Melaka to me is more than just history. It's ghost stories, old families, and aunties who know exactly how I'm related every one in town.

It's a genteel southern ville usurped of glory by the harder, coarser Kuala Lumpur. Were Melaka the capital, I'm sure the country would be a softer, more refined place.

Cruise through the peranakan houses and you'll see many an antique hardwood and mother-of-pearl closet.

No contemporary copies could ever ooze the same sensibility and sophistication. They simply can't make them like they used to, not the least because there's a skeleton in every one of them; marriage, madness, even murder.

Such is the intrigue of Melaka.

(An Anzac Day thought)

I know a mate-at-arms who fell
Fighting in my private hell.
He joked with me, and cussed, and swore
To be comrades evermore.
But just before the clash grew grim
The angels came and ambushed him.
I grieve not why he fell or how
But that he is not here right now.

I'm in one of the oldest temples in Yamagata (山形). It is as austere as the prefecture, too inaccessible from Tokyo to attract the tourist dollar. The exterior is unvarnished. Its pillars are the same grain and colour as the trees that surround it. Its newest signs are poorly typeset A4 leafs in plastic taped-up sheaths, made by typewriter rather than bubble-jet printer.

 

Inside is also rather modest. The main chamber is smaller than other temples' souvenir stands. The gold gilding is sparse but delicate. Its chief attraction is the body of a monk who mummified himself. Not much you can really do with that. It's not like you could make something for the kids out of it that could compete with Tokyo Disneyland.

 

The temple is pure functional art. It houses, represents, and embodies one of the most abstract works of man: religion in the form of ascetic Buddhism.

 

And then on the ceiling is a patchwork of postmodern portraits. A monstrosity in acrylic that could have been perpetrated by a High School protege of Andy Warhol's. Monks smile next to grimacing horse demons, African children, and 90s pop stars.

 

I ask the Abbott why his predecessor allowed the painting but Kayo and Yoshi cannot translate my dismay. To me, it looks like sacrilige, defilement. Like some skate-punk has tagged the Sistine Chapel.

 

The Abbott's unchanging expression is that of a boy telling a joke. "Because he liked it."

Two mates and I are talking about annoying Asian idiosyncrasies.

'A' (Japanese) hates it when Singaporeans suffix 'or not' to make questions. eg, "You have milk powder or not?"

'J' (Malaysian) cringes when she hears people use 'on' and 'off' as verbs. eg, "Please off the light when you leave."

My peeve is not linguistic. It's when Chinese people wave their index finger when making a point, acting like ancient scholars on the rhetoric. It's lost on people who don't get the cultural reference but I find it condescending and hazard a guess that it's related to why the Cultural Revolution purged the brains.

I wonder if anyone else finds it annoying. Or what other Asian mannerisms cheese people off.

I've wanted to be an ARC trooper ever since I watched Clone Wars. Joy when I found this game in my collection. Now I can door breach and signal an offensive maneuver with the push of a button.

Clone Commando units are crap on their own, but invincible with their team. You are 1138 "Boss" of the elite Delta Squad along with 1262 "Scorch", 1140 "Fixer", and 1207 "Sev". Each has a preference (explosives, hacking/slicing, and sniping respectively) but they are all as good as each other. Send one to lob grenades, one to a turret, and another to snipe, and they'll clear out a room faster than housekeeping. In fact, the only one with no skillz is you. So you best give your orders and take cover before stray fire sends you to the big bacta tank in the sky.

Bad bits

Good bits

 

 

PS3: Expensive, no rumble
Xbox360: Expensive, unreliable - I saw a mate's fry last night, that simply should not happen. Some games require HD.

I will buy my 7th-gen console not so much on the merits of one but on the flaws of the others.

Bloody sad.

"You have to understand, Derek, that borrowing is your friend."

My scalp grows taut. My fingers curl.

The mortgage and the dead end job that serviced it took five years of my life and now some punk-ass accountant tells me to play nice with another one. This time, he says, will not be about escaping insecurity but about making profits, gaining access to the big boys' markets, owning the mega-corporations that own you.

 

And then the configuration of numbers on the whiteboard flashes into clarity. I see how gearing shifts the balance sheet. I won't be skimming a cappuccino, but a vat. We're talking millions, baby.

 

My heart still pounds when I think of wearing the shackles of debt again. I guess we'll soon see which is the stronger part of me, fear or avarice. Perhaps friends in greed are friends indeed.

Is asking someone to justify their accusations being defensive?

 

Scenario: Someone's criticising me for something I said/did. Doesn't happen often but it does happen. I question them. They drop the d-bomb without fail. It's as if they are offended by my refusal to submit to their view. Now I'm the one being defensive.

 

I wouldn't be defending if they weren't attacking.