And now for something different

Like everyone, I don’t feel all that patriotic this Merdeka eve. Maybe it’s the son-in-law’s fault. The politicians. The blatant corruption, the subsequent denials when said corruption is uncovered, the attitude that if you say something loud enough and long enough it’ll be true. 2 + 2 = 5! True story.

This isn’t going to be the typical (as expected of someone at my age) bitter, cynical, world-weary message you’ve come to groan and cherish, though. While signs point to a Thailand-sque situation where the unenlightened working-class masses are in full support and the middle-class minority dissent since they know the full picture, I’d like to think we’re better off. Or not.

I don’t watch TV anymore, but I caught the most eye-rolling inducing advertisement today. It’s the one where that Chinese boy in primary school professes his love for his Malay girl friend to the camera with a little prompting off-screen. I personally find the “interracial-marriage cures all racism and evils!” propaganda disgusting, and I thought our dear Yasmin Ahmad could do with a little less self-insertion. Yes, we know you have a Chinese boyfriend. Get over yourself already.

And ending on that note, we all could do with a little less rose-tinted glasses right now. Who really cares about that kid sampling our national anthem (notice, boys and girls, that splicing it to fit into a song is not the same as mocking it)? We’ve got more important things to take note of. Good thing we’re all sitting up and paying attention.

Happy Birthday, Malaysia. I’ve never felt so indifferent about a birthday before — would usually just forget about it or remember it — but you’re getting along in age. It’s time we stepped in and cured your Parkinsons before it gets worse. Happy 50th.

The will be that was

Young Writers Camp 2007 was an unexpected groundswell of growing up. A newly-discovered pocket of maturity. Somewhere along the lines of always being the follower, I was none too abruptly grafted into the role of leader, complete with a little screaming and kicking along the way from the inside. It’s a weird feeling, surely, a far cry from being the small kid the older ones would dote over and indulge in their little ways; from being the one laughing at the jokes to the one cracking them.

But I’m sure I’m the last of the old crowd. Almost everyone’s left, as people do when they grow up. Some have university to attend. Others — well, alright, most — aren’t even in the country to begin with. Then there’s that multi-headed Hydra, that tenuous beast called Work. A terrible fate indeed.