FILM | My fave five and three-thirds films

I'm a weeper. Crying at the movies comes so naturally to me, I do not my trust my tears. I have been moved to tears at good movies as much as I have cried at calculated, mediocre movies. My tear glands are that gullible, yes. But the rest of me knows the difference. Good movies do not just make me weep, they also leave me shaken, as if a couple of my organs have changed positions. Some stay on my mind for a long time, others make me want to watch them a second time. Here's my list of the year's best:

1. A History Of Violence
2. Sympathy For Lady Vengeance
3. The Hidden Blade
4. 3-Iron
5. The Wayward Cloud
5 1/3. King Kong
5 2/3. The Hand
6. Ydessa, The Bears And Etc

1. I don't know what it says about me that the top three are either violent, about vengeance or both. But David Cronenberg's A History Of Violence - a taut turn-on of a movie in which a gentle, married guy (Viggo Mortensen) may or may not have had a homicidal past - was so powerful, I didn't know how to tell other people about its power. The most I could manage was, "It's very good. Viggo's very good..." It's very, very good. Mr Mortensen's very, very good.

2. When revenge is your name and your game, you are a person who insists on living in the past. So it makes perfectly poetic sense that in Park Chan Wook's Sympathy For Lady Vengeance, a would-be avenging angel calls a meeting in a classroom with the parents of children who were murdered by her enemy, they get a class debate going on how to kill the murderer and after the deed is done, they sheepishly pose for a class photograph.

3. Yamada Yoji's The Hidden Blade has, for my money, the most quietly astounding assassination scene of the year.

4. The next two belong on my dream double bill of silent love stories. In Kim Ki Duk's 3-Iron, a wordless, homeless man roams Seoul with a woman he has rescued from her abusive spouse, occupying the homes of people who are away on trips, never speaking - ghostlike. From broken appliances to prized golf clubs, objects are as much a part of the movie as people. But by focusing on the physical, Mr Kim somehow finds the metaphysical.

5. In Tsai Ming-liang's The Wayward Cloud, a porn actor and his love traipse through Taipei silently, joyously. They don't speak but they do lip-sync and dance in musical montages.

5 1/3. Peter Jackson's King Kong, in which an ape falls wordlessly for a human actress, might have made it a triple bill. But two-thirds of the movie are too noisy, too Jurassic Park...

5 2/3. Clothes are sex, they truly are. In Wong Kar Wai's exquisite, erotic short, The Hand, tailor meets girl, tailor doesn't get girl but tailor gets to dress girl up.

6. Agnes Varda's new short, Ydessa, The Bears And Etc, is a provocative, playful piece about a bizarre art exhibition which consists of thousands of photographs of people with teddy bears. Girls with bears. Boys with bears. Naked women with bears. Nazi men with bears. Boys pointing toy guns at bears. Et cetera. Armed with a camera and a curious mind, Ms Varda, 77, is having some serious fun as she explores the deceptively innocent display of photographs. She's my heroine.

Foreign talent

They are all around us. They could be the taxi man from Hong Kong, who quotes the Tao Te Ching to you as he drives. They could be the boy from Indonesia, who answers your queries in Hokkien as he peddles freshly-trafficked passion fruit on a piece of canvas in a corner of a market. Or they could be the man from South Korea, who sells you $20 LV wallets at the same market.

I met him on my way home last night, the cabbie from Hong Kong. I had been in some sort of taxi-stand rage outside the Heeren, because it had bloody annoyed me, how those at the head of the queue wouldn't walk an extra step to board a cab as soon as they saw one. They wouldn't speed things up for everybody else in the queue. They would rather stand still, wait for the taxi to stop right at their feet and make everybody else wait with them. Grrr.

By the time I did get a cab, I was still so angry that the first thing I said after my address was, "What's wrong with them? Why can't they take an extra step? Why can't they spare a thought for everybody else? They'll be the death of me."

"They don't mean to do it. It's habit," replied the taxi man in Mandonese (Hong Kong Mandarin).

His accent alone was hilarious; I forgot my anger; and as he recounted to me the gahmen's many policy reversals, he turned out to be both concerned citizen and aspiring comedian.

The taxi man: "It's like when you fry a small fish. One side isn't cooked yet, you flip the fish. The other side isn't cooked yet, you flip the fish again. You flip, flip, flip, the fish falls apart before it is cooked."

Me: "Yes, doesn't the Tao Te Ching say so, too?"

The taxi man: "You read it, too? Yes, as it says, 'Rule a big country as you would fry small fish.'"
(He knew the book by heart!)
"They don't read the Tao Te Ching. If you don't read old Chinese books, you should at least read fairy tales. They should at least read Aesop's Fables."
(He pulled out then a book from a plastic bag, on lessons to be learnt from the fables.)
"Fables are about human nature. How do you govern without knowing human nature?"

On and on he went about SMRT Taxis, the economy and ERP, and as we neared my neighbourhood, he explained what it means now that an HDB home-buyer has to go to a bank, not the gahmen, for a housing loan.

"When people couldn't pay the HDB back, they could get their MP to talk to the government. But when you can't pay the bank back, even if your surname is Wee, even if your grandpa is Wee Cho Yaw, it will be no use, you will be sleeping on the street."

He has been here for 40 years, the taxi man. He might have been taken out of Hong Kong but the Hong Kong wise guy has not been taken out of him.

A-wu

Since I'm still here to tell you this, it means only one thing. I haven't been kidnapped by Takeshi Kaneshiro - haven't even come close - and soon he will have come and gone from Singapore. And the world will have read about what a bastard he was, apparently, at an interview with two journalists here.

A few days ago, for a few happy hours, the interview was a dream assignment that had come to me. (I was so drunk on my daydreams, you have no idea.) Then the assignment went to somebody else, who came back from it saying it was a nightmare. What went wrong?

Now, Takeshi is here for his movie, Perhaps Love, which is about a jilted lover. On one hand, you do understand why a journalist, fishing for a good read in a 12-minute interview, would go hook, line and sinker for it and ask him as a first question, "So how many times have you been jilted?" And on the other hand, you don't have to be Einstein to understand why anybody would clam up at this question, do you?

But it is just as well that I wasn't there. I don't know the real Takeshi and I don't need to, as much as I did dream of being kidnapped by him. I know the make-believe movie Takeshi - the beautiful boy with the soul of a fat boy - who needs reality?

A vehicle for catharsis

Was on my way to Party World yesterday; my brother was on his way to Great World; so we shared a cab. One night more than one year ago, in the backseat of a different cab, he had told me all about his new girlfriend then. Yesterday, he updated me on all that had gone wrong with her since, then asked for my advice. I had no wise words for him, just Yodaisms. Our cab got to Party World. I alighted, all upbeat, to go KTVing with Ms C and Ms H.

But his confession caught up with me. Somehow, I was choking back tears when I did my duet with Jay Chou on 一路向北, a break-up song set in a car, and got to: 你说你好累 已无法再爱上谁 风在山路吹 过往的画面全都是我不对 细述惭愧 我伤你几回. Somehow, I had to sing the song three more times, each time with Jay's original vocalising on.

Ms C and Ms H indulged my madness, thinking I was just being my usual daft Jay-loving self. By the fourth time, Ms C, who is heavy with child and was also heavy with lunch, had curled up on the couch for an afternoon nap. And on I rasped uselessly, wholeheartedly but not as full-throatedly - the song was now some sort of sad lullaby.

BOOKS | How I made the mistake of leaving my brain at the door of Howl's Moving Castle

I'd forgotten how fun it could be to read a book collectively.

A few friends of friends, friends and I met as a book club tonight to talk about Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones, a truly charming children's book, my friends, that should not be judged by its cover or cinematic adaptation. So charming, its magic was lost on me at first.

I went to it last month, wanting to lose myself in it. I love Wynne Jones' Charmed Life. I like love stories. How could I not love Howl's Moving Castle, a love story by Wynne Jones? But I did not and it was a disappointment. I was in denial, however, and when anyone asked me, I would still say, "It was nice."

Then I met up last week with my friend, Ms N. A really alert reader, she once observed of a sentence in AS Byatt's Possession about a male character's sexy smile that it seemed out of place. We later learnt Byatt had added the sentence to the American edition to sex up the character for American readers. So Ms N had read Howl's Moving Castle and as we talked about it, it was as if we had read different books.

In my book, there is a girl, Sophie, who has aged decades because of a curse. She goes to the castle of a wizard, Howl - who might or might not be an evil eater of girls' hearts and who was born in Wales - and comes to be his cleaning lady. There is a fire demon, Calcifer, who is bound to Howl's hearth by contract. Calcifer sometimes sings what is known as the saucepan song.

There is much more in Ms N's book: "The saucepan song is a real Welsh rugby song...Calcifer must have heard Howl sing it...so Howl is a man who sings when he cooks, he's adorable."

Wynne Jones, you see, does not so much write as sprinkle her story all around, as if it were magic dust; you have to read between the lines to connect the dots; I realised, after my meeting with Ms N, I had to reread Howl's Moving Castle.

At the book club tonight, as more of us talked about Howl's Moving Castle, more of it came to light - to life. Someone asked how a girl like Sophie could love a guy like Howl. I forget what I answered but it was enough to made Ms N turn to me and say, "You're a romantic."

Maybe - then what you have heard is the tale of how I fell for a book.

A humble translation

DA YE

By CHIP TSAO

In 21st century Greater China, there is an up-and-coming class called da ye (the lord).

One Hong Konger puts down another with – “Aren’t you cocky, are you a da ye?” Mainland free-and-easy tourists have been panned by Hong Kong media for pooing and peeing in Disneyland and Chinese netizens wilfully come back with – “Da ye has spent the money, I’ll do as I please.”

China’s da ye and his ilk have wreaked havoc in Europe, speeding on Germany’s roads and roaring with laugher as they shop in Paris’s designer stores. Da ye has the money, you’ll do as you please? Sure. But you have disturbed the order and harmony of world civilisations; you have provided the best proof of the Yellow Peril; you are the basis for the China Threat theory; you and your ilk have sowed the seeds of the next rash of anti-Chinese outbreaks in the world.

How does one say da ye in English? In English, king and beggar alike refer to themselves as I; in Chinese, an emperor refers to himself as zhen (the sovereign). Even zhen is not as ruthlessly oppressive and insufferably arrogant as da ye, though his mandate is from Heaven and he is the most da ye of all under Heaven. The Chinese emperor never referred to himself as da ye. He sometimes spoke of himself as gu jia (my humble self) or gu wang (the humble monarch). The empress dowager and other palace-bound, unhappy women followed his lead and referred to themselves as ai jia (my mournful self). It was all self-effacement. What they meant was: Grand as it is the palace, it is cold at the top, nobody knows of my misery.

So in Chinese culture, a modicum of modesty was the most important in references to the self: a civil official such as the prime minister, who wielded administrative might, referred to himself as bei zhi (your meek servant); a military marquis such as the commander-in-chief of the Nine Gates[1], who commanded three thousand armoured soldiers, referred to himself as mo jiang (your inferior general). Scholars announced themselves as wan sheng (your junior); rich men and landowners referred to their wives as zhuo jing (my humble wife) or jian nei (my lowly wife); the most proper universal designation was bi ren (your lowly servant) or zai xia (my lowly self). This was the Chinese civilisation.

Bandits and pirates alone referred to themselves as ye every time they opened their mouths. “If ye is not wanted here, ye will be wanted elsewhere, if ye is not wanted anywhere, ye will enlist in the Eighth Route[2],” – if one did not thrive as a thief, there was the army, if the Nationalist Army did not take one, there was the Communist Party. Forest and mountain bandits alone oft had the word ye on their lips; their business was pillage and rape; they referred to themselves as da ye and they were not mistaken. Once upon a time in Beijing, luminaries, too, were addressed as ye. A son of a rich family who roamed the brothels was hailed from afar by tea boys and doormen in the eight hutong – “Welcome, San Ye.” This San Ye, Er Ye, Ba Ye or whatnot would be wearing brocade and jade, with fan in hand, and he would be smiling as he walked to the door and cast a name card. This was yesteryear’s cultured China.

In today’s mainland, the “get rich first” crowd have become the da ye class, with civilian Lai Changxing[3] as their economic ambassador and military man Zhu Chenghu[4] as their foreign-affairs spokesman. Looking northwards, there is no Divine Land, only a reptile park crawling with da ye. Is this still China? How in the world would I know?

[1] The city wall of Beijing had nine gates.
[2] The Communist Party of China led the Eighth Route Army during the Chinese Civil War and the Sino-Japanese War.
[3] Mr Lai is called the most-wanted man in China for his alleged involvement in a multibillion-dollar smuggling operation and is now in Canada.
[4] Major General Zhu has caused a controversy for saying that if the United States attacked China while defending Taiwan, Beijing would respond with nuclear weapons.

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter Six

My father isn't a phone person. During his pre-retirement days, we were not to call him at work and he hardly called home. He didn't, and doesn't, have a cell phone. Nowadays, if he has something to tell us when we are at work, my mother - who is deaf in one ear and has a gift of garbling words - is the one who picks up the phone to pass us his messages.

Ma: (In Cantonese.) "Your father says you should buy some shares from that leit today."

Me: "What leit?"

Ma: "That leit." (Maybe five feet from her, my father is saying a word that sounds like reit.)

Me: "What reit?"

Ma: "That one that starts with P. He says you should buy some today. (Now, someone is saying what sounds like prime reit.)

Me: "Prime Reit?"

Ma: "That one that owns two buildings in Orchard. It's in the news today, your father says."

No, I don't have a clue why he can't come to the phone himself. But imagine my bewilderment when, for the first time ever, he called me at work yesterday. Yes, my mother has gone to China for a week, but what could be so crucial, he had to dial my number?

Me: "Lou Dao?"

Pa: "I want to cook a bit of brown rice. How many bowls of water do you add to a cup of rice?"

Welcome to the University of Fans

A mii-haa, if I understand it right, could be a girl with a crush on Doumiyouji - a romantic comic-book character also known as Daoming Si - a grown woman mad about F4 or a grandma crazy about Bae Yong Joon. To many members of the media, she is just another fanatic and the object of her fanaticism, just another heartthrob. They will tell you about this woman who became a full-time F4 stalker at the expense of her marriage or that woman who claimed to have been cured of her menopause by Yon-sama. But scarcely do they try to make sense of what is in fact a force of pop culture.

Which is why what my writer friend, Ms Shimamura, is doing is important. Ms Shimamura, author of such books as All Women Are Mii-Haa!, is writing a book on auntie fans titled Romantic Virus. There are no English translations of her books - yet - but here is a translation of her column for Kyodo News.

Arrival of the Romantic Virus

“Attack of the Auntie Brigade!”

This spring, this headline appeared in a Singapore newspaper. Approximately one thousand middle-aged women crowded Changi Airport when Yon-sama aka Bae Yong Joon made his visit. So the Yon-sama phenomenon, which set the record for the highest number of waiting fans in the history of Narita Airport, is not confined to Japan.

So far, there has been transnational fan movement in East Asia and Southeast Asia for Hong Kong actors, Johnnys and so on. But considering the fact that the Yon-sama phenomenon spawned a great number of virgin auntie fans (a Singapore newspaper’s term) who became groupies for the first time at middle age, Yon-sama deserves special note.

Why?

Firstly, Yon-sama made his debut on TV. The Madams did not need to make their way to the cinema or concert hall. From the first, they could enjoy Yon-sama in the comfort of their own homes. His shows were telecast over, and over again. Hong Kong stars who debuted in Japan through the movies could not boast the same.

Further, Yon-sama and the Korean Wave are part of a national project. Once Mr Bae became a hit with Madams in different parts of Asia, other actors would be shipped in, one after another; heartthrobs would become a national export. The explosive popularity of Winter Sonata was only possible because of the effort and support of the national tourism organisation and other government bodies.

In Japan’s case, the way had already been paved. We had girls’ comics and “junior novels”, and one of the world’s most developed fan media, consisting magazines, star photographs, pictorial books et cetera. Mii-haa-friendly soil was there from the beginning.

Objects of the Madams’ fanatic passion, such as Tama (Saburou)-sama and Sugi (Ryotaro)-sama, have always existed. Matsuken (Matsudaira Ken) is still in the game. The Kabuki Theatre, Kokugi-kan (sumo stadium) and the Koma Theatre – each generation is already provided with a corresponding centre of fandom. What’s more, compared to the couple-centred societies of Europe and the US, Japanese society is more tolerant of women herding together to entertain themselves.

Perhaps the Yon-sama Madams wished to avoid the traditional “auntie course”. They wanted to go wild over something, but not in the senior citizen seats. Hikawa Kiyoshi was not bad, but he lacked sophistication.

It was then that Yon-sama - sweet, soft, and old-fashioned in the right degree – appeared. That there was only the faintest whiff of sex about him was a bonus for the Madams. Yes… With him, one could most safely swoon. They want their hearts to flutter, no matter what age they are. If only in fantasy, they want to be loved by, and to fall under the spell of, a young, handsome man.

It was to that breeding ground in Madams that Yon-sama arrived with the force equivalent, if you will pardon the comparison, to Sars - a romantic virus of unprecedented scale.

And the time was ripe with just the right nutrients for its growth. Many of the Madams have a small fortune. They can fly often to Korea with ease. The population continues to age and the birth rate to fall. They have a lot of time ahead of them. The necessity for pastimes grows more acute. If they aren’t into something, they can’t go on.

They start attending Further Education School overseas at middle, or early old age, saying, “I started Korean lessons after seeing Winter Sonata.” The Yon-sama boom overlaps with the hobby kingdom’s (Japan’s) style.

One could easily diagnose this as a lack of fulfilment in one’s personal life and an attempt to escape from the anxieties of ageing. But once you are infected with the Romantic Virus, there is no going back. That is where the merits and demerits of Yon-sama lie.

Most of the Madams who awoke to “fanhood” through Yon-sama had no immunity to the virus, and for that reason, their fuss was conspicuous. You would expect them to regain their self-possession when they develop an immunity, but no. They will inevitably seek to swoon in deeper, and more varied, ways. As a mii-haa of 40 years who had too strong an immunity to lose her head over Yon-sama, I can say that with certainty.

There is no need to look at the extension of the FTA to conclude that the exchange of human resources and commodities in the Asian region is increasing. I wouldn’t be surprised if new viruses continued to be discovered. This time, will they come from Thailand, or Vietnam?

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter Five

When you're a psycho, your life is lonely and that's how you like it. You enjoy your uniquely psychotic existence. (Have you heard of a stalkers' society or a fellowship of brown rice?)

Alas, have been discovering to my disappointment that I am not alone. Met my JC comrades at a wedding tonight and one of them, Mr Tan, now gets out of bed at 5am - 5am! - on weekdays to work out, then cook the brown rice, greens and chicken breast to be taken to work. Not that I should be surprised. Mr Tan has always been a fascinatingly focused person. He was a straight A student who did his homework on the bus; he would work his way through a physics tutorial paper in pencil and his answers would be correct but so concise that only he understood them and no one could copy them. He has known his wife since he was 14; they have been together for 15 years - 15 years! - and now have two children. And he has always been on a gym-rat low-fat diet; but then it was white rice, egg white, greens and chicken breast every day and now it is brown rice, et cetera.

Then there is Ms L. We travelled together to Seoul on a junket months ago, found a fabulous mall there that opens at 10.30am and closes at 5am, spent hours shopping together and got on fabulously. I meant to talk to her more after the junket. We did not have a chance to chat, however, until the other day, when I saw someone a few steps ahead in a baby doll top similar to the one I got in Seoul. It had to be her. So I caught up with her and soon we were catching up. But before I could tell her about my recent yoga-and-brown-rice regimen - she told me all about hers.

"I've taken up yoga, it's been four months," she told me - I wanted to tell her that so had I but she went - "Lost 7kg leh, I didn't know you could lose that much weight from taking up yoga" - I could not say the same for myself so I went, "Wow," and she said - "I practised every day" - I wanted to tell her that so did I, um, on the days when I woke up early enough, but she went - "Two hours every day till I lost too much weight leh, now it's one hour every day." And she does the brown rice thing, too.

Next to the two of them, I'm a loser psycho.

Taiwan Idol

Taiwanese are bastards but they are more adorable; Hong Kongers are trickier; Singaporeans are dumber; Chinese are more unfathomable - Li Ao, Harbin-born Taipei-based author-politician, after his tour of the mainland

When Li Ao scolds someone on his TV show, it's a spectator sport. He does not so much cross the line separating what you may say from what you may not say as vault way over it. When he calls past and present Taiwan presidents names like wang ba dan (turtle spawn), the right response is something between a gasp and a giggle. Then you wait for the best bit: the bit when, armed with articles, books and anecdotes, he spells out why so-and-so is a moron or worse, a moral midget.

But he is much more than a madman of letters who barks at presidents period. His bite is actually as bad as his bark. He is a bad boy who delights in getting the better of any government. In his own words, a hen jiao se (ruthless character).

Once, one of his homes in a certain county - say County A - was raided by the police for banned books when he was out of town, or so the story goes. The smarty-pants policemen, mindful of how lawyer-happy he was, actually made a recording of their raid as proof that they did not make a mess of his home. But they were not smart enough. Apparently, by Taiwan law, the Taiwan equal of a resident's committee representative has to be present at a raid if a homeowner isn't. As Li Ao pointed out to the police, their recording was actually proof of their illegal raid. They had burned his books by then, so he asked them to compensate him. But they hemmed and hawed.

Meanwhile, in County B, a policeman had seized a Li Ao book from a shop in the belief that the volume was banned. But he had the wrong book. So his superiors, all apologetic, invited Li Ao to tea. They told the policeman to say sorry to Li Ao. They told Li Ao they had demoted the policeman. They thought, "What more would Li Ao want?"

He said, "I want one dollar." So one of them started to fish out a dollar note, but he stopped them, saying, "No, no, no. I want it official. I want a treasury note." So they had to mail it to him: a one-dollar treasury note.

What was on his mind was the story of the Qing Dynasty scholar who once was jailed. It was standard prison procedure then that wardens would supplement their income by beating up a new inmate for a bribe. The scholar, being an understanding man, could see why they would want to beat up a rich inmate. But he could not bear to see them beat up a poor inmate. So he had to ask a warden, "What do you get from beating up a man who has nothing to give?" The warden said: "Sir, you know not how it is. If poor men are not beaten up, rich men will pretend to be poor."

Li Ao had gone out of his way to get his $1 treasury note from County B, to send a message to County A. They got his message - and coughed up tens of thousands of dollars as compensation. He's my hero.

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter Four

It's the eve of Children's Day. My parents have come home from their Journey To The West, bearing their buys from Chinese Turkestan: mutton buns, pomegranates and wind-dried raisins for their greedy grown-up children; and child-size sheepskin clothing for other people's children, like the lovable little terror next door.

My father, the man who gave me my obsessive gene, asks: "Did you cook your brown rice?"

Me: "Yes."

Pa: "Every day?"

Me: "Yes. Day one, I burnt the rice. Day two, I burnt the rice. But you learn after two nights spent scrubbing pots."

Pa: "Aiiiyaaa."
(The Cantonese aiiiyaaa is not to be confused with the Singlish aiya. Aiya implies impatience. Usage: Aiya, I don't have time for your rubbish. But aiiiyaaa, said in a dramatic drawl, connotes concern and is as close as some Cantonese men will ever come to saying, "Poor baby.")
"What did you eat your rice with?"

Me: "Mad cow."
(Translation: The Laughing Cow.)

Pa: "You ate your rice with cheese?"

Me: "Gwai lo fu yu yer ma."
(Translation: It's white men's fermented beancurd what.)

My father falls silent. Maybe it is because he is married to the woman who went to the Silk Road with a jar of fu yu in her handbag so she could eat her rice with fermented beancurd every day.

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter Three

Believe me when I say I'm a slow learner. It's taken me three days to learn that to boil brown rice - as opposed to burning it - you simply set the stove at minimal heat.

Today's rice turned out so right, so beautiful, I ate it with cheese in celebration. A portion of cheese spread by La Vache Qui Rit or The Laughing Cow or as we call it in our house, Chio Goo or Seow Goo. (What to do? Bourgeois is as bourgeois does.)

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter Two

I'm wondering: Did Cinderella get a magic manicure from the fairy godmother before going to the ball? I'm wondering because my nails are a discoloured dark grey now; because I've had to scrub a sooty pot twice in two days; because - yes - I burnt more brown rice today.

Today, remembering the golden rice-cooking ratio, I did one cup of rice to two bowls of water. But at 20 minutes, things started smelling suspicious and I lifted the lid to find that, fuck, the water had evaporated and the rice was blackening. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

If it was my mother, when the food was burnt but still saveable, she would first ground the pot i.e. lift it off the hot stove and lower it to the cold ground, then transfer the unburnt food to a fresh pot for further cooking. Somehow - maybe by an old wives' spell - her food would be free of the bitter burnt taste.

Not being my mother, I did it my half-arsed way. I did the grounding but not the transferring. (Would you want to wash two pots if you were in my shoes?) So I added much more water and keeping my fingers crossed metaphorically and half-watching the boiling pot non-metaphorically, I began to practise yoga poses. But at 40 minutes, when the pot did the rattling thing, I had to come out of the corpse pose at record speed and rush to the stove.

So today's rice was more like burnt porridge, as opposed to yesterday's rice, which was charred, not cooked through - more like burnt pebbles. In other words, I'm improving! I hope the pot holds up. Already, it's scarred for life from all the scrubbing.

PS. Thanks for the tip, dark orpheus. Tomorrow's rice is being soaked now.

BROWN RICE DIARIES | Chapter One

I've been deeply, crazily, compulsively committed to brown rice for a few months now; I have it for breakfast, lunch and dinner; when I go to work, I take it with me in a lunchbox so I won't have to ingest any evil white rice (save when it is served in sushi). My commitment to brown rice was severely tested today, however.

My mother, the one who wakes up an hour before me to cook me brown rice every morning, has taken off to the Silk Road for two weeks. So poor little pampered me had to make myself get out of bed at 6.30am today to cook the rice with what I thought was an idiotproof AMC stainless steel pot. Put rice in the pot, add a bowl of water, put the pot on the stove for 40 minutes: How hard could it be, right? Wrong. Now I'm no good with boiling pots when steam starts to lift their lids a little and makes them rattle. It makes me nervous. This morning, there was no more rattling after 20 minutes. The silence, if I was less of an idiot, should have set off all sorts of alarm bells: Has the pot run out of steam? Of water? Do I add another bowl of water? Instead, I said, "Good, let me read the paper in peace."

By the time I smelled what could have been burnt coffee beans, it was too late. I've since chipped three nails trying to clean the pot, which is still covered with crisps and craters.

The taxi, the jetty and the marriage boat

True love's the gift which God has given
To man alone beneath the heaven:
It is not fantasy's hot fire,
Whose wishes soon as granted fly;
It liveth not in fierce desire,
With dead desire it doth not die;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart and mind to mind
In body and in soul can bind - Walter Scott

A little after 9am, the adorable Ms C, in a lovely lilac dress, came out of her house into her yard to marry her Mr K. I watched the wedding from the gate, where I was waiting for a cab that wouldn't materialise.

Yes I had to be at a church for the next wedding at 9.30am - because yes Ms C, a close office comrade, and Ms Ong, my favourite friend, were both doing the marriage thing on the same morning and I wanted to be at both weddings. I had to. (Am a I wedding whore? Maybe.) Never mind that (a) I live on the western end, (b) Ms C lives on the northern end, (c) Ms Ong lives on the eastern end, (d) I don't drive, and (e) many cabbies don't get out of bed before noon on weekends, to be true to their nature of never ever being there for you when you need them.

So, where was I? Yes, at the gate.

On one hand, it was good that the cab that I had called was so late, I didn't have to miss a moment of Ms C's ceremony. Not one "I will", not one "I do", not one joke by her jolly justice of peace ("don't hold your cert, hold your wife"). On the other hand, it was bad for the cabbie and bad for my karma. He finally found his way to Ms C's house at 9.20am; I wasn't good enough to spare him a scolding. But he's a great old Hokkien guy who ignored my scolding, talked to his friend on his walkie-talkie, and still sped me to the church in time for me to scoot up the stairs, steal in through what turned out to be the back door and see... Ms Ong's bridesmaid and matron of honour marching towards me?

And here's Ms Ong now, all bridal and aglow. And there's her father. And there's the man who will be her husband, Mr Lan. And as she walks towards him - and towards me, because I'm standing somewhere behind him - I try to wave to them to tell them, "I made it! I was this close to killing the taxi man and he was this close to getting me killed with his speeding and my hair is messy but I made it!" I might have been waving like a drowning man but no one seems to see me - and it's fine. It's like when your friends are about to begin a very important journey - that's not yours to take with them and really, with regard to marriage, you're more of the armchair travel type - and the next best thing that you can do is just to be at the jetty as they're setting sail. I'm very, very glad to have got to the jetty - twice - today.

FILM | Cloud nine

Forget all that talk of porn and pubic hair. Tsai Ming-liang's new movie, The Wayward Cloud, is about the state of being deeply disconnected. Much of the sex that's had here is either vicarious i.e. people watching porn, or laborious i.e. people making porn. They're disconnected people having disconnected sex. And amid such disconnections, two people are about to reconnect when they cross paths again in crazy Taipei city - so The Wayward Cloud is really a romance.

Hsiao-kang, once a watch vendor on a skywalk in the city, is now a porn actor. He's a guy who's mostly completely comfortable in his own skin. He's a dreamer. He's been in love with Shiang-chyi since he sold her a watch two movies ago in What Time Is It There? After she went to Paris, he spent his waking hours walking all around the city to reset clocks to Paris time.

She's been looking for him since she came home in the last movie The Skywalk Is Gone. She's a girl who knows how to have fun with her fantasies, even if it's as silly as pretending to be pregnant with a watermelon.

They meet again in The Wayward Cloud on a summer day in a park. (Cue to a celebratory, cheery Chinese oldie as lip-syncing actresses dance all around a Sun Yat-sen statue.)

That night, they say their good-byes at the door of the lift at her lift lobby. Door closes. She's still so blissed out from seeing him, she forgets to push the button for her floor. Door opens. He's rooted to the same spot...

Another night, they cook crabs together. Then they eat them together - almost orgasmically. Then he sinks under the table to smoke a cigarette - almost post-coitally. She slides down to the floor, too, and holds his cigarette with her toes, as he puffs on it...

Yet another night, they don't walk, they waltz through the city. She's barefoot and balancing on his feet. He leads her in small dance steps...

They don't talk. That's a tiresome rom-com tradition not necessary here.

Planned parenthood, Buddhist-style

For a moment I think about taking the FBI to a bed somewhere, but immediately I realise this is a consequence of the defilement from yesterday. This is exactly how karma is generated, through craving arising from craving arising from craving. Just because I successfully negotiated the charms of three beautiful women, with the help of JBO and an astronomical investment by my Colonel, I now feel I can fuck the FBI with impunity. But the Lord Buddha taught 2,500 years ago that there is no impunity. In more elegant language than I can muster he warned that you always pay for pussy, one way or another. For example, if we go back to Jones' room at the Hilton, one of two things could happen. She could enjoy it more than I or I could enjoy it more than she. The keener one immediately becomes the slave of the other, with disastrous consequences for both. I think it likely that I would initially fall under her spell, which gets more powerful every day. Having trapped me, she would use her abrasive genius to nibble away at everything about me which is alien to her: my belief in rebirth, my spiritual dimension, my meditation, my Buddhism, my preference for huge doses of chili in everything I eat. She would not realise that she would be turning me into an American, but by the time I'm living with her in some luxurious but soulless suburb in one of those cities in America which look like all the others, conscientiously working at the sort of work immigrants work at, speaking with an American accent now and forced to go underground with my chili habit, she will have started to hate me because I will have become a millstone round her neck and the lust will have run out a long time ago. There might even be a child, which of course will make things a whole lot worse, because our mutual karma will include this third person. After death, no matter how hard we try, we will be reborn in circumstances where we will be forced to continue where we left off. We will be sworn enemies by this time, and I will probably be the dominant one now, due to the way things have to balance out in the universe. No, I am not going to fuck her today - Bangkok 8

FASHION | In the mood for qipao

it's a warm day and i've been working up a sweat from squeezing in and out of ma's qipao. raiding her wardrobe has turned out to be more rewarding than going through other people's clothing at a flea market.

we have a wedding to go to two months and four days from today. it's a good girl friend's wedding, which in my book is up there with dressing up for your own wedding. yesterday i got that crinkly green silk frock from warehouse. today it was ma's turn to wonder what she should wear. she's been outgrowing her clothing - it might be menopause - so when she says, "i have nothing to wear," she means it more than most women.

ma: "what about that skirt i got from this fashion last week?"

(it's a big black boho skirt. it's nice. it is also (a) too casual, (b) too young for her. i don't have the heart to tell her, however.)

me: "no lah. no lah. what about your qipao?"

soon, she was taking them out to show me how they were too tight for her: a baby blue floral one, a red one - and a red and white beauty with white buttons on the bodice. i was in love.

ma had narrow boyish hips and she still does. it's mostly her waist that has widened. my hip measurement is 40 inches on a good day - obviously, i didn't get that from her. so, her qipao are too tight for me, too. some serious alterations are needed soon.

happy birthday tony

a few friends and i had a party on sunday in honour of tony's 43rd birthday. everyone - except ms c's boyfriend, mr k - had to be in character as one of the girlfriends from tony's films.

ms s (left) as maybe maggie from in the mood for love and me (right) as gong li from 2046. i was so seriously in character, i had one glove and one pack of playing cards, okay?