Never try never know

* This story has been sitting in my drafts box for a long time. It doesn't reflect the state of my life now.

Steph and I wake up to the scent of dew and flowers. The sun's halfway through its passage but it feels like morning's just dawned. I look at the clock. It's 1 p.m.

"Um, babe," I ask. "What time do they stop serving breakfast again?"

"Twelve."

"Shit."

I expected Steph to show a little more concern, like the type you show when you lose your wallet, or when you're in the middle of nowhere at night and the car won't start, but all she does is shrug.

"Let's get ready, we might still make it," she says. 

I object with fervour, which in reality is sulking with a little whine.

 "Just change and let's go. C'mon!"

"Fine." 

I grunt and roll out of bed. It's a stupid idea. I've been in the service industry and have been on the receiving end of silly requests. Stuff like slotting a 4 hour appointment 10 minutes before closing time, or asking for a 50% discount just because. I have a very special place for these people. I cast them under the group: 'people with shallow reservoirs for common sense'.

I make a big fuss out of this whole ordeal and I make sure Steph knows that "No one asks for breakfast during lunchtime", but I figure that food is scarce up here, and the breakfast is worth triple digits in ringgits so why not?

It takes us 15 minutes to get ready and we run down to the restaurant only to find the remaining breakfast stragglers up to the dregs of their tea. The kitchen's gearing up for lunch and the breakfast menus have already been replaced with their midday counterparts. The waiter comes over. I feel silly already.

"I feel silly," I whisper to Steph.

"Shh, ask him."

"This um... I feel silly but... we missed our breakfast. Woke up late. Yeah. Um... can we have breakfast?"

My cheeks feel warm. I look at the waiter and wonder if he's casting me into a group. To my surprise, he doesn't even bat an eyelid.

"Sure, sir," I can't make out if his stolidness is benevolent or if he's secretly wishing for my death. "Have a seat while I get the breakfast menus."

One on hand, I'm glad it was a success. On the other, I wish the waiter didn't accommodate us because I'm pretty sure Steph is thinking of seven different ways to say she told me so.

 "I told you—"

"Shut up."

Steph laughs.

As I eat my poached eggs, beef sausage, bacon, beans, cereal, toast, muffin, and coffee in silent defeat, Steph takes my hand and smiles. I smile back. She operates on a different set of rules as I do, and I always assume that if it's not my way, it's not the right way. And she proves me wrong—a lot.

As we finish our breakfast and take a walk in their garden, I start thinking about how many things we pass up just because of the limits we bind ourselves with. Our life experiences help us grow but it prevents us from taking action through fear, but it doesn't make sense to eschew fire—the greatest invention of man—just because we've been burned, right?

Also, I start thinking about how the world is more than what we can sense. Our five senses try to paint a picture of the world for us, but there are so many things beyond our five sense and we'll never be able to understand them because we're just not made that way.

Imagine seeing with your ears or tongue. Imagine having sight that extends for miles or being able to perceive beyond the spectrum of light. Imagine super-hearing or keen sense of smell. There are creatures that perceive life this way, but to us, this is our reality, and if it's not our way, then it's the wrong way. It's weird how we share this world with so many other forms of life, and we each have our own perspective on what reality is. Then I come to the question: What is reality?

So many possibilities, so many angles, damn near unanswerable. Beautiful.

Before I know it, it's the next day, and we wake up at 1 p.m. again.

"Let's go!" I say, one hand holding onto my jeans and the other brushing my teeth. "We're gonna be late for checkout!"

Steph's eyes are half open. She's still in bed. "I don't waaaannaaaaa..." she says.

"Wake up or they're gonna charge us for overstaying."

"No they won't."

"Yes they will."

"No, they won't. Come back to bed."

I do, and we leave at 2.

As we lug our bags to the counter, I nudge Steph over.

"Your turn."

"Hi!" she says. "I'm sorry we woke up late. We'd like to checkout please."

Steph smiles. The receptionist smiles. I wonder if we're being cast into any group of misfits. 

We check out without extra surcharges.

Never try, never know.

Tribulations of being young

People have always said I look young. They say I’m lucky. They say I’ve won the genetic lottery (despite being short). They say I’ll learn to appreciate it someday. I’ve lived past my third decade and it’s going to be another three more before I start appreciating my youthful looks. By then, peeing every two hours or worrying about arthritis will probably matter more than looking young.

It might sound like a first world problem, but looking young does have its disadvantages. Let’s start with benign matters, like girls. After my twenties, finding a date has been progressively harder, and each passing year is like upping the difficulty on an already unbeatable game. My peers mature, and I seem to be stuck with youth, and women within my generation start finding me cute, or adorable, or non-threatening, or the term all guys loathe: a nice guy.

Well I could live with that. After all, men age like wine and women like cheese, so I figure I still have some time left in the market, but what irks me more than women problems is not being taken seriously. I remember back when I was working in the hair industry, when I had six years of experience under my belt. By then, I had already disfigured hundreds of heads, and beautified thousands more, so I wasn’t too shabby. One day a customer came in—and upon realising that I was her stylist—wouldn't let me touch her mane until she was sure I wasn't a student or a junior stylist. That was my moment of realisation that looking young isn’t all that it’s hyped up to be.

And if that wasn’t enough, looking young also leaks into other facets of life such as getting service. Whenever I walk into higher end establishments, the host always accommodates the more ‘powerful’ looking man first. This usually is a guy with a jowl, is a head taller than me, has peppered hair, and a full moustache to go with it.

“Sir? Table for two? Definitely. Oh, you want that four-seater? I guess you can. Right this way please.”

Then I walk up: “Sup bro. Two people? Over there, by the toilet, okay?”

Of course, a mature appearance isn’t the end all, be all, but I suspect it’d make my life a whole lot easier.

I remember a couple of years back when I went back to college to get an education. On my first day of school, while making friends with my new classmates, most of them asked me if I was waiting for my SPM results. That’s how much of a thug I am. I’m living decades behind.

Then there’s this time when I was an educator in the hair industry, and I was bringing the students to fire safety training. The class was meant only for students, so I decided to check out them shiny fire trucks. Five minutes later a fireman shouted, “Oi! Kenapa tak masuk class? Ponteng ka? Mana cikgu you?” It got pretty awkward after he understood the situation. At least he made up for it by letting me play with the trucks and on the sliding pole.

There’s also this one time when Lola and I were grabbing drinks at Friday’s. Again, I was approaching my thirties. As we ordered our Long Islands, the waiter asked to see my IC because according to him, “The legal drinking age in clubs is 18, but here it’s 21”.

Now don’t get this confused with oldness. I don’t want to look like Hugh Hefner, but I wouldn’t mind the charms of George Clooney or Richard Gere. I don’t want saggy balls, lower libido, and a receding hairline, but I don’t want to look like an SK-II commercial either.

But maybe they're right. Maybe when I'm older, I’ll still look 18, and I’ll be glad about it. For now though, I’ll be happy enough if I don’t get mistaken for a freshie during interviews.

It's there for your convenience, not the other way around

I'm stuck in a jam (what's new right?) and lone drivers around me have the glow of LEDs on their faces. On my left is someone on her mobile phone. I look to my right, more text-driving. I look in the rear and it’s Mr. Gold Digger! Just kidding. It’s just some guy on his mobile phone. The only person to break the monotony is an old man reading the papers. I know what you're thinking. Who even reads newspapers anymore, am I right? This man takes text-driving to a whole new level, but at least he's a refreshing sight from the other commuters.

I can imagine some of the drivers taking selfies for Facebook so they can post stuff like “so jam now… haihz,” before gracing unsuspecting surfers with their duck-faces. What I don’t get is the need people have to be on their phones all the time, especially during driving. 

Well no biggie right? Because it's only FATAL! Nothing to be concerned about. No sir.

Sadly, that's not the end of my tribulations. I arrive at the gym only to find its employees busy with their phones. I go into the changing room and there’s a dude taking pictures of his biceps. In the toilet, there’s this douche that thinks everyone’s interested in his phone conversation, which by the way is something about a drunk shag he had last night. I'm pretty sure he's giving himself way more credit than the other side of the story. Then I walk out to the gym floor and the bicycle section is filled with people—on their phones. Really? Why?

They're barely even pedalling. I see them flicking away at their screens. My guess is they're trying to get past level 238 on Candy Crush. It’s funny seeing how these guys juggle their attention between their legs and their phones though. Some of them stop pedalling until they remember they’re supposed to be working out. Then they manage a burst before losing concentration and the whole routine repeats itself.

At least that shit's not happening in the yoga room, right? Especially when the sign outside the door says ‘NO MOBILE PHONES ALLOWED’ right? I throw my hands up in exasperation. Guess not. A few ladies are punching texts in the corner, oblivious to the instructor wanting to start the class. Okay maybe they're insecure about leaving their valuables in the locker, I get it, but at least have the decency to turn those damn things off.

Halfway into class, the phone rings, for the fourth time. The owner doesn’t even bother turning it off. This always happens when this particular woman comes to class. Zen? How about I give her a knuckle Zenwich? A fleeting thought passes of me channelling my passive-aggressiveness and tutting her into submission, but my hands are in a knot and I’m standing on one foot, so breathing alone is labour enough. Our instructor asks us to empty our minds. Can't you live without your phone for an hour? That’s as empty as it gets for now.

After class I’m fidgety and feel like punching ladybirds. I walk out of the gym and—God they’re everywhere—everyone is fixed to their mobile devices. It’s like that research where they ask you to focus on a specific colour in your surroundings, and suddenly you see more of it everywhere you look. Or like when you buy a new car, and magically the same model starts popping up on the road.

People aren’t looking where they're walking, not seeing what they're eating, or even talking to their friends they're out with. It’s like an episode of The Walking Dead, only instead of being brain dead from a virus, victims turn undead through technology. Apple plays the bad guy, introducing new virus strains every year in the form of iPhones. Telco companies partner up in man's demise, helping spread the plague through the use of affordable data plans, and soon enough a child from the future would go back to destroy the first ever Motorola to save mankind from their doom! Okay I might have mixed up the movies. I'm not a big movie buff.

When I get in my car, I take out my trusted notepad and scribble:

People stuffing their heads in technology (which will end up as this article).

My brows furrow. Something’s missing. I add:

Possible Walking Dead spoof.

Don’t judge. This is how I get ideas for stories.

But I digress. I'm glad I went through school without a mobile phone. Appointments had nothing on us. Also, it made telecommunication a commodity.

“Subang Parade? Sure, see you at 10. I’ll be at Grandy’s.”

“Movies? Awesome. Let’s see if we can catch the same bus. If I don’t see you, be at the cinema at 3.”

"Stay by the phone at 11. If your mom picks up, I'm hanging up."

Yeah, not as convenient, but many times the awesome. Kids back then knew how to live.

At the risk of sounding unpopular, I've never understood why some people say "I can't live without my mobile phone." I find that sentence filled to the brim with throes of consumerism. Unless you're using it to run a business, there's many more things that affect your livelihood, and this is not one of them.

The mobile phone makes our lives easier, I’ll give it that. It’s now possible to reach anyone, anywhere, anytime; but I wonder if that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe the reason why I’m unattached to my phone is because no one contacts me on it. So if you’re reading this and you have my number, please call me.

I reach home and my phone vibrates. A message from Jay.

Jay: yo im stuck in traffic now dm jam shit. wan yamcha not

Me: ur driving now?

Jay: ya why

Me: you suck

Jay: huh?

Jay: hello?

Dreams do come true

I find myself in a foreign country for the first time in my life, and 30 is a late age for that to happen. I've only been to Singapore before, but you can scant consider that foreign.

I walk out the entrance of the airport, and I'm not sure what to look for because I don't even know what Thai taxis look like.

"Pai thi nai?"

"Taxi mai, thuuk mak kab."

At least I look local. I get to skip purchasing lucrative gems and 'cheap' tuk-tuk rides.

I'm in Phuket on impulse, wanting to run away from it all. I knew for a fact that if I wasn't happy back home, I'll never be happy anywhere else, but I went ahead and bought the flight tickets anyway. I've always wanted to travel alone, and here I am with my life back home put on hold for a month.

So I'm at the taxi stands trying to look like I belong. All I have is a handwritten address of Sinbi Muay Thai and a phone number of the gym. I walk from one driver to another, my only word of negotiation being 'meter'. This is when I realise that I could find sparkling juice in a desert much easier than finding a taxi to Rawai, maybe because it's an hour's drive, without traffic.

After what seems to be an eternity and a million taxi drivers later, someone finally says yes and we make our way to the gym.

Upon arrival, helplessness starts rearing its ugly head again. I fumble into the gym not knowing what the customs are in gyms of the land of smiles. I swear, insecurity feeds off solitude. Luckily, the people there are friendly enough and checking into my three-person shared room is a breeze. I don't have roommates yet, but Gob the administrator says I can expect company soon.

One bunk bed, one single bed, a sink, and a bathroom. It's like a high end ashram up in here. It's 12:00 now. Class doesn't start till 16:00. Looks like I'll have to get used to being alone with my mind. I don't like the thought of that. I don't even like the thought of being alone with my thoughts. I don't even like the thought of—okay shut up, brain.

I beat the dust off my bed before lying down, hands on my temples while I stare at the ceiling.

What am I doing here? Is this what I really want? Is Muay Thai really my favourite thing? Will I be fine this whole month? Will I get hurt?

Maybe putting my thoughts on paper would help make sense. I rummage through my 30 litre backpack—yes I packed light—and produce a hardcover journal. I turn to the first page and start writing.

Day 1,
I finally did it. I finally made it to Sinbi. But I wonder, what have I signed up for? Is there room for finding myself here?

The weight of these two lines is reflection enough. I stare at the sparsely written page for a good hour, thoughts playing among endless possibilities in my head.

The day passes with physical silence and mental noise, and in the evening I finally hear the whacks of shins on pads. I drag myself to the gym, and by dragging I mean walking ten steps to the ring. I bring my camera for recording, and by camera I mean smartphone.

Training feels like shit, because I'm shit. I realise that my cardio isn't as good as I originally thought. I thought running a 9 minute mile is achievement enough to hang with the big boys. Boy was I wrong. I make a mental note to run everyday if I'm to make the most out of my training here. Like a trainer once told me, Muay Thai is running.

I go back to my room feeling sore and the post-workout endorphins aren't doing anything to help. I pour myself a cup of water and look out the window. Banana trees sway in the gentle breeze as crickets call out for sexy time. At least the view is nice. My calm is short lived.

Water starts dropping on my head. First a drop, then a trickle, then a motherfucking torrent. I look up and realise that the air conditioner is leaking. So I try being MacGyver and fool around with the remote control, as if I could fix it by changing the settings. Half an hour later, I decide to look for Gob.

Well here's the thing. I didn't know the place closes around 19:00 and all employees just straight up leave after that. After realising this misfortune, I mope all the way back to my room. Drops of water thunk against the metal counter, not unlike a Stomp concert. There's a fear in the back of my mind that I'll wake up to a flooded room in the middle of the night. I can't just turn off the air conditioner without being cooked alive, and there's no fan to be found.

I figure there's no choice but to rough it out. Despite my earplugs, the thunk of water drops still ring loud, and I feel like a victim of Chinese water torture. I keep waking up every hour to make sure that no water made its way to the plug points because apparently they don't have on-off switches here. The water continues dripping as if someone forgot to turn off the shower. There's a bunch of towels lined up on the floor—my best attempts at reconstructing Hoover Dam. The night passes slowly.

Thankfully, Gob's there the next morning and she gets it fixed.

The second day of training is much better despite feeling groggier than a medieval alcoholic. The sting of helplessness is slowly fading. The trainers are great and they make you feel at home. The students there are awesome as well. I go back to my room after the day's training and decide to watch the videos I recorded.

As I watch the videos, a realisation comes to my mind. A year back, I was scouring YouTube for videos of people training in Thailand. Back then, I never thought I'd be able to do this. Where would I find the time? What about the money? How can I train with people at such a high level? I'd just click one video after another, just wishing. Wishing like how people wish for a vacation when they watch Travel & Living.

It wasn't until this year that I reviewed my plans with new vigour. Now I'm here, experiencing it for myself. It was all I expected it to be, and more. The musty smell of fermented sweat, the sounds of yells and strikes to wake you up in the morning, the camaraderie among peers, the freedom from expectations, the celebrity trainers and the empowerment that comes with realising your dreams.

I smile. Achieving goals isn't as elusive as people make it out to be—you just need to take it step by step. Believe it or not, that dream you have about being a millionaire or that Euro trip you've been thinking of isn't so far off. No matter how big or small your dreams are, you can make it a reality.

I turn off my smartphone and bask in the joy of the moment. My eyes get heavier as I lie in the comfort of the cool air and silence of the newly serviced air conditioner. Dreams do come true, I think to myself as I float off into dreams of another sort.

I love jamming and not only the music kind

It's a Friday and I'm stuck in traffic. The jam's so massive even six lanes can barely accommodate the flow. A sea of red lights flicker ahead, blinking at the whim of restless motorists' feet. The guy in the car next to me is digging his nose. He catches me staring and casually acts as if he's massaging his temple.

It has been a fun ride so far. I have good company, a cup of coffee, and good music's playing on the radio. We're on home stretch, the last traffic light before we're done with the jam.

"And that's why I think Lovecraft was a fucking racist," says Ann. We have been indulging in geek talk since we got off the highway (which was also backed up mind you), and I was enjoying every moment of it. I haven't engaged in nerd trivia for years now.

"I know right? His work was pretty raci—" before I could complete my sentence, I slam on the brakes, rubber melting against asphalt, to avoid an idiot swerving into my lane without signalling, and he continues across the road in the same manner. I don't sound the horn or flip him the bird like he deserved, and I don't need to, because the other motorists were doing it for me.

"Can you believe this guy?" I say.

"Aww give him a break. Maybe he needs to pee really bad," Ann says.

We go on talking about Michio Kaku, space operas, and how our universe might be a speck of dust in some a giant's closet, and what would happen if that giant one day decided to spring clean. We deduce that time in a universe of that size would pass much slower, so the swipe of the hand might mean a couple of hundred years for us, and that we shouldn't waste our time worrying.

As the light turns green, everyone tries squeezing in for a shot at freedom. Cars are streaming in from all directions, and those who have been lining up are trying their best to prevent queue-cutters an entry. I see a motorist in front unwinding his window and thumping his neighbour's car. It's like the wild west out here.

"Everybody's so worked up," I say. "They should chill, it's the weekend."

"Well who are we to judge? They might have had a shitty day."

"Everyone had a shitty day?"

I look around and chaos reigns in this steel gridlock. Some people are embracing road rage and others look like they could use a vacation. Gold Digger's finger found his way back up his nose.

A car tries to jump the queue, and I let him. For some reason, I don't feel the need to get worked up or 'teach him a lesson'. I was having a great time, and the traffic jam was helping prolong it. I remembered a quote, and it went like this:

The mind in its own place and in itself, can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

I share this with Ann and she laughs.

"I'm loving the jam too," she says.

I remember passing through this road in a similar jam a while back, and if someone tried to cut in, I'd play parallel chicken with them.

"Over my dead body!" I'd scream while I bore through their skull with my eyes.

I'm not necessarily in a bad mood when I do that, I'm just in reacting. People don't like losing out, and when queue-jumpers try to weasel in front of a guy who has been lining up a mile back, egos get bruised and tempers flare.

Assholes will be assholes. Fortunately, you meet more good people than bad, and getting your boxers twisted over the few that you meet just isn't worth it. Would a severed eye or broken nose be better than a broken ego? Unless your well-being is in danger, I don't see the need to pick fights. Well, sometimes.

I take out my notepad and scribble:

Bad situations do not equal bad reactions.

It's a writing idea and a life reminder bunched in one.

Ann sees what I'm doing and bursts out laughing.

"You're such a dork sometimes it's adorable," she says in between breaths.

"Shut up."

"Hey, I got a surprise."

"What is it?"

She reaches in her bag and brings out two cans of beer.

"I'm driving!" I say.

"Well I guess I'll just have to finish them all. I've got two more cans, you know."

I step on the gas and stiff-arm myself into Gold Digger's lane. I shrug at him as I mouth words through the window, hoping he could lip read:

"I need to pee really bad."

We finally make it through the traffic lights and laugh our way out of the most enjoyable traffic jam we've ever had.

Fighting Spirit Gym review and a little shenanigans

It was day two in Bangkok, and I was hungover looking for the gym.

When I arrived the day before, it was Wesak Day, and that meant a ban on the sales of alcohol. Yes, in Thailand, alcohol sales are forbidden on special occasions or during certain hours on other days.

That's when I learned that to white people, the day you can't purchase alcohol is the day to get smashed, and my new acquaintances weren't going to let a little thing like law stop them from drinking. They offered me beers packed in newspapers bought from a seedy little tavern down the street. After a while, the path from the hostel to the tavern became an alcohol trade route, well-travelled by alcoholics walking around with dubious rolls of newspapers in their hands.

And that's how I ended up spending my first night stumbling along the alleys of Patpong with ping-pong-pimps enticing you on the premise of vaginal acrobatics every seven steps. Conmen tend to spare me because I blend in with the locals, but that night I was surrounded by Caucasians so I got more attention than a Rolex in a whorehouse. Tuk-tuk rides, taxi tours, cheap young sex, escorts—I felt like a high-roller even though I was on a shoestring budget.

Fast forward a night of accidentally dropping beer bottles in front of cops and buying more beer to replace said spilt beer; and there I was, hungover and looking for this place called Fighting Spirit Gym which was apparently a five minute walk from the hostel.

As I walked through an empty lot, I noticed slabs of cement around me. I cleared my brain fog just enough to realise that I was in the middle of a cemetery, and sure enough, Fighting Spirit Gym was right in front of a tombstone.

I liked the location. It gave the place a good ambience. I made my way in before this Chihuahua blocked my way. I was probably invading its territory. I would've swiped it aside if not for the owner sitting on a stool further back. He was massive.

World War 2 called. They want their tanks back.

I wasn't aware that brick outhouses were allowed to run gyms.

(Insert more referential thoughts to describe Mr. Huge here)

"I'm just here for a session," I said.

"SURE," he replied. "I'M DAN. JUST GO ON IN AND GET YOURSELF WARMED UP."

Dan was as close to Brock Lesnar as any man will ever be, but he was all smiles. Turns out, he was a pretty chill guy.

I skipped over a pitbull—Dan sure loves his dogs—and made my way into the cage. Five Thai instructors were sitting in the boxing ring, and only one other student was inside. The intimidation was overpowering at this point. Buying contraband booze in a foreign land was nothing compared to this. So I gave my best tough guy impression. I avoided eye contact, held my head down, and twiddled over to the dressing room. That showed them.

I came back out and started skipping rope. Damn Thai ropes are built so heavy I gassed after 10 minutes. The oldest trainer pointed at me as he donned the Thai pads. Was that disappointment I saw in his eyes? No matter, time for pad work, and pad work is always the worst part of training. On top of that, Fighting Spirit Gym does four minutes of pad work instead of the usual three. I prepared myself for projectile vomiting as my trainer and I touched gloves.

In Muay Thai, they train you to look at the chest as opposed to the face. That way, your peripheral view picks up the whole body, and you see punches and kicks better. All I saw was scar tissue that ran from his chest to his belly. Must've had his appendix removed, or he could've had a titanium skeleton implanted. It reminded me of Sagat. Capcom finally did something right. Somehow through all that fatigue, I caught myself wondering what the story was behind that scar.

After my death and resurrection, meaning after five gruelling rounds of pad work, I limped over to the bags to do my own drills as Sagat corrected my technique. This was followed by clinch work with the only other student who had 20 kilos over me. Not fun.

There were students that came in at different times of the day and they still received the full training, which meant that Fighting Spirit Gym had a pretty relaxed approach to training while still maintaining the proper syllabus.

After training, I cooled down and paid Dan for the session.

"THANK YOU SIR," he said, with a voice that sounded like a blend between a sub-woofer and a concussion grenade.

"Thanks for the training." Everything sounded squeakier after Dan spoke.

I gave a final wave to the crew and made my way through the cemetery. I didn't feel so hungover anymore, and I've learned something new to use in future training.

I reached the hostel and Mike and Aiman were already on their second round of beers. A normal occurrence if not for the fact that it was 4 p.m. They noticed the gloves hanging off my backpack and gave me a nod.

"What's up, fighter?" Aiman said. "Here, have a beer."

"I don't know guys, I just recovered from a hangover, and I don't really feel like drinking after training."

...

We drank well into the night, and this time we didn't have to do it illegally.