King Din And His Fondness For Potato Chips

I have a housemate called Din. I’ve known him for a couple of years now and has been a very good friend of mine ever since. For as long as I know him, he’s always being helpful and extremely courteous; loves cats and intensely vocal against child pornography and same sex marriage. And it goes without saying he’s very well-liked and respected among his peers.....

....deep breath, well, as long as he’s not in a restaurant, hotel or any place with ‘Customer Is King’ plaque hanging on the wall. Things, sometimes, can be nasty.

And just not to let you miss out any crucial detail about him here - he has been working with one of the best and finest hotel in KL for 7 years! And Oh yes, he can spell EXCELLENCE SERVICE backward.

Understandably, he has a very high expectation of a la Burj-al-Arab service standard and a very clear vision of what he wants, that most people out there would mistake him for being ‘difficult’ or um,’ someone who thinks the world owes him a living’ and other 'colorful' adjectives that can’t possibly be printed here.

I, for one, still am adjusting seeing those poor unfortunate souls gets thrashed and mauled by him everytime we are eating out, but I know, deep deep, DEEP down, he means well.

Riight, anyway.....

Last Saturday evening we went for a dinner in one of the’good’ restaurants in KL Sentral. It was our first time there and given how fussy and nit-picky my housemate is, rightfully I was a little nervous.

After combing through the menu, I decided to give Chicken Tofu (with no sugar, no salt) a try (I am watching my figure!), while Your Highness Din ordered a simple Fish & Chips and French Fries. The waiter pulled out his little black book and seemed like jotted down dutifully all of our requests. Everything looked fine and dandy from the start so I rested my back and chatted casually.

A moment later the waiter came back, only this time he looked a little...jittery.

Waiter: Bang, we are out of fish. Would you like to try our Lamb Chop instead?

Din (his cheeks blushed with annoyance): No, I would not.

Waiter (astonished): I am sorry, sir?

Din: You heard me. I hate goats. And I am beginning to hate you, too.

Waiter: How about Chicken?

Din: Hate it too. Cancel my order.

His voice sharpened. My forehead was pressed hard against the heel of my hand. This could turn ugly.

Me (under my breath): For God's sake Din, we’re not in Vegas!!!

Waiter (after a pause): You’re right on both counts, sir. I’ll cancel your order.

Din: Wait! The chips and fries stay. I’ve always had rather a fondness for potatoes.

I've always had rather a fondness for potatoes? What was that all about?

Waiter (with new respect): You are hard to be waited on...but soo challenging.

OMIGOD! That was probably the bravest thing anyone in service industry has ever said about King Din. And I think he was just being mellowed.

I should record this. This will go down in history as ‘Din was served with potato chips for dinner and he doesn’t even mind!

I Am John Connor

Mondays isn’t the happiest word anyone would like to use. We dread Mondays. It’s the start of a working week and we’re either still hung over from the last weekends’s awesome party or just discontent about our menial existance.

Me? I just discontent about MY menial existence. I don’t feel like working today. I want a day off. Everytime I think about what happened to me last Friday, I’d sputter into tears and self-hating cries.

I still can’t get over the fact I “offended the authority” last Friday afternoon. I hate detailing the life and redemption of a squeaky-clean, boy-next-door self but this I think is absolutely necessary, at least for my own metal health -- I was served with this.



I imagine this was the work of a thuggish, amoral cop who totes a handgun and parking tickets to strike down his foes. I bet too he has a nasty drinking problem and has history of domestic violence.

I supposed these no-good doers take their orders from a mysterious loom that dictates who gets summoned and which innocent souls’ car would get towed.

My weekend was literally ruined because of them. Big mistake. I guess they just bring out the John Connor in me.

I am not gonna pay. I think.

My Block Is On Fire!

Sometimes horror announces itself in the smallest of ways - like when a bunch of people shouted, "Api! Api!” on your doorstep at the crack of dawn of Sunday morning.

It was 5.57am. I know it for sure cause I was wide awake. I had to pee. Little did I know, I won’t be heading to my warm bed anytime soon.

I hurried up outside to check out what the commotion was all about (please, people here in my block would yell anything to get on each other’s nerves) and to my horror I got the rudest shock of the lifetime. I saw fire. The smell of burning reached out to me and engulfed the building. The smoke had blotted out the light on the corridor.

I felt my breaths were getting shorter and felt the heavy weight of some nameless dread. I alerted Din and quickly grabbed whatever things I can get hold on to - my wallet, my car keys, my expensive handphone and a few CDs ( I’ll explain about that later).

I quickly ran to the stairs, unsure whether my feet would come into contact with the ground or if I would simply go on, right through it. My head was spinning; I thought I was going to faint.

Downstairs, a fleet of cars and fire trucks was parked around the building. They belonged to the police and fire department. The police car – blue and white with a light flashing on the roof.

Thick black smoke curling into the morning sky. I saw faces streaked with ashes and tears. The details are simply not that fascinating, it just that the sight of it tightened the knot in the pit of my stomach.

People say surprises have colorful mode of springing themselves but I could have never foreseen myself getting jolted like this - a bunch of feelings of edginess, drift, despair all meshed up together.

Thank God, no one was harms. The fire started right under the stairs. Four motocycles were burned down to charred. Twisted steel and rubbles were every where.



The cause of the casualty is still under investigation. But from the look of it, all things pointed out to arson.

Man, I feel like I am living in the Bronx.

Throw Me Right Under The Bus!

I don’t feel too good lately and this can’t be right.

After much of that so-called “chaos” in my office last week, I can’t afford to be sick, heck, I can’t even afford to “look “sick - definitely not in front of these over-the-top drama queens – they’ll banish me from this building like I am the source of the death of humanity. Or worse, take my car like they did to that MB’s Camry. Shudder.

I try to remain calm and collected. Powder my nose every hour so that it won’t get too reddish and drippy but sigh, who am I kidding?

He Was Removed From The Building And That Was The Last They Ever Heard Of Him

It was chaos. In a plotline right out of a B movie, everyone was panic. I was totally freaked out and was tempted to scribble off a note to my mother, "OMG! I am gonna die!”. (Though much later I admitted that such overdramatic behavior was uncalled for).

It happened totally unexpected. Two confirmed cases and another ten people diagnosed positive with TB (Tubercle bacillus or Tuberculosis). The whole floor had to be closed down. Everyone must undergo thorough check up that morning.

My office had come to a grinding halt.

Doctors who braved the elements to visit us had only three instructions:

1. To turn off all the air-conditioning units at the infected floors so that the air will turn unbearably hot and damp and fetid, like unexplored sections of of my room, so that the gems will be "baked out” and die. ( I am no doctor but this is what they said)

2. Everyone must take three tests; X-tray, blood and phlegm. No exception, even if you’re busting with health. The most important thing for the doctor to know is what color your phlegm is. Unless it is an offbeat shade, like magenta , this should tip him off. If it is swamp green, don’t bother to show him. There’s no point in upsetting him.

3. Wear mask at all time. Well, unless you are in the middle of ‘’sampling’’ your phlegm test, in which case, do NOT.

Many people are more afraid of the doctors than they are of sickness. They would rather quietly pack it in until they get obvious trouble signs – such as failing out of chair and die.

My tests hasn’t come out yet but I really hope it won’t start with, ‘You’d better sit down for this one’ or ‘I saw your X-trays. Looks like a goddamed junkyard in there’.

I guess for now, I shouldn’t be upset when my friends fail to throw their arms around me. Either way, I think I am gonna have a panic attack.

I Considered A Lobotomy....

I was getting my hair cut the other day, when my hairstylist (another fancy name for an RM8 barber in my own little world) looked at my skull and touched inappropriately on the top of my head.

Felt a little outraged, I sheepishly asked what he was doing,"Oh, it’s just that a little spot on the top here”

I thought I knew I’d lost a tiny bit of hair but certainly it couldn’t be that significant. Aw come on!

When he continued pawing my “crown” a good five minutes later, I became alarmed. “Is it really that bald up there? I asked in panic. “Well, I’ve seen worse”, he offered diplomatically. "..but this good for my fingers".

Of course being the obsessive person that I am, the minute I got home I rigged up an intricate system of mirrors in order to thoroughly view the back of my head.



Sure enough I was losing it (the hair!)

I considered a lobotomy in order to remove that gruesome, heartbreaking memory, but they probably won’t let me wear cap!