Bourdainism

Many people write well. Yet many more people travel extensively. But few and far between are those who combine the two eloquently. Even functionally.

A new literary hero of mine, much like Enid Blyton in the 80’s and Stephen King in the 90’s, transformed travel journalism into an art form, setting a standard few can follow. Anthony Bourdain. The introduction of Discovery Travel and Living in my 3rd year of medical school has made me re-think about my career choice. One of the main reasons lie in his landmark show "No Reservations", where he travels the world and eats street food, food without pomp nor pretension. The way genuinely good food should be.

What a dream job it must be then. Given the gift of gab and adept journalism, to meet, eat and greet, from all corners of the world… and getting paid for it! Surely you jest!

Alas, my path has already been written for me. And what I have to follow, is my (probably only) stab at travel journalism, and for the first time ever, the introduction of photographs into this blog. My next few posts will then be, of my 12 day jaunt in northern Vietnam.

Let us begin, then.

Forget Yesterday

Pop music is dying a tragic death, isn’t it?

I could talk about music all day, armed with my fussy ears and 90% of my musical knowledge acquired from Wikipedia. A classically-trained pianist with little love for classical music, and a reluctant pop radio surfer trying hard (and failing mostly) to like the music that’s intended for my generation/species. Bottom line is, I might not know what’s good, but I know what I like.

Since the introduction of hit-oriented songs tendered for heavy rotation (with a generous chant of "screw you!") by Astro, we have been force-fed with songs we are supposed to like, rather than being allowed the freedom to explore our own musical horizons like in our parents’ time. All genres have bleeded into one genre, pop. Although everyone dreads the word normally associated with all-singing, all-dancing, well-mannered people regurgitating the same songs with the same chord progression with the same vocals and even the same lyrics… all songs sound more or less alike now, following the tried and tested formulas of bands and egos who have blazed the path way before them. There is no such thing as genre-specific radio programming now. Now it’s just "hits", "remixed hits", or "golden oldies".

I listen to radio more for the banter of the deejays, rather than the songs they are playing inbetween. Every song they play is an opportunity to channel-surf until the least offensive song is on-air. Thank goodness we have 6 English radio stations to choose from. But there have been more than an instance where something crappy from Sean Kingston was playing concurrently in 3 radio stations. What the hell!!!

So where can we trace the rot from?

A quick wiki-search (naturally) narrowed down the blame to a handful, but the more prominent one I would propose is a Mr. Maurice Starr. He was not a hungry, creative, aspiring musician with a musical template to draw upon, no. Rather he thought in the guise of a mathematician and businessman, and incorporated a formula into music. I don’t think this has ever been done before. The formula was simple: they can sing, they can dance, they look good, therefore they can sell records.

The era of the producer has begun, in 1984. And his greatest product? The New Kids on the Block.

To paraphrase Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club, eternally immortalised by the celluloid manifestation in Brad Pitt… "we are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world." Groups (they do not deserved to be called bands) were formed to the liking of producers with newer formulas, looking for able and willing people willing to cash in their 2 minutes of fame early. Musicality suffered a stunted growth especially for people who wanted to start their own bands because all they had for influence, for an idea… were already the mass-produced ear-candy on radio. Verse-chorus-verse-chorus-chorus-chorus. They had to dig elsewhere. Their dad’s record collection, perhaps.

Thank God.

The Beatles, The Stones, Led Zep, The Smiths, Pink Floyd, The Who, The Clash, Dylan, Brian Wilsonthey were remembered. In the mid-90’s came the Alternative era… Cobain, Vedder, Cornell and the like fronted their bands into a new, exciting time for music. Until Smells Like Teen Spirit became too popular for its own good (at the heavy price of Kurt Cobain’s life) and Vedder-clones came about everywhere! And let’s not forget the nu-metal travesty.

We needed new heroes.

Year 2001 saw the rock revivalist era. Young, hip (often-skinny) lads who knew a thing or two about music started jamming together short, near-perfect pieces of music. And they drew lots of attention. Spearheaded by the landmark album Is This It by the Strokes, music had a beacon of hope once more. The White Stripes, The Vines, The Hives, BRMCmusic sounded good again, one band at a time. Self-made, self-produced bands were in again. And now the people demanded better music to be put out on radio. They do not want manufactured pop anymore. The garage rock era propelled another batch of new, hungry bands forward… until the realities of the music business became smack-ouch-clear again.

A business is still a business. See a pattern forming?

For every White Stripes, we have 5 or so Simple Plans (boyband). For every Arctic Monkeys, we have another 5 Sum 41s (boyband gone "punk", tongue firmly in cheek). Some bands straddle the line between art and commercialism brilliantly, making unconpromising good music that can still be enjoyed by many on the radio. Much kudos to Foo Fighters and the Chili Peppers for showing how it can be done. But the sad fact remains that for every good radio hit we have to endure 9 bad ones.

Out of the ashes… a new era is forming, again. The MySpace era. Self-bred musicians making music for the love of music putting their work out for free listens for anyone who would love to hear something new, and different. College music networks who propel the new unsigned bands to untold heights. They may have a hit or two on radio, get a good record deal, and either thrive or succumb to the constraints of fame, and good money. I have grown far too used to listening promising bands that turn out to be one-hit oneders. Think Hoobastank. Think Alien Ant Farm. The beauty of this is we can always move on to the next band once the previous one falters.

But two bands have surprised me so far this year. A surprise so great, it’s startling to the point of scary. Put your hands together for My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy. First the former. Initially more well-known for their all-black uniform and eyeliners and two hits. Helena and I’m Not Okay (I Promise). Ditto to Fall Out Boy (music for the Simpsons generation?) with Dance Dance and Sugar We’re Going Down. Fantastic radio singles, but their albums were uneven. I was ready to dismiss them yet again, but guess what happened. The boys grew up. Singles-driven bands became album-driven.

The Chemical Romance’s Black Parade was a stunner. What band do you know of who had the gall to put out a concept album for its 3rd release? Even the Beatles took a full decade before Sgt Pepper. And the difference is, while most concept albums fall under their own weight of pretention, MCR made one that’s way too good for the band’s young age. Uniform in its theme of death, reflection and renewal, they take you through a journey through its macabre, unflinching and warped viewpoint of a man approaching death. Listen not to the radio singles, listen to the album in its entirety and marvel at its coherence and ambition, like a horror comicbook brought to life! Emo has new heroes… forever!

The FOB bear the unfortunate label of everyone’s new favourite college rock band. This label of course spelled disaster for any band aiming for longevity. And they answered back, hit hard with the thoroughly imaginative "Infinity On High". A band as clever with its melodic sensibilities and lyrical creativity, which band do you know of comes up with such gems of wordplay like "the carpel tunnel of love" and "I’m just a painter and I’m drawing a blank"? As with all songs, the melody pulls you in at first… but creative lyrics guarantee repeated listens ("come for the food, stay for the fun" :P). FOB are masters of both right now. And though the excesses of fame has taken a bit of a toll on its members (Patrick Stump’s weight, and Google Pete Wentz), I look forward to their future releases. As of now, Me And You has taken permanent residence in my auditory centre and is refusing to move.

We want this era to last, we want this era to be good. But eventually copycat bands will come and dilute the market, and we are yet again in search of new heroes. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy honest-to-goodness commercial music while it’s still fresh. In an era where everyone can have 5 minutes of fame (thanks YouTube), it’s not fair to expect a landmark album from every band. And I have slowly learnt to lower my guard of obnoxious pretention and *try* to enjoy radio for a change. I know, I’m an unforgiving music snob.

Very recently, a song hit me.

"Throw it away
Forget yesterday
We’ll make the great escape
We won’t hear a word they say
They don’t know us anyway"

The throwaway verse leading to the huge chorus, the A-B-C chords, the nameless faceless everyboy lead singer… all the cornerstones of a one-hit wonder… after all who is this band with the uncreative name "Boys Like Girls"? What chance do they have for long term success if every song in their album sounded like this one?

But I couldn’t resist.

The verse might be anonymous, to build to the fantastic, unforgettable chorus. The A-B-C chords are uncomplicated and easy to the hear, a love at first listen… and I do not wish to unlayer every facet of a Radiohead song everytime I listen to music, no matter how good the critics say they are. Sometimes simple songs work best. And the nameless faceless lead singer? His vocals are soaring, carefree, encapsulating the spirit of summer ‘07 in his wake… I actually miss singing and performing because I heard this. The Great Escape by Boys Like Girls turns out to be one of my favourite songs this year. And I really hope that their album is as good as this one single shows the promise of a new band.

After all, why be a music cynic forever?

It’s an exciting new era. No point sounding like a jaded old fogey yearning for former glories. And with the advent of MySpace, peer-to-peer, suggestions by amazon.com, metacritic.com, there has never been so much choice in the music you desire to listen to. Who needs radio anymore?

I look at my dad’s music collection, with much envy. He has amassed, over the years, an enviable, eclectic collection. Albums recommended by Audiophile, an impressive back catalogue of classical music (Herbert von Karajan was his all-time favourite), folk music with difficult names (Los Indios Tabajaras), aged-like-fine-wine Chinese opera and instrumentals, The Shadows, John Williams, Billy Vaughn, Merle Haggard, Frank Mills. He had been trying hard *not* to listen to radio a generation ago before I did. He had the pride and bragging rights of someone who assembled a music collection to be proud of. I am merely starting on my own.

It’s time to love your music, all over again.

Hate That I Love You

I was at a near loss for topics… until the radio came in and I listened to every word of the song they played. Sometimes I hate this song for being so right. The melody pulls you in at first, the trademark Ne-Yo sound. The It boy singing with the It girl Rihanna. I am transported to 2004 again. And so begins the verbal tour-de-force.

[Rihanna]
As much as I love you
As much as I need you
And I can’t stand you
Must everything you do make me wanna smile
Can I not like you for awhile?

[Ne-Yo]
Cos you won’t let me
You upset me girl
And then you kiss my lips
All of a sudden I forget (that I was upset)
Can’t remember what you did

Brings back a time, happier sadder times. Certain, confusing times. Pining, repelling times. Never one without the other. They came together hand in hand, the inseparable opposites. Two words to describe me and her, as well.

[Rihanna]
But I hate it
You know exactly what to do
So that I can’t stay mad at you
For too long that’s wrong

[Ne-Yo]
But I hate it
You know exactly how to touch
So that I don’t want to fuss and fight no more
Said I despise that I adore you

She knew all the ways to drive me crazy, in both the good and bad ways. I was attracted to all the rights and wrongs that make up the person that was her.

[Rihanna]
And I hate how much I love you boy
I can’t stand how much I need you
And I hate how much I love you boy
But I just can’t let you go
And I hate that I love you so

And you know what? I think the feeling’s mutual too. Moving on from each other was one of the toughest things we went through.

[Ne-Yo]
And you completely know the power that you have
The only one that makes me laugh

[Rihanna]
Sad and it’s not fair
How you take advantage of the fact
That I love you beyond the reason why
And it just ain’t right

Short and intense it had been. There were times that she pushed the self-destruct button, and there were times I wanted to fling myself out the window.

[Ne-Yo]
And I hate how much I love you girl
I can’t stand how much I need you
And I hate how much I love you girl
But I just can’t let you go
But I hate that I love you so

But in between, nothing but sweetness. Bittersweetness, in retrospect.

[Both]
One of these days maybe your magic won’t affect me
And your kiss won’t make me weak
But no one in this world knows me the way you know me
So you’ll probably always have a spell on me

One of my close friends actually said something like this. That’d she’d always have a spell on me. Ouch, you know. Sure it’s been a few years already, and sometimes you look back and wonder at what exact moment everything fell apart. And you know what? I can’t recall.

[Rihanna]
And I hate that I love you s
And I hate how much I love you boy
I can’t stand how much I need you
And I hate how much I love you boy
But I just can’t let you go
And I hate that I love you so

Ever been in a relationship you could not wait to get out of, but once you did, you feel nothing but hollow? Hurts like hell.

[Both]
And I hate that I love you so

I hate to admit this, but somehow they managed to condense a few years’ worth of shelved memories into a 4 minute song, and made me think all over again has anything been worth it at all. It’s genius. Pure, sadistic genius.

I’d love to say the feeling’s gone, but nevertheless, I’d love to talk to her again.

I picked up the phone and dialed her number.

It’s a busy tone.

That damned song.

Self-defense

Problem: I crave duck rice.

Solutions:

In KL:

-Dress up (don’t want to look like a slob in the capital).

-Get out of the house before 1030am so there won’t be overcrowding in the LRT. BUT cannot take the LRT before 9am because of the morning (c)rush hour.

-The LRT is crowded anyway. Lots of love from Rapid KL.

-You give up your seat to a nice old lady because the bugger next to you pretended to be asleep.

-Interchange at Masjid Jamek station. In Singapore and Hong Kong, interchanging is a matter of walking towards a parallel lane 10 steps away. In good ol’ KL, it means climbing a flight of stairs, getting out in the hot sun, following the crowd across the street, up an overhead bridge, 500m of walkway, past a flea market, (praying hard before) going past a zebra crossing, buying another ticket, and finally arriving at the "interchange".

-Realise you’ve just got onto the train that goes the opposite direction, trip delayed 10 minutes while you exit the current train and wait for the one that goes the right way. LRT staff mumbling the next stop in another language through the PA did not help.

-Arrive at Hang Tuah station, walk 1km to Sungei Wang, unless you’d like to pay RM1.20 for a 5 second monorail ride that takes 10 minutes of waiting. Includes all the risks of the previous step.

-An hour after leaving your place, you finally arrive. Order and eat. Duck, yay!

-Realise that you took all the trouble to get here, and spend the day shopping instead of heading back home so soon. And all the more you’re dressed up!

-Realise you’re RM100 poorer. (It was on offer! Now I just have to get matching shoes!)

-Mental note: must get back to LRT station before 5pm. Ramadan month, before 4pm. Otherwise a deadly cocktail made of irritated workers’ sweaty armpits and tapau-ed chap fan await you gladly. Or take a taxi and risk daylight robbery, figuratively or literally. Sometimes both.

-Arrive home 7 hours after you first craved duck.

-Curse yourself.

In KL (alternate route):

-Take the car.

-Leave house before 1030am but after 9am, the same rules apply.

-Pay 4 kinds of toll. Lots of love from Samy.

-Realise you don’t really know the roads that well, and stick to the main roads. Jam. Jam jam jam.

-At least you have Mix.fm. They sound so bloody chirpy you want to cekik them.

-Road signs point to the same destination in TWO OPPOSITE DIRECTIONS. Is blue the highway or is green the highway?

-Take the wrong exit. No U-turn in sight for the next 15km. Bye bye fuel.

-No more road signs. Much later you learn that the road signs were stolen by metal thieves.

-Refuel at Caltex. RM50 gone. Ask for directions. The two staff inside argue over who’s right.

-Both gave the wrong directions. You are pissed and hungry. You head home after finally finding a familiar road sign.

-Arrive home. Hungry as hell. Call for pizza.

-30 minutes later, pizza boy is confused by your address. Jalan and Lorong makes a humungous difference you see.

-Another 20 minutes later, pizza boy arrives. He got your order wrong and your wrong pizza is soggy.

-You realise you are too pissed and hungry to care anyway, and slam the door at pizza boy’s face.

-You eat. Yay! Who craved duck in the first place?

-Consider taking public transport next time.

-Curse yourself.

Back home in Ipoh:

-Take car.

-Drive to Yeong Wai’s 5 minutes away.

-Eat.

-Come home in time for Top Gear.

Lesson of the day: You might have your Chili’s and your TGIF’s, but my eyes will only start to wrinkle 50 years later.

Another lighthearted session brought to you courtesy of today’s fine lunch. In Ipoh of course.

Epilogue: You crave for duck rice in Batu Pahat.

-Take car.

-Drive around for stalls that sell animals that look like duck.

-"It’s a pet shop? Sorry."

-Found one 5 minutes later! Success!

-Eat. Not all that good, but at least it’s filling.

-Enjoy your diarrhoea the next morning.

Hip Hop Hooray?

I hate hip-hop. There I’ve said it.

I’m sure they serve a function somewhere… for moving your feet at least. R&B beats techno in any club any time. Techno is so bad any more words written about it would suffocate me. But more likely than not (97% of the time according to a reputable statistician ie. me) hip-hop is ammunition for some coked-up guy to vent his "feelings" or stoke his magnanimous ego. Tell me what other things do they talk about other than guns, revenge, bling, babes and how good they are. They don’t keep diaries, they don’t have best friends, they don’t blog… they drop rhymes, yo!

Remember when J.Lo was dating P.Diddy and she had this (s)hit song out that goes "Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I’ve got I’m still Jenny from the block, used to have a little now I have a lot, da da da da I know where I came from." Can you think of any worse reason for writing a song? An ego-stokin’ song telling us she has no ego? Am I supposed to laugh at the irony? My God. Puffy spread the disease to her!

And most of the time you can’t hear what the hell they’re saying. How does that one go? "I got friends you got friends, I got friends you got friends, you can lean in the right won’t you lean in the right da da da bullshit." Then there’s another club classic that I swore I heard "Is your mitts… on the floor? Well is it? Let me know… you can sit on it run it run it you can sit on it da da da bullshit." If you know which songs they are please let me know. Rewards guaranteed. A pat on the back.

Even if you can you can’t stand what they say anyway. You work all day, boss spews shit at you all day, and you put this CD on, and its one guy spewing shit at another for an hour plus. Jay-Z/Ja-Rule, Death Row/Bad Boy… they got your number. They don’t MSN, they don’t call, they don’t talk it out… they drop rhymes, yo!

And ALL of them have the most uncreative names ever. No point using a real name, when I got this special name… to drop rhymes with, yo! Yeah true. Thanks to yous speshial names all, I can’t tell what the hell difference there is between Cam’ron and Common and Chamillionaire, Lil’ Kim and Lil’ Mama and Lil’ Bow Wow and Lil’ Wayne and Lil’ Mo, Ja-Rule and Jay-Z and Jakeim and Jadakiss, Young Jeezy and Yung Jocs, T-Pain and T.I, Snoop Dogg and Nate Dogg, Ciara and Cassey, Nelly and Nelly Furtado, Mario and Mario Winans (I could swear they’re the same person), Notorious B.I.G. and Hilarious F.A.T. Hint: One of them is fake. ;)

And 50 Cent is damn ugly. I just had to say that.

Then came the ultimate travesty ever. I swear I wouldn’t have written this entry if this person didn’t come along. Akon. The human duck. Sings like one, sure as hell dresses like one. Suddenly tries to go for "producer of the year" with all the collaborations/abominations I’ve been force-fed on the radio. Everyday in the car, you hear an OK song, then in the middle bit you think "why is there a duck singing in the background?" then the DJ announces its Akon. Fitting. Why, just yesterday there was this fantastic comeback number by Wyclef Jean… it’s a bloody catchy song, then in the middle… "quack quack quck quack". What the…? Absolutely ruined it.

I know I shouldn’t bash Akon. He worked hard, he paid his dues. Maybe he thought he’d bring something fresh because no one in music history ever sang like a duck before. Hell, all credit goes to him for promoting inter-species love. He is the pioneer, yo. Have you ever wondered how a chipmunk and a duck would sound like together in a song? Wonder no more! You have Akon’s first single "Lonely". You can’t get a duck much less a chipmunk to do stuff for you, they’re hopeless animals except for meat, but he got a duck and a chipmunk together in a studio to drop a song, yo!

Imitation=flattery. And I blame Akon for bringing forth his first (and hopefully last) imitator… Sean Kingston. The second man in musical history to sound like a duck. The man who could kill music forever. That sei fei jai. As if killing off the memory of the glorious "Stand By Me" wasn’t enough. Everytime I hear that song on the radio I feel like shooting someone, most likely the record company exec for giving this Daffy Duck a recording contract. And THEN, he did the near-impossible with his second song. He killed off the memory of Led Zeppelin’s "D’yer Maker" and its glorious backstory… and it was so horrendous it even had time to kill off Sheryl Crow’s updated cover for the 90’s. When the music dies, I will no doubt blame one and only one person for it. Sean Kingston. Sei fei jai. Stop making music!

Sei fei jai.

Sei Akon.

Sei fan cheong.

Thankfully, in the immortal words of Optimus Prime… someone will rise from their ranks to "light our darkest hour". May I present to you the only three acts I listen to… the saviors of hip-hop. One for all, once and for all. Kanye West, Timbaland, OutKast. If not for them I would have forsaken hip-hop entirely.

They choose their samples wisely, break new ground with their collaborations (Kanye and Chris Martin! Timbaland and Fall Out Boy!), and for once, write good stuff that’s not only about guns, bling and babes. I breathe a sigh of relief. 3% of hip-hop is worth listening to after all. And I totally relish the fact Kanye trumped 50’s ass in sales.

This has been my totally biased and skewed opinion of hip-hop. Obviously 97% of this article was written in good fun, and I’m entitled to my opinions of Akon and Sean Kingston.

That human duck.

That sei fei jai.

Back

From a month of holiday. Anywhere, everywhere but home. Like the old Bon Jovi lyric "living off a suitcase".

A coupla things I miss.

-Jogging, I missed a full month of a workout program, will start again very soon.

-Hogging, the computer all day. Still no sign of employment or a free wireless internet connection near my house, so a cybercafe for 1-2 hours a day will have to do.

-Flogging, the recesses of my mind for any thought experiments. Reading la.

-Clogging, your consciousness with my selfish thoughts and opinions.

-And blogging.

I shall start again now.

Patriots

It’s raining out… what a lovely, lazy morning.

I will be cut open for this, but as a kid, one of the first few times I believed in praying and religion as a whole, was when I prayed hard for Sunday evenings to be rain-free. So that I would have free reign at the pasar malam within my area. I would always say "rain the other 6 days of the week, I don’t care, but as long as Sunday evenings are kept dry…" I was a happy camper.

The pasar malam here has existed for as far back as I remember. From the humble beginnings of just selling food and vegetables and fruits in the 80’s, the addition of clothes (pirated), everyday utensils (cheap), baked goods (for school the next day) in the 90’s, and finally the pirated CD/VCD/DVD revolution that dominated the late 90’s until now. The pasar malam has always been a part of my life, and honestly I cannot imagine life without it.

Everyone else can have their daytime bazaars, jumble sales, morning markets, country fairs, I just prefer the solitude, anonymity and sheer delight of shopping in the dark, in your most relaxed tees and shorts.

Many people here would agree with me still, that the pasar malam is a part of our national identity. What makes us Malaysian. Along with Dr. M, Siti, mat Rempits, tongkat ali, vandalism, PAS, Proton cars and other things less embarassing, the pasar malam deserves its place among the higher ecchelons of our collective pride.

Like I said the pasar malam in my area has existed since the 1980’s (and possibly before that but it doesn’t count because I wasn’t born yet). And for as far back as I can remember, it has this peculiarity. All the shops with white lighting belonged to the Chinese, and all the stalls with yellow lighting was Malay. And for my pasar malam, we would start off with a 500m or so stretch of Chinese shops, then towards the tail-end, there would be a good 200m of Malay shops. Now comes the weird part. Between the Chinese and Malay stalls, there would be 50m of darkness, no stalls in between, no lighting whatsoever. Total darkness. So if you had to walk from the Chinese shops to the Malay, you’d have to cross 50m of road, in total oblivion.

No one knew how to explain the 50m gap inbetween. Maybe it was because the Malay shops were located closer to the student hostels of the nearby polytechnic, maybe that dark area was haunted, maybe the good people need to walk a bit more for their fix. And it only happens here in my area, everywhere else the pasar malam is just a messy grid of stalls.

But all the same, every Sunday evening (unless it was raining or when I prayed less), nearly every patron of the pasar malam would do the same. Depending on which end we started, we either began with the Malay stalls or the Chinese stalls. And after traversing through those stalls, no matter who we were, we would all, with no exception, cross the 50 metres in total darkness to get to the other side.

Imagine this. A kelompok of human beings of all ages, shapes and sizes. From being illuminated geisha-white, to being tar-black, to being jaundice-yellow. All in the name of covering all the pasar malam stalls.

We, the coloured people. National unity indeed.

Our nation is 50. Half a century old, baby. Sometimes I wake up and feel privileged, sometimes oppressed, sometimes with apathy, sometimes with empathy. But its a wonder that I can wake up every morning, set a list of things to do, and go out and do it. Some countries consider that a luxury. I nearly take this for granted.

Happy birthday then. Less screw-ups for the next 50 please?

Heartbeats

The heart beats a trifle faster.

Nothing to be alarmed of, this is to be expected. After all, it is the only thing standing between me and my degree. My darling precious medical degree. My cursed forsaken medical degree. Love and hate in equal measures.

The last one. The big kahuna. My semester 10 finals. One long case and one exit viva to go. I stand outside my patient’s room, not knowing who awaits inside.

Of course the heart beats faster. Just a trifle.

Haven’t I dreamt of this feeling since I was a kid? A kid who saw his dad see and manage patients on a daily basis; whose entire time in school was geared towards a medical career ahead (fittingly, this kid hated maths with venom too); who saw the kindness in his dad’s eyes and the gratitude coming out of patients’ mouths; and of course a kid who dreams of one day NEVER having to take exams EVER again.

This is the last one after all. Until my specialist exam… but let the kid dream awhile ok?

I had to take the hardest route here possible. Chinese school, compulsory subjects, exam-oriented, A-oriented, teachers who only looked after the top students, best friends are your closest rivals, bloody Form 6 for 2 years, dodging the quota system… I’ve fought long and hard. Too long and too hard to think of any notion of going back. All my friends have already started working. Some are married with kids. I am still a singleton in university. A college kid. One step down, and I have only my STPM results to show for. Nothing else, no diplomas, no nothing. What the hell…

All those thoughts in my head… I have to shelf for at least another 2 hours. 2 more hours and I’m home free. Do or die, baby.

The bell rings. I step inside my alotted room. A middle-aged woman sat near the desk, waiting to be interviewed by who she hopes is a medical student in the final stages of his education. I block all my thoughts… took a deep breath. Only one thing on my mind now, to find out what this woman has.

She was a wonderful historian. She told me her entire story from A to Z, pausing so I could clarify a few doubts, pausing so I could write down fleeting details frantically, pausing because she thought she was going too fast.

"No, it’s ok aunty… go on."

An hour later… I am whisked away from the room while we collect our thoughts on paper. As I collected my papers I realised she would be the last patient I saw in medical school. I had to remember her name, and I did.

An audible clock ticked, as if taunting the innocents. Slower and slower the 15 minute break ended, and the death knell approached. I was taken into another room for questioning. And as I opened the door, a sigh of relief came over me… I was not in the bad books of any of the lecturers inside the room.

"Present the patient’s history."

I gladly did. And as I did, I subconsciously counted the seconds and minutes to go before time ran out. In that room either time would run out or the lecturers would run out of questions. Either way, it was your last chance to impress them. Otherwise, you get to see them again in 6 months. A thought too traumatic to bear.

You show off whatever knowledge or wisdom that had been imparted on you for the last 5 years. You carry your words confidently and stylishly, because you know your patient inside-out. You have a reason, a justification for everything that has been done for the patient. And finally it’s just the combination of you and your nerves, hoping to impress the hell out of the 3 lecturers seated in front of you.

The questions came surely, conversely, automatically… like clockwork. None too diffucult, none too easy… after all their prerogative was to pass you, unless you harm your patient. All the same, the only thing audible inbetween the questioning, answering and the taunting clock… was my heartbeat. Ready, steady, faster.

Was half an hour too much to bear?

Mercifully, the bell rang at the half-hour mark and another room awaited with another set of lecturers. They held our portfolio, what could be said as our thesis. Our life’s work, condensed into a 300-page text. Detailed histories and managements of 10 patients. And they would question us from every nook and cranny, every corner and crevice, and they well made sure we knew about our patients.

"Tell me this patient’s age?"

That detailed.

An examiner from Malayan University headed the portfolio questioning. An unfamiliar face, not an unkind face, but certainly not someone you would cry to if you have troubles. She looked stern and sure. Was she a faculty member ready to welcome me into the realm of doctors as a colleague, or was she holding the proverbial magnifying glass, hoping to expose and blow open whatever weakness I had? The timer started and the questioning begun. I held my breath.

My final set of questions nearly sent me into a cardiac arrest. This particular lecturer was not at all interested in managing a patient, he was way more into research and evidence-based outcomes. And his questions threw a curveball.

"What kind of study is this?"
"Is this kind of study validated for this kind of drug?"
"Do routes of administration of this drug affect the study’s outcome?"

I sweated bullets, yet answered in a tone that hid my nervousness and sense of what-the-hellness boiling inside of me.

Are you trying to fail me?

I lasted 30 minutes, 30 sweat-riddled, angst-filled (not the teenager variety), panic-inducing minutes. Feeling like I have suffered 3 heart attacks in a row, I exited the room. And as I turned the doorknob and shut the door behind me, a strange calm washed over me.

I thought I did enough to pass.

It’s over.

5 years of toiling in the sand, the stone, the rain, the mist, the havoc, the storm.

It’s over.

No more examinations for a long time.

It’s over.

And yet, a certain kind of emptiness. I told myself.

It’s over.

My heartbeat slowed down almost to a lull. Maybe it knew more than I did.

Songs

My life is a veritable soundtrack, where I am chief sound editor, song selector and ultimately select the final 20 best songs to be released on CD for the most profits. Sometimes I wish I could be more mainstream, so more people could relate to what I’m saying; yet sometimes I wish I could be more indie, ala the OC soundtracks… more arty, but you tend to sound overinflated while you gloat over your superior musical choices… but your audience do not know what you are talking about.

Ultimately, why not a blend? I take it from my dear friend Yean Koon, who says that she has enough music in her head NOT to get an mp3 player. She always has a song for every occasion. A rock lover who occasionally strays onto the unknown, which might turn out to be rewarding in the end. She can rattle on about Fall Out Boy and Hoobastank with the best of radio listeners, but when I ask her what she really listens to… ah, an eclectic list of relatively unknown musicians pop up. Mark Ronson and Christopher O’Reily anyone?

Ok, my point. There is a song for every moment. If you one day you become the director of your own autobiographical movie, surely you want every song for every pivotal moment to be the right one? They do it on TV/movies all the time. Can you actually watch Back To The Future without the theme? Star Wars? Remember the moment in Grey’s Anatomy which practically made Snow Patrol famous in the US? Songs have an otherworldly ability to make or break a moment.

But sometimes God can play funny tricks on you. Sometimes I don’t have a song in my head and God sends me one through the radio. No joke. It is so oppurtune it is scary. Like the time in my obs and gynae posting when I finally completed my quota of deliveries. Exhausted by yet another midnight shift oncall, but fantastically happy because I can finally rest easy, after popping out a baby boy from his mother’s womb, I turn on the radio… and this song hit me.

"I feel so alive, for the very first time
And I think I can fly…"

"Alive" by POD. How long have their music not been played on the radio? And I get it the moment I expected it the least, like a wallop to the head. So who’s alive? Myself or the newborns? Either way it was an appropriate song. And the time I completed my final medical examinations… pop into the car, and this song plays.

"Never again will I hear you
Never again will I miss you
Never again will I fall to you"

"Never again" by Kelly Clarkson, as an ode to my final exams for a long time. God truly has a sense of humour.

But with all that has come and gone the last few weeks… results day, graduation, convocation dinner, goodbyes… how can a handful of songs represent the plethora of emotions and thought running through one’s head? It is near impossible… and my head is empty for once.

I will write about graduation and convocation dinners… there are lots of really nice photographs to share. But only when I’m ready. For now… everyone’s still in the euphoric-catatonic-separation-anxiety-don’t send me to Kelantan phase. Let it rest. In the meantime, the radio makes pretty good company. Inbetween all the nonsense rubbish by Akon and his imitators (why does he even deserve imitators!!!) who picked up his "singing like a duck" ability, there are a few gems in between.

"Hey there Delilah" is pretty pleasant. You can substitute Delilah for any 3-syllable name and dedicate it to anyone. :) I can think of only Emily… or Genevieve, which sounds better when sung. Or any standard 3-syllable Cina name lah.

"Time After Time" is a song I cannot get out of my head at the moment. A rock-radio update which I think sounds better, if heavier than the original. Now it’s finally alright to sing a previously girly song because these guys did it! Hitting high notes have never been more fun.

"Stronger" by Kanye West, NOT Britney Spears reminds us why its alright to listen to techno again. Along with a slew of songs I wish I clubbed to but never found the opportunity… "The Way I Are", "Give It To Me", "Umbrella", "Shut Up And Drive"… damn. But that one night in Aloha after convo dinner was fun, courtesy of Sarjit and co. The unbelievable coolness of "Sexyback" followed immediately by the what-the-hellness of "The Final Countdown"… I know, Nithia, I know.

"4 in the Morning" by Gwenny Stefanny reminds me of the endless nights of study in Batu Pahat, and a firm reminder that a simple melody can latch on to your subconscious like mad. Like mad I tell you. The first time I listened to this song I could not get it out of my head. And so I pressed the repeat button again and again. Jill shares my sentiments on this, and this has gone on to become "our song". Haha.

"Thnks Fr Th Mmrs" by Fall Out Boy had a video made with monkeys! Which guaranteed instant success. That aside this song is crazy addictive especially the clap-your-hands part. You wonder why this song isn’t used for goodbyes and happy occasions until you listen to the words… "thanks for the memories even though they weren’t so great"… oops.

I wonder why no one played "Graduation" by Vitamin C during our convocation… it would have been superb, appropriate and totally emo. I know I used that "e" word in the wrong context… I don’t care.

To remember the previous life that was in Semester 10, Batu Pahat… the radio was all I need. And strange as it is for me to say it, I miss that place already.

The End.

Dad,

I made it.

I hope I’ve made you proud.

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