a KTV room, so Hussein’s not coming?”

Chow Kah grasps the arms of the chair lightly. “He’s attending a business conference in Jakarta. Asked me to convey his affectionate regards to Wati.” Eyes bugging wide, he sweeps his gaze from Kyaw’s face to her sandaled feet with appropriate stops along the way. “How’s your English, Kyaw?”

Kyaw twinkles her eyes at Chow Kah. “I graduated from Hinthada University in tourism studies.” Her English is excellent and Chow Kah twinkles his eyes back at her.

Mummy Lulu palms the small of Kyaw’s back, directing her to the wingback chair next to Chow Kah. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, she adds with a nod, “Dagon Lager beer, right?” Her eyes shift sideways to Kyaw. “And a super-garland and big tray of tequila for your new-found girlfriend!”

Kyaw drops her butt on the wingback chair, and smoothes her long tresses over her shoulders. Her cheekbones can cut glass and the right side of her face is tinted bluish by the neon sign of a Carlsberg advertisement a cigarette-stub’s throw away.

Chow Kah leans sideways. “Gee, you’ve such beautiful hair.”

“Virgin hair is in high demand in China.” The crimson slash of Kyaw’s lips tug at Chow Kah’s eyes. “That’s why I take good care of my hair, may bring in money.”

A dent of puzzlement appears between Chow Kah’s eyes. “Huh? Perverts in China clamour for, err, pubic hair from a virgin?” He makes a face. “Yuks, some sort of a fetish?

“Noooo….” Kyaw blasts out a giggle. “Hair from the head!’

“Oh, head hair only from a virgin? I see. Hair from a married woman or a divorcee is worthless?”

A waiter brings the beer and tequila. “Oops, sorry, I forget the opener.” Plastering a sheepish smile on his mahogany-coloured face, he scratches the back of his head. “I’ll be back.”

“Never mind about the opener,” Kyaw says and the waiter departs. One by one, she picks up the bottles and prises their caps off using her teeth under the shocked gaze of Chow Kah, his mouth agape.

“We, Myanmar girls have strong teeth!” Kyaw chuckles and pours beer into Chow Kah’s mug. She says, “By virgin hair, I mean hair that hasn't been permed, or dyed, or treated to any chemical in a salon. In short, natural hair.” The coffee-skinned babe sets the mug in front of Chow Kah, picks up a shot glass and sniffs its content. “One hundred centimetres of waist-length virgin hair fetches USD100-200 per kg. They’re used for making wigs and hair extensions. Only hair from Myanmar girls. Hair from other foreign girls fetch lower prices. Cheers!” She takes a swig of her tequila and a grimace wrinkles her nose.

Chow Kah blinks. “Why? I mean, why Myanmar girls?”

A waitress arrives and collars Kyaw with a big garland. “Our hair is the softest in Asia.” Kyaw picks up the chit and shoves it inside a metal container. “You been to Myanmar?”

The foam has died down in his mug and Chow Kah takes a sip of his beer. “May go in the future.”

“Tell you something about our hair culture. Some women cut their hair and donate them to temples.” Kyaw tosses another shot glass of tequila down her throat. “A few even shave themselves bald! These temples will sell the hair to agents. They end up in hair trading centres based in Meiktila. After cleaning and conditioning, they’re sold to wig factories in China.”

“Err, what about hair from other part of the body?”

“Don’t think dirty, darling.” A sly smile flitters around Kyaw’s lips and dies. “They’re different from head hair. Demand for our hair is so great that hair falls are also collected from combs in salons. But fetch lower prices since they’ve to be untangled first.” The Yangon babe crosses her legs and sucks in an inhale, expanding her bosom. “Do you know there’re long hair competitions in Myanmar? Some of the contestants have hair reaching to the calves.” She exhales and her chest returns to normal.

“Gee…I wouldn’t want my wife to have such long hair!”

“Oh, why?”

“An over long-haired woman reminds me a pontianak.” Chow Kah mocks a shudder. “Pour white powder on her face and hair and what does she look like? A female ghoul.” The randy night-clubber stretches an arm to hold Kyaw’s hand. “Hair that falls around the shoulders is fine with me”

Kyaw leans towards Chow Kah and circles her fingers around his gnarled paw. “The University of Western Ontario conducted a study which found that men perceive women with long hair to be more attractive.” She pauses, grating her lips with an impish smile. “You find me attractive, darling?”

“Do women find balding man attractive?”

“Ooooh, bald man are sexy!” Kyaw throws her head back and laughs. “Compared to blokes with thinning or thick hair, a baldie is regarded as more masculine, more dominant and more confident. This was the conclusion of a study done by the University of Pennsylvania. Results were published in Social Psychological and Personality Science.” She blows wisps of bangs from her bright round eyes. “You see, I’m more than just a pretty face, darling—” her lips quirk sideways “— I'm also well-read. Ahem.”

“I see! Drum roll! Ta-ta!” Chow Kah bares his crooked teeth in a grin. “From today, I needn’t wear my toupee!” He yanks off his wig and drops it on his lap. Revealed is short spiky hair and a large bald spot on the crown of his head. “Bah! Should have known about that university’s study earlier.”

“Oh Mother of God!” Kyaw jerks her head back. “You look, err, you look…” She twists her mouth into a moue of disgust.

Colour glows on Chow Kah’s cheeks. “Look what?”

“Cruel truth here.” Kyaw’s delicate shoulders become as stiff as her smile. “The study said bald men only look more masculine, more dominant, but, unfortunately, not more attractive.” Her smile morphs into a pitiful laugh.

“What the heck!” The bubble of his erstwhile pride broken, Chow Kah’s voice takes on a saw-edge as he replaces his toupee. “I know I look terrible.” His eyes hopscotch beyond Kyaw to Mummy Lulu standing several feet away. The mama-san is laughing like an ape, her sinewy shoulders shaking uncontrollably in her bodycon dress.

“Cheer up, darling.” Kyaw waggles her thin arched brows. “A fat wallet’s more important than not having hair.”

/end

“Be wary of the dark side of orchids in feng shui under different circumstances,” advises Sifu Sabrina

2023-02-04T07:23:00.009-08:00

Holding the arms of her rosewood chair, Sifu Sabrina hoists herself up and throws her head back. The hem of her dress rides upward, exposing her panties. “Now, what was it that I wanted to mention to you?” Her almond eyes veil themselves for a few beats, and unveil. “Err, something about orchids.” Her hair rumples over her smooth shoulders and her breasts, hips and legs co-star to form an irresistible ensemble. Turning to me, she yanks the hem of her dress down to cover her panties. "Sorry about my wardrobe malfunction," she mutters, a shade of rose colouring her cheeks.

Slumped in an armchair opposite her, my gaze rakes her from her tinted-lidded eyes down to her fish-net stockings and back up to her smooth face again. “Auspicious flowers, remember?”

My words jostle the memory of the feng shui sifu. “Oh, yes, previously, I included orchids as auspicious flowers to display at home for good luck, growth and harmony.” Her cupid-bow lips settle into a grim line. “Now, I wanna point out the dark side of orchids under different circumstances.” Sifu Sabrina screws her face in a serious frown. “I'm against putting orchids at the front door. Why? First, orchids are categorized as shadowy flowers or yum far. They don’t emit scent at night, but they’re a close cousin of night-scented flowers like jasmine, white magnolia and white kemboja. These blooms have a proclivity to attract spirits—can be benevolent or malevolent—to reside in them. Incidentally, you've ever wondered why Muslim cemeteries are often planted with night-blooming plants? Now, back to orchids. Spirits can’t enter a home to reside in the orchids inside because of the Door Gods and the deities’ presence at the altar.

The female sifu’s eyes thin as she gives a gentle shake of her head. “But not for orchids placed outside the front door. The blooms may remain harmless, of course, but if a passing-by spirit wants to take up residence, there's nothing to stop it from doing so. Another little-known fact about orchids is that they’re ‘feminine’ flowers. Powerful feminine vibes outside the main door can lure the man of the household away and never return. In short, abandon his family for another woman. So, avoid orchids at the front door.”

/end

Grab the oranges that'll be thrown by these beautiful people on Chap Goh Meh!

2023-02-01T22:59:00.007-08:00

[Above: Painting of Chap Goh Meh by Dr. Yuen Chee Ling]

College student Carol Chuah (pix below) curls her lips sensually and coos, “I’m not desperate for a boyfriend as I’m still young.” A rose tint blushes her cheeks as she sweeps her eyelashes, vivacity sparkling from her eyes. “But I’ll be throwing several oranges with my hotmail address on them in the hope of knowing a new handsome friend. See you at Tanjung Harapan, Port Kelang!”

Fifi Fu, (pix below), a beautician, exhaling breath like the smell of rotting fish, says, “I’ll be throwing one big box of lokam oranges with my HP number written on them. Location? Taman Jaya Lake, PJ.” Raising an arm to reveal scraggly armpit hair, she runs a pudgy hand through her silky crowning glory reeking with the fresh scent of shampoo. “But don’t fall in love with my face and body; instead, fall in love with my heart, spirit and character. No fat guys, please.”

“I was born in the Tiger year,” says Sifu Sabrina (pix below), enveloped in the sweet fruity scent of ylang ylang from her perfume, “so I’m only interested to meet either a Tiger man or a Dragon man. Moreover, his part chi or birth particulars must be compatible with mine.” She rolls her hopeful eyes ceilingward. "Oh, Jade Emperor, please grant my wish this Chap Goh Meh. Hopeful dudes can catch me at Taman Tasik Permaisuri, Cheras, KL with a basket of oranges!"

“I’m seeking eyes that will see beauty in me when I’m old and ugly,” says Jessica (pix below), scrunching up her face to look like a hag, “arms that will comfort me”—she hugs herself—“when I’m sick and a heart that will love me”—she brings a palm to the left side of her chest—“with all my faults. I'll be in Seremban 2 City Park on February 4! Also at Padang Kota Lama on Feb 5.”

Squawking like an old rooster, Ang Mor Sai (pix below) says, “I’ve bought one lorry-load of plantains or pisang tanduk to throw. I’ve hired two illegal Bangladeshis— they’re such cheap labour!—to write my name and email address on each and every plantain. They’ll be helping me to toss the pisang tanduk into the sea--Jetty Bastion Middleburg, Melaka.” His cloudy eyes twinkle with lechery. “I hope to get several new GFs with my costly but worthwhile investment.” Jaw dropping wide open, he blasts out a guffaw, causing his plastic front denture to drop out. “Oops!” His hand flies to his toothless mouth and he muffles. “Happy Chap Goh Meh to all readers of The Wordslinger blog!”

/end

Beware of motorbike rental scams in Thailand, warns Debbie Ding

2023-01-30T08:07:00.006-08:00

Bare hands gripped on the handles of the chopper, long legs astride its leather seat, Debbie Ding—owner of Debbie School of Defensive Driving—uses her foot to flick up the side stand. She fires the ignition switch and revvs the engine. “Let’s go for a ride,” she says, handling the weight of the bike with ease.

Left foot on the rest, I lift myself up and swing my right leg over the back seat. I wrap myself against her and shout over the roar of the engine, “I’m ready!”

“Okay, let’s go!” hollers Debbie, and we are off, the wind blowing in my face.

We whizz out of the city into the country past orchards and farm houses and stop under a banyan tree beside a disused mining pool, its water shimmering under the sun. Debbie holds the bike up and kills its engine. “Off you get.” I climb down from the chopper and she flicks its side stand down. She gets down and we lean against the chopper to admire the views. Clouds are reflected on the water’s surface and birds and insects are hovering about the reeds. “Be careful of scams when you’re renting a bike on your Hatyai trip,” she says, flicking a gaze to me.

I pinch my brows in surprise. “Who told you about my Hatyai trip?” A gust of cool air washes over my face and tousles my hair.

“Mummy Lulu.” Debbie’s eyes follow the zig-zag darts of a massive dragon fly nearby. “Said you’re going with Hussein, Wati and Jessica.”

“Riding a bike’s better than moving about in a tuk-tuk.”

“But first check that nothing's wrong with the bike you intend to rent. Also, take photographs of the bike from all angles, especially of scratches, dents, anything broken and even bald tyres. If you don’t, when you return the bike, you'll be accused of having damaged the bike and be forced to pay compensation for so-called repairs.” Debbie’s red lips draw back to reveal perfect white teeth. “You have an international driving licence and a national motorbike licence?”

“Of course.”

“What about your friend?”

I purse my lips. “Not sure.”

“A shady motorbike hire company will allow you to rent a bike even if you don't have these two documents. But, once you ride off on the motorbike, they will tip a cop by mobile phone to nab you!” Debbie flashes a grin. “The under-table money you pay will be shared between the cop and the hire company!”

I raise my eyebrows. “Gee, a double-cross. Thanks for the tip.” I jerk my head sideways. “Come, let’s go back.”

/end

Another version of the role of sugar cane in Pai Thee Kong ceremony, according to Sifu Sabrina

2023-01-28T22:19:00.008-08:00

There’re few versions of the folklore why Fujians pray with sugar cane to the Jade Emperor,” says Sifu Sabrina. “One account says Fujians fleeing from marauding Mongols in ancient times hid in a sugarcane plantation. Despite a few days’ search, the Mongols couldn’t find them and the Fujians emerged safely on the 9^th day of the 1^st lunar month, which coincided with the birthday of the Jade Emperor. Thus, thanksgiving payers were offered to the Jade Emperor on this day. Another version says Japanese pirates pursued the Fujians instead. A third folklore--which Mummy Lulu told me when I attended her after-Pai Thee Kong feast at midnight--describes the Fujians as farmers-turned-warriors when they cut sugar cane stalks in a plantation and improvised them into spears, long poles and billy sticks! Using the sugar-cane weapons, they whacked the Mongols, driving them off! Whoa!”

A grin hovering on her lips, Sifu Sabrina chews on her little finger. “You expect me to believe this sugar-cane weapon story by Mummy Lulu?” A chuckle escapes from her delicate throat.

/end

Two ways to get rid of bad luck, according to Sifu Sabrina

2023-01-26T05:44:00.002-08:00

“Get rid of bad luck before ushering in Li Chun,” advises Sifu Sabrina. “The simplest way is to bath in seven kinds of flowers and pomelo leaves or rinds. Allow the water to flow from your head to your feet.” The lady in red rests both hands on her knees. “The second way is to brush Luck-Awakening joss paper over your body and limbs in downward sweeping motions. Perform this ritual at the altar and beseech whatever deity is installed—after praying to him or her—to banish the bad luck. Ong can only come after sooi is discarded. This joss-paper ritual can also be done before attending a business meeting, an interview, going to the casino or horse-race track or after visiting someone in a hospital.” A smile etches two dimples in her cheeks. “Da Ji Da Li!”

/end

“Is the costume of the lion dance performing at your home consecrated?” asks Sifu Sabrina

2023-01-24T21:57:00.003-08:00

“So, you’ve booked a CNY lion dance performance,” says Sifu Sabrina togged up in a red bikini for a swim in her condo's pool, “but has the lion costume been consecrated?” A ghost of a scowl flits across her lips. “If not, then it is just a puppet without vital energy!” The feng shui sifu shakes her head. “Such a puppet that chews on your lettuce and swallows your ang pau is useless!” She pauses and sticks both thumbs into her bikini bottom. “It’s best to consecrate or hooi kong the lion costume at your home before it performs. Set up an altar dedicated to the Sky God with offerings of meat and fruits and tea. Pray with joss sticks and ask the Sky God to bless the lion with chi energy. Then the head of the household should dot the eyes, nose, mouth and ears and at random points throughout its body with a Chinese brush dipped in red paint.” A smile flits across Sifu Sabrina’s lips. “Now, the lion is ready to bring good vibes into your home. Hou wan lin lin!” She patters down the staircase. "Anybody wants to join me for a swim?"

/end

“Prepare to receive Li Chun energy on February 4, 2023,” reminds Sifu Sabrina

2023-01-23T00:53:00.001-08:00

“The Beginning of Spring or Li Chun will start on February 4, 2023 at 10.42 am,” says Sifu Sabrina, “not the first day of CNY.” She rests one fish-net stockinged leg on the arm of her rosewood chair. “From the feng shui aspect, we can receive the Li Chun energy. The ritual is simple, should be performed between 10.42 am to 12 noon. Set up an altar facing south and offer fruits, nian gao and tea. Light three joss sticks and utter 'Welcome Li Chun' to this house, giving your full address, your name and birthdate. Request for health, wealth and whatever you wish for.” With lips kinked in an afterthought, Sifu Sabrina’s eyelashes flip up. “Also, don’t forget to deposit money in an ATM at the bank. There’re bank websites giving auspicious times to do this based on your Zodiac animal sign.” The bombshell’s eyes gleam with a sparkle. “I wish you a prosperous Water Rabbit Year!”

"Wishing you a prosperous and happy Chinese New Year," enthuses Jessica of Hot Legs Niteclub

2023-01-19T21:46:00.004-08:00

“Happy Spring Festival!” Jessica says, eyes twinkling, holding a string of lanterns and melting hearts in a mini qipao. “May good fortune and excellent health be yours always. Double your ONG when you enjoy the company of our bunnies at Hot Legs Niteclub in the Year of the Rabbit! Kung Hei Fat Choi!"

/end

“Don’t mess around with the Kitchen God,” Sifu Sabrina warns. “He can affect your life span!"

2023-01-17T22:29:00.005-08:00

The air in the corridor to Sifu Sabrina’s condo smells of Dettol as I traipse along its marbled floor between spotless white-washed walls. My cell phone in my shirt pocket buzzes with a text message. I read it: The door’s unlocked. I’m in the kitchen. A packet of bakkwa dangling from one hand, I pass a few doors decorated with red Chinese New Year posters before reaching Sifu Sabrina’s unit. I enter the living room, kick off my loafers and push them to the side of a shoe rack.

“Hello…” I cross the living room to the dining area. “What’s the fever in the kitchen?” I plonk my plastic bag of bakkwa on the dining table and enter the kitchen. Whoa! Sifu Sabrina has one leg high on the countertop. “Gosh! What’re you doing?” My eyes span wider, and my cheeks flame hot.

“A cockroach! A cockroach came crawling near my feet!” Sifu Sabrina tosses her gaze to the bottom of the fridge across the room. “Never mind, it’s now under the fridge. I’ll spray insecticide afterward.” She picks up a frying pan from a wall cabinet and moves to the gas cooker. “We’ll talk as I do my cooking.” The frying pan lands on the gas hob with a soft thud.

“Your bakkwa’s on the dining table.” Taking a step forward, I see a colander filled with several heads of broccoli on the countertop. “One kilogram, Loong Kee. I was also at Oloiya, got Guinness-flavored bakkwa. But I know you’re not the drinking type.”

“Thank you.” Sifu Sabrina picks up a shiny kitchen knife. “So, wanna yak about the Kitchen God?” The tip of the knife glistens as brightly as her lively eyes.

I climb atop a high-back stool at an island counter in the centre of the room. “How important is this fella?” I smooth the hair at the back of my head. “Is he just a lowly deity?”

“Hey, he’s as dangerous as me holding this knife!” Sifu Sabrina playfully touches her chin with the tip of the knife. “For a major sin that he reports to the Jade Emperor, you’ll be deprived of from 200 to 300 days for every twelve years of your destined life span. For a minor sin, 100 to 200 days will be deducted from your life span. Understand?” With a nod, Sifu Sabrina turns her back to me and slices the broccoli on a wooden cutting board on the countertop.

“Yikes! That’s scary.” I slope back in my high-back stool with a loose fold of arms. “How to pray to the Kitchen God, appease him?”

Stepping over to the sink, Sifu Sabrina turns her back on me and my gaze traces its every curve. “Sweet cakes or nian gao are mandatory. Preferred food is cuttlefish, meat and chicken and three cups of wine, not tea. She rinses the broccoli under running water at the sink. “The offerings to burn are a hat, a pair of shoes, a ceremonial robe and a travel permit to enter and leave Heaven.” She casts a glance over her creamy shoulder—bonding our gazes—and returns her attention to the countertop. “One little-known but important point is that only men pray to the Kitchen God, not women.” She tosses the broccoli into a bowl containing peeled prawns and sprinkles something over them. “But some women are ignorant about this custom. The reverse applies to the Moon Goddess, Chang Er—she can only be prayed by women.” The smell of cooking floats upward as she tosses the contents of the bowl into the sizzling frying pan.

“Where to get the Kitchen God’s paper clothing?”

Sifu Sabrina stir-fries the veggies with a spatula. “Chinese prayer store.” After a while, she steps sideways and takes an empty plate from the wall cabinet.

“The sending-off ritual’s a dying custom, right?”

Three long strides bring Sifu Sabrina to the island counter. “Declining in the big cities, but not in the small towns.” She sets both plates on the counter and pulls herself up on a high-back stool opposite and to the left of me. “In Vietnam, the Kitchen God is very popular. There, the Kitchen God rides carps to ascend to Heaven, so carps are released into rivers. Paper carps are also burned as well as paper money for travel expenses.” Using a spoon, Sifu Sabrina rakes half of the veggies onto the empty plate. “Compliments of the chef!” She pushes the plate to me. “The Vietnamese Kitchen God is a collective term for three deities—all former mortals who became victims of jealousy, repentance and suicide.”

I take a fork from a nearby stainless steel cutlery holder and put it on my plate. “Spill the legend, please, long story cut short.” I pass another fork to Sifu Sabrina.

Sifu Sabrina adjusts a strap of her dress. “Thanks.” She tucks strands of stray hair behind her ear. “Well, a woodcutter and his wife led a hard life. He became a drunk and started beating his wife.” Sifu Sabrina jabs at a piece of broccoli and brings it to her mouth. “Later, the woman fled and stumbled upon a hunter’s house and the fella gave her shelter and food. They became live-in lovers. Years later, the woodcutter—now a beggar—searched for his wife. He happened to pass her house but could not recognize her.” The feng shui looker pauses as she takes a big swallow. “His wife offered him food and while he was eating, the hunter returned. The woman couldn’t explain. So, the hunter assaulted the woodcutter. The woman got emotionally torn between the two men, became confused, and jumped into the kitchen hearth.” Sifu Sabrina shakes her head as if disbelieving the legend, a grimace flitting across her lips. “Out of love, out of repentance from the women’s suicide, the hunter also followed suit. Sheesh, finally, the woodcutter also committed suicide in the same manner.” Disbelief coats the tone of her voice. “The powers above turned the three spirits into deities called Ong Tao. But our Chinese Kitchen God is called Zao Jun, also Zao Shen.”

I push my empty plate to one side. “Delicious, prawns are very fresh.” I pluck a piece of Kleenex tissue from a nearby box and wipe my lips. “Yeah, Ripley’s Believe It Or Not wouldn’t even buy this story.” I crumple the tissue into a ball and leave it on my empty plate “Though not often, I’ve seen our Kitchen God depicted with two wives. Why?”

Sifu Sabrina crosses her legs. “The legend goes like this. Zao Jun left his wife for a younger vixen, err woman. He later became blind, got dumped by his mistress. While begging for food, he chanced upon his wife’s new home.” My BFF puts her fork down on her empty plate, releases a whisper of a burp and rests both palms on the counter. “You want Chinese tea? Tikguanyin.” Her gaze hops to a nearby ceramic pot and I nod. “Out of pity, the wife took care of him. Later, Zao Jun recovered from his blindness, recognized his wife. He got so remorseful that he leapt into the kitchen fireplace.” Sifu Sabrina fills two cups with Tikguanyin tea, glides one cup to me with a delicate palm. So, that’s why he’s sometimes depicted as having two wives. They help him record our doings.”

I take a swig of the tea and an exhale seeps through my lips. “Why you don’t have the Kitchen God?”

The almond shape of Sifu Sabrina’s eyes thin with apparent annoyance. “Like I said, women can’t pray to the Kitchen God.”

“Naughty, naughty.” The bite in my tone vibrates with jest. “You don’t have Kitchen God, so your bad deeds are not reported.”

“Hey, look at other side of the coin” Sobriety steals over Sifu Sabrina’s features. “Good deeds are also not reported, right? So, the absence of the Kitchen God is like a double-edged sword.” Sifu Sabrina hops down from the stool, her breasts wobbling like jelly from the impact of landing on the floor. “Come, let’s eat the bakkwa.”

/end

Sifu Sabrina and Mummy Lulu chat about Tai Sui and other related matters

2023-01-15T23:15:00.003-08:00

Her thick lashes lift as Mummy Lulu takes a sip of her jasmine tea. “Who’s the Tai Sui for 2023?” She replaces the cup on the marble top of the table and crosses her legs, exposing thighs with varicose veins in the high slit of her blue qipao.

To music from the plucking of the guzheng from somewhere, Sifu Sabrina adjusts the collar of her beige qipao and smoothens its front. “General Pi Shi,” she answers. The feng shui doll is wearing short hair permed with a wave, harking to the dizzy days of Old Shanghai. “His sensitive directions are north and west.” The female sifu hefts a ceramic pot and re-fills Mummy Lulu’s cup, decorated with dragon motifs. “Zodiac animals offending him are Rabbit, Rooster, Horse, Rat, Dragon. As usual, lots of prayers by these folks.”

Ten minutes ago, Sifu Sabrina stumbled upon Mummy Lulu in the spick-and-span Starhill Gallery. “Hey, we’re both wearing qipao!” they exclaimed together. They decided to talk shop in a nearby tea house, whose entrance is disgorging a sweet fragrance.

Mummy Lulu picks up a spring roll with ivory chopsticks and starts to eat, talking with her mouth full. “Isn’t the praying of Tau Sui just a money-making activity for temples? I’m skeptical—quite skeptical—that there’re 60 deities—God knows doing what in Heaven—taking rooster duties affecting a person’s endeavours.” Mummy Lulu raises her eyebrows, dark eyes in a squint. “Tell me, who discovered Tai Sui? When? How?”

Sifu Sabrina shrugs. “I don’t know.” She rests her hands, fingernails varnished beige to match her qipao, on the table. “To know more, go to Tai Por Kong Temple, also called San Jiang Miao. It’s on Macallum Street Ghaut, Georgetown. You can see 60 statues of the deities there.” She takes off the lid of the teapot and tilts it on its rim. “Talking about praying to Tai Sui, its most neglected aspect is not to thank the outgoing deity for his past blessings. This sending-off ritual can be done after Dong Zhi and before the first day of the first Lunar Month. People should do it out of courtesy.” A waitress appears, refills the teapot with hot water and the feng shui bombshell replaces the lid.

“Forget it!” Mummy Lulu snorts. Previous year has been horrid for me. Bad luck and a few misfortunes. And I was not in conflict with him. So why should I thank this bugger?” A scowl crimps Mummy Lulu’s expression. “General He E, if I remember correctly.” The scowl fades away. “But I’ll be happy to welcome the new Tai Sui. Though I’m not a strong believer in him anyway.”

“Come on, at least, General He E let you survive 2022!” Sifu Sabrina throws her head back and laughs. “So, when are you leaving KL?”

Mummy Lulu takes out a tooth-pick from a plastic container. “I can only leave on the 23rd. Papa-san Yap asked me to welcome Cai Sen at the nightclub on 22^nd, first day of CNY. He read on the Internet that Cai Sen will arrive on that day at 1:40 am from the East. This bloke’s a die-hard in traditional customs.” Mouth agape, the mama-san picks at her teeth, then closes it. “Your office closed for how many days?”

“Five. You aware that the best days to restart work are 25^th, Wednesday, that’s the fourth lunar day, and 27^th, 6^th lunar day? So, I’ll be back on Friday. Will be in Penang with my niece.” Sifu Sabrina sips her invigorating tea and her eyes turn rounder, prettier. “I want her to pray to Wenchang Wang. He’s also in the Tai Por Kong Temple. The God of Literature, they call him. Always carry a spectre in one hand. Students who pray to him have better examination luck. I heard some hacks suffering from writer’s block also go kowtow to him.”

Mummy Lulu brings her cup to her wrinkled lips and upends it. “First time I’ve heard of Wenchang Wang.”

“Yes, unknown here. But in Taiwan, this deity rivals Confucius in popularity. Got two temples dedicated to him. Both in Taichung City.” Sifu Sabrina looks at her wrist watch. “Finish drinking? Then, shall we scram?”

/end

Safety tips for long-distance driving home for Chinese New Year, given by Debbie Ding, defensive driving instructor

2023-01-12T21:42:00.001-08:00

“How about some tips for safe driving back for CNY reunion dinner?" I ask Debbie Ding, owner of Debbie School of Defensive School in Cheras, Kuala Lumpur. Our gazes meet and a smile lights up in Debbie’s eyes.

Slouched in my chair across her, I try not to stare at her face, but my gaze has a mind of its own, travelling from her shiny curls dancing on her bare shoulders, down a butter-coloured top and to beige jorts that mould every curve.

Debbie rests an elbow on the arm of her chair. "Start the journey early, which means getting enough sleep the night before." She rests her delicate fingers of a folded hand on her chin. "Before the journey, send your car to a workshop for an inspection. Ask the mechanic to check for frayed belts, worn brake pads, loose wires, level of water in radiator, engine oil and suchlike. If your tyres resemble a worn-out rubber mat, change them immediately.” A scowl flits across Debbie’s face. “Prefer the highways to trunk roads. Trunk roads are notorious for accidents during festive seasons.” The tone of her voice matches the scowl on her face. “If travelling with children, bring some toys, finger snacks and games to keep them occupied. Have a potty, baby wipes and a few plastic bags ready."

Debbie rises from her chair, goes to the coffee maker, pulls out a paper cup and makes coffee from the machine. The aroma of cappuccino swirls in the air. "The night before, put a few damp face towels in a plastic bag and leave them in the fridge,” she says, tossing a sunny smile over her shoulder. “Take them with you for the journey." My eyes follow the jaunty sway of her hips as she walks back to her desk and places the paper cup in front of me. Steam billows up, misting my spectacles. "Use the towels to wipe your face once in a while to stay fresh and alert. Don’t drink too much water unless you don’t mind taking a leak behind a bush as rest stops beside highways will be packed with travellers. Never, never multi-task while driving such as eat, kiss, apply lipstick or use the cellular phone."

She plops back on her chair which whooshes like air from a punctured balloon, leans back and crosses her legs at the knees. "When driving, observe speed limits and avoid road hypnotism on straight roads by occasionally glancing to the sides. Play some sentimental music to calm frazzled nerves. Women who love to wear heels should kick them off after getting into the car and change to flats to drive."

Her red lips curl up in a grin. "Last but not least, have a strong rope ready so that you can tow your car to the nearest workshop if it breaks down."

A chuckle escaping from my throat, I lift up the paper cup to take a sip of the acidic-smelling coffee.

Debbie sticks both fists together. "Gong Xi Fa Cai to your readers and have a safe journey home. Happy driving.” Her smile is as bright as the afternoon sun outside.

/end