On opening a Malaysian pub

Because there are simply too many German/Irish shit pubs in Penang.

My partner and I will call it BUBBA CHILLS. It will be at Kelawai Road, right next to Gurney Paraporn. Well, somewhere near that vicinity anyhow.

It will have records of classic 60's and 70's bands/singers all over, and it will play the funkiest tunes of the hey-days of rock. If anyone wants, and if they don't play shit music, they can play live at BUBBA CHILLS.

Smoking will be allowed. Matter of fact, it will be an absolute must.

There won't be peanuts served, but prawn crackers. Less messy.

We will serve good old pub food. BUBBA GRILLS. None of the inedible spaghettis and whatnot. We will serve steak, bloody and true, with a good serving of chips. We will serve Ramli burgers for just twice the price. Fish and chips, none of that Dory shit. We will serve you fish from the market if we have to!

Partner has requested for desserts. BUBBA DESSERTS. Doesn't exactly rhyme, but I haven't come up with one yet. Best I've got right now is BUBBA MEALS. For lunch, you know. Pretty neat.

And our beer will be inexpensive. None of the unpronounceable German stuff. We will serve you manly beer! Tiger! Anchor! And if possible, Buds and Red Stripes and Fosters. If you want expensive beer, go somewhere else. We just aim to get you tipsy and happy.

Now all we need are investors. Call me.

On waitressing part two

Yesterday was a bad night for me. I was daydreaming most of my shift, I couldn't concentrate, and for all the run-in sentences in the world, my nose was giving me a bitch of a time ('flu). My senior was upset with me because he had to take some orders from my table, I had no idea what 'chow mein' was, and I took orders from diners who were halfway through their starters. Not very polite.

But things improved in the end. They had to, otherwise why did someone tip me personally? And before you can say 'because you're female,' there were other waitresses there as well. Maybe it was the refill of tap water, or my insistence that they needed another bottle of J20. I don't know, all I know was that I was behind the bar drying glasses when they were leaving, and the guy just shoved some money in my face. Really. He just waved his fist full of change in front of me, and at first I had no clue what was going on, till he said, "Take it." Embarrassed much, because my bosses and my senior were watching. Oh, the teasing afterwards. Best thing was, the tipper was Chinese, and we all know how stingy we can get.

Ego boost, definitely. Made me smile the rest of the shift away. Still brings a warm feeling to my heart now, actually. Makes going to work tomorrow something to look forward to.

Afterwards, not only did my boss offer me a cigarette at the end of my shift, he offered me a beer as well! The cigarette was nothing new, but the beer was. It's pretty common here, I guess, but free beer for Julia means eternal gratitude. Dear younger boss, I will slave for you. Just don't mind me day-dreaming, as long as the beer keeps coming.

Edit: And I know that this post had nothing to do with multitasking whilst defecating. My apologies. Next time.

Edit edit: It's still snowing, bitchesssssssss.

On foggy nights

I am reminded of walking through South Park, half-drunk but scared shitless nonetheless. And yes, Jo, I will not walk in parks after dark anymore.

I was supposed to go to London today, but changed my mind when I woke up. The weather was too depressing, and besides, I'm trying to save up. So I went to the accommodations office to see if I could move out (would save me a lot on rent each month), but unfortunately it appears that I've signed a contract with the devil. No moving out until June. Even if I did, I'd have to pay till then. Aw hell. Pun intended.

So I came back to my flat grudgingly, made a mess in the kitchen cooking spaghetti, and took a nice, long nap. The way a pacifist rebels. Ain't no better way. Watched two Studio Ghibli films back to back. Could have been mistaken for John Lennon's bed protest had I had round glasses and a Jap lady with crazy hair by my side.

Pretty pointless post, taking a break from writing my utterly depressing story about a mad, mad woman.

Tomorrow's update:

Multitasking: How to defecate and change your toilet roll at the same time.

On my fourth month here

Kate Walsh playing in the background, a cup of tea in my right, a cigarette in my left, watching the snow fall outside my window. This is a moment I want to remember forever.

On Chinese New Year 2012

I went to a place called Opium Den. It's actually a restaurant, and I found the name to be on the same page as Penang's 69 by the beach. Misleading.

That was for dinner, and I paid good money for below-average crispy noodles. I don't want to start the year complaining, but damn, that was one lousy dinner. I had myself a bottle of Tiger beer, the price of which could buy two back home. But then again, I earn in an hour roughly what part-timers in Penang would earn in five. You don't convert, sometimes. For the greater good.

Walking home was fun. I tried to think of a story in my head but I guess I was having too much fun watching my own shadow. I need to get back to writing after a month's break, but I think that my New Year's resolution of writing more might have just jinxed it. Touch wood.

Halfway walking, as usual, Ms. Tan needed to pee. So she popped into a pub on the way back, had an uncomfortable pint of beer, and rushed to use the toilet upstairs. Funny place, this is. They like to put their toilets on the first floor and make you walk up flights of narrow stairs. Sadists, pure and true.

Then, because it was still early, I popped into the library to collect a book I'd reserved. There were about four other people in there, it was pretty empty for a Monday night. Normally, the lack of people and the amount of dark corners would have scared me, but I found it to be pretty cosy. Went against my jittery nature, for sure.

After that, because I didn't feel like being alone on Che Eet, I went to another pub down the road from the Uni. Had another uneventful pint, and retired home.

Sounds pretty sad, I know, compared to what people were probably doing back home. Firecrackers and gambling and stuff. But over here, it's just another night. Like what my Mongol colleague said when I wished her Happy New Year: "It's the New Year? Doesn't feel like it, huh?" On the head, girl!

Oh, and this has been my first post for the year! Dong dong chiang!

Edit: Some guy who used to live in England would have said that I lead a sad life and Manchester's a much better, happening place, but buckaroo, I've been there, and I do not like that place. This hobbit prefers more quiet, picturesque locations.

On saving up for a Ferrari

Browsing through Facebook, I saw on Lim Guan Eng's page photos of the opening of a Super Car Club. At first, I thought, 'Supercar? Do they fly and are they allergic to kryptonite? Do they wear their engines inside out?'

Then I saw a photo of a fleet of Ferraris, and I realized that 'Super Car' actually meant super expensive cars, not cars with super powers. Silly me.

I saw a photo with a group of middle-aged men, presumably the owners of the super cars. I said to myself, 'I need to bag me one of those.'

As I rolled about in bed, I scolded myself for my shallowness. Bag me a rich man just so that I'll have my own Ferrari? Christ, I don't want to do that. I'll just buy me a goddamn Ferrari with my own money. Much more gratifying.

I'll just have to take on about ten jobs, work 24 hours seven days a week, not eat, and camp in a cave. I guess I could eat, I could trap pigeons and stuff. I might even grow my own tobacco to smoke. Ferrari, you will be mine one day!

A bit of a rant

If you must know, the irony was that when I was in Penang, I could not write above three pages. Now that I am here, I cannot write below three pages. Half of it might be drivel, but one stays hopeful nonetheless.

I am only halfway through my assignment story, which has a quota of 4,500 words, and I'm already at 5,210 words. Damn. Much editing to do. Snip snip.

My glasses and I

I'm not used to wearing glasses, although I think I might need them all the time (and friends tell me that I need them every time I say I see a cute guy). Granted, when I was a child, I begged my mum to buy me glasses because they somehow had this cool factor to them. So we went to the optometrist, where I lied a bit during the eye test, and got me my first pair of glasses. I think I was nine. The frames were reddish-pink. I wore them a few times and forgot about them.

I turned twelve. Same story, same ruse, and I got me a pair of silver-framed glasses. Wore them a few times, then forgot about them.

Might have used the same ruse in secondary school.

Then I started work three years ago, and realized that all that staring at the computer screen couldn't be too good for my eyes. So I got me a pair of computer-screen glasses. I wore them at work every day.

I suppose it's all that screen-staring, or perhaps I'm just getting old. I started noticing that my eyesight wasn't too good at night, especially whilst driving. Not to the point of entirely missing the tree in front of me or anything, just distorted lights. So I went and got me a more powerful pair of glasses.

Which I'm wearing now, at this very moment. When I take them off, I tend to squint a bit. Glasses make life somewhat easier, but I always forget to wear them out. Guess I'm just self-conscious, but maybe I should start wearing them all the time. I'd probably say, 'Oh look, cute guy!' less often, if I started to, but self-delusion can be fun. Keeps ones hopes up.

Now, why don't I speak Chinese again?

I started work last Monday at a Chinese noodle bar. They were amused when they knew that I didn't speak Chinese. Embarrassing much. My protest that I spoke Hokkien was futile when they introduced me to a chef from Fujian. I had to quickly explain that Penang Hokkien is different from the Mainland variety. Bummer.

Then they asked me, which part of China was I from? I said I'm from Malaysia. They said, yeah, but which part of China did my family come from? I said I... didn't know.

They were shell-shocked. Didn't know? DIDN'T KNOW?

I said, yeah, it's been a while since my ancestors came from China... I don't think we have any records, but we guess it's Xiamen or somewhere near that vicinity.

They shook their heads slightly, I could tell they pitied me. Not knowing where your roots were in the great middle kingdom, I suppose, was like cutting your queue off. Oh wait, we already did that during the turn of the previous century. Anyhow, I gleaned that it was really important to know which part of China you were from.

In conclusion, I maintain that I'm not a banana. I speak Hokkien, which is a form of Chinese. AND I'm Malaysian. But if you want to call me a banana, I'm fine with it, although I don't particularly fancy the fruit. Too sweet.

And one day I'll save up enough money to get my DNA tested to find out which damn part of China I'm from, OK? Blame faulty records, don't blame me! Tch.

On waitressing

After five years, I find myself busing tables again. Previously, I worked as a waitress for ten long days in a quaint English-style cafe in Penang. Of course I didn't take it seriously, I didn't really need the money. Plus it was World Cup season, and in the end I decided to quit the job to sit down in the pub next door to watch football instead. World Cup > Waitressing.

I wasn't a very good waitress, I must admit. I lacked the dedication. Not to say I was unenthusiastic for work or anything -- I received an RM15 tip once. Unfortunately it had to go to the tip pot. I just got lazy, decided it wasn't worth it, and quit. 22 men chasing after a ball, hey.

This time around, I actually need to money? So I really need to go to work even if I just feel like experimenting with growing fungi on my head in the darkness of my room. I need to walk the half hour trek to work even if it's -10 degrees Celsius.

And waitressing here is a whole different ball game from Penang. Back home, you give the customer the menu, wait for them to signal to you (sometimes they have to signal manically, especially if they are dining at Dome), take their orders, don't bother repeating it, send it to the kitchen, bring the food out, and if they're seated outdoors, bring them the bill as well. When they're ready to pay, they will begin the signalling process again, and will be lucky if they get their bill before the second coming of Christ.

And if you get a Bangla or Indon waiter, be ready to perform some hand signals. 'No spring onions' would be a tough one.