2008 Beijing Olympics - Opening Ceremony

Internationally acclaimed filmmaker Zhang Yimou was the director for the 2008 Beijing Olympics ceremonial opening. Below, in 10 parts, is the entire artistic portion of the ceremonial opening followed by the lighting of the torch in part 11. Enjoy the show... I sure did!!

Part One - The Countdown

Part Two - Drummers


Part Three - Olympic Rings


Part Four - Paper and the Scroll


Part Five - Type Set


Part Six - Silk


Part Seven - Compass & Chinese Opera


Part Eight - Lang Lang


Part Nine - Tai Chi


Part Ten - One World


Part Eleven - Lighting the Olympic Torch

My Daughter's Poetry Scares Me...

If she continues to turn in assignments like this I fear social services may come a knockin'. Maybe we should let her out of the room... ;-)... or at least give her a light.

The Dark Room

The dark, dark room, with me in it,
I don't know what to do?
Screeches and noises are filling my ears
in that dark, dark room.

The tree is tapping the window,
and making a lot of noise!
I can't sleep, I want to weep
I don't know what to do?

In that dark, dark room.

Chalky Gecko

My daughter and I had fun with chalk on our driveway. The gecko-like creature is about 12' long. The neighborhood kids thought we were vandalizing. They don't know about colored chalk... and rain. Sad really, these quasi-third-world kids. It's not poverty killing their sense of fun and imagination, it's education. They spend all their time studying to make good grades. My kid plays and makes so/so grades. That's the way it should be.

beeing samart is overrated in mine opinun.

That King of Fruit... The Durian

Friday was a day set aside for visiting the plant nurseries down south in Johor near a town called Muar. Thousands of acres of plants are available for industrial use. This isn't the place for weekend gardeners to browse around trying to decide which Bougainvillea would look nice next to the Murraya. These are the nurseries where one can purchase hundreds of trees of varying species and thousands upon thousands of shrubs and groundcovers in every imaginable shape, size, texture, and color. My job sometimes requires that I visit these places with the Client and Contractor to settle the final selection of plants...

But this is not about the nurseries. This is about the real purpose of going to Muar and the real purpose the Client wants to tag along. This is about eating that King of Fruit, the mighty Durian which Muar has in abundance.

Now I could go on about the durian's creamy textured meat somewhat similar to a pudding but firmer, or it's arresting smell that has been described in terms of skunk spray to liquid petroleum gas. Or I could talk about the rich flavor when you first pop one of the mushy yet firm meaty seeds into your mouth, I could do all of that but Wikipedia does a pretty fine job of it. For example on the smell here's what wiki had to say:

British novelist Anthony Burgess writes that eating durian is "like eating sweet raspberry blancmange in the lavatory. Chef Andrew Zimmern compares the taste to "completely rotten, mushy onions. Anthony Bourdain, while a lover of durian, relates his encounter with the fruit as thus: "Its taste can only be described as...indescribable, something you will either love or despise. ...Your breath will smell as if you'd been French-kissing your dead grandmother. Travel and food writer Richard Sterling says “ ... its odor is best described as pig-sh*t, turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock.

The joys of eating durian extend beyond the love it or hate it taste (I happen to love it) It extends beyond the status of King granted to this fruit (along with a price for such royal recognition). It is a food enjoyed in part to the fellowship of a group of people that share the common love of sitting around a fly invested area eating pig poop smelling custard meat out of a prickly shell so sharp it will draw blood out of your pasty covered fingers unless you know what you're doing or wearing a gloves... and those kind of people are pretty cool!


Durians grow on trees. When they get tired of hanging on they let go and fall to the ground with a loud thud. That's when they're best eaten.


This is a durian stall. It reeks of durian and people eating durian.


Durians come with all kinds of exotic names like 'Wildcat', 'Red Prawn', 'D24', 'D101', etc... they all taste slightly different.


This is the fleshy insides of a durian... before the flies smell it.

Things That Go Eeeep in the Night.

Eeep…. eeeep… that’s what she heard while having dinner last night. My daughter claimed earlier while I was helping myself to some more chicken curry that she kept hearing a noise. “There, did you hear it?” she asked while looking concerned and worried toward the couch. Her spoon was slow to shovel as she kept an ear pointed toward the living area. Eeep… eeeep. I heard it that time but thought it came from the curtain. “It’s just a lizard or small gecko now eat your vegetables”. But my explanation did not whet her appetite. Eeep…. eeeep. Her head quickly whipped around to the living area again, her eyebrows squinched. “It’s probably just the light” said my wife.

After dinner I went upstairs while my daughter stayed at the table to do her homework. “Mom, I saw it. It’s a big bug!”. Then later affirming the daughter’s observation, “oh yeah, I saw it too”. Well now I was curious.

Walking down the stairs I asked if they saw where the sound was coming from. “I think it’s a dragonfly right under the edge of the small couch” my wife said pointinig. I was about to stick my hand under there and grab it when a sudden thought occurred to me, dragonflies don’t go eeeep, eeeep. I got down on my knees and raised the flap of the couch and stared into the small beady eyes of a bat, black and leathery. Eeeep… eeeep it told me.

I whispered to my wife that it was a bat. My daughter thought I said rat and jumped up on the chair squealing. Then I told my wife that I would drag the couch outside so it could fly away. “What? What did you say? Rats don’t fly”, shouted my daughter.

After getting the couch out the front door and flipping it slowly on its back, the baby bat stretched its winged stick legs and started crawling along the edge of the couch shouting eeeep… eeeeep. I put the bat in a small plastic container and poured it out on top of our mailbox. I stood and watched as it eeeeped and crawled around then drug itself to the edge of the box and jumped… gliding down gracefully on to my pants. As I danced the jig and sang the tune of ‘uh, uh, uh’ a black shadow shot out of the evening sky and whizzed by my head. I jumped back and saw the little bat crawling on our driveway. The zipping shadow was an older bat diving and circling the baby. I can’t say for sure whether it was the baby’s mother because I know nothing about the family life of bats, but the older bat guided the young one into the neighbor’s yard.

Back inside, I sat on the couch and began reading my book. My wife was at the table skimming the headlines, my daughter was taking her shower and the bats were outside doing bat things where they belong. Scritch… scriiiitch… “did you hear that?”, asked my wife. “Yeah, it was probably the light”.

DanSing Thru Broadway

Here's some more video clips from the show DanSing Thru Broadway. Songs include: Carryin' the Banner, One Singular Sensation, and the final Curtain Call.

Clip from DanSing Thru Broadway

Bay playing 'Dodge' in a scene from Oliver from the musical DanSing Thru Broadway.

Stood Up

Last night was the final performance of the show DanSing Thru Broadway. It was staged at Panggung Bandaraya, Kuala Lumpur, a theatre built in 1896 by the British in the Moorish architectural style. Though the theatre was gutted in 1992 by fire, the reconstruction and restoration respected its ornate and regal appearance and it still possesses the spirit breathed into it through countless performances.

Panggung Bandaraya

Shortly before the final performance began I was told of a ghost that called this theatre home. The ghost was of a Japanese lady who met death idly waiting for her in a ground floor seat after she fell from the balcony into his lap. The theatre caretaker claims to see her every day and on one occasion, she said, was even shoved by the Japanese lady. There was a chair reserved for this phantom in the balcony, back in the rear corner, safely away from the balcony’s edge. This was her preferred seat for the performances and a 'Reserved: Do Not Sit' sign was permanently placed on it’s back.

Well me being me, the can’t leave well enough alone guy, waited until everyone filed into the hall and took their seats before sneaking through the side curtains and up the old staircase. I eased open the door and carefully inched my way through the darkness lightly patting the back wall as guidance across the dark space. There were only about three people I could see sitting up in the upper section and they were lounging over the railing near the front looking down onto the stage, impersonal silhouettes against the spilt stage lights.

I saw the chair wedged in the corner and was a bit surprised to see that it was not a part of the regular regimental seating layout. It was a chair set-aside especially for the spiritess. The handwritten sign absorbed by the darkness was just a fuzzy white patch on the backrest. The chair was clothed in a gritty feeling red velvet material that bulged from the seat and stiff, upright back. The armrests were sleeveless, made of dark wood ornately carved and ending in two drooping fists.

I respectfully, carefully sat down; back upright, legs together, feet placed firmly on the floor and hands draped lightly over the chair’s fists. I was a figure study for right angles. I sat in this position and watched most of Act I. I enjoyed the first part of the show without interruption or disturbances.

After selling programs during the intermission I revisited the chair for Act II, but approached it less carefully, and less respectfully. I thumped across the back of the balcony. The tops of the silhouettes near the edge were still there and shifted slightly at the sounds of my carelessness. I dropped on the reserved seat making the chair sigh and saw firefly sparkles of long undisturbed dust fly upward twinkling in the spillover stage lights. My body was slouched, legs crossed, hands clasped behind my head. At the end of each scene I shouted, blew my whistle and clapped till my hands were sore.

And when the show ended I must admit a certain disappointment. Not a chilled breath or gentle spinal caress did I feel. Not a papery whisper of 'konichiwa' in my ear did I hear or faint kimono shaped light did I see. The lady it seems stood me up.

Interior of Panggung Bandaraya

The Little Blue Book

I live in an interesting neighborhood. My Japanese neighbors on the right are quiet and polite and always nod to me as they walk their dog past our drive; actually it’s more of a slight bow instead of a nod. On my left the Dutch family have five little pig statues in their front lawn staring at their Malay neighbors; sometimes the pigs point their little butt hole in that direction. Malays are Islamic. So that’s a neighborhood ‘faux pas’. A British family moved in across the street. It’s taking them forever to unpack, or maybe they just like living from boxes stacked under their car porch. Anyway, they shouldn’t let there little kid run around outside naked. They should at least put him in Speedos. The Swedes two houses down are friendly and always have a smile to give even when they’re coasting on their 5th mile run… unnaturally healthy and fit, they make me look down at my little paunch. My daughter plays with her friend just down the road; her friend is Russian so now my daughter greets me with a hearty ‘Privyet!’. The guttural chatting of the French women can be heard as they jog past, well tanned and surprisingly thin. The Americans laugh loudly and speak of the cost of Starbuck coffee. The Pakistan family live on the corner; their son likes to play football the daughter plays princess. I heard that the German with the sports car just got a divorce, a bit of neighborhood gossip. The Indians on the corner have a basketball goal in their driveway so the kids like to gather there.

I think I’m American. Well… I guess I know I’m from America. I just renewed my passport and it says right there on the cover, The United States of America. That’s a long name for a country. The short form, U.S., is easier to say and sounds less pretentious, though oft times as it rolls off my tongue it transforms into a curse depending on who receives it. I sometimes just tell people I’m from Canada; that cuts short any unpleasant conversation.

This weekend our neighborhood had a potluck dinner. I sat at a table with my wife but as the table filled with the neighborhood ladies I migrated to a man table nearby. I couldn’t tolerate the yoga talk that was twisted and bent into chatter about recipes and makeover secrets. The man table didn’t offer much better. We talked about the rising cost of steel bars and concrete and it’s impact on property development. Then the topic of Manchester United came up and I thought about Nabokov and the book Invitation to a Beheading. That’s the book I was currently reading. I was starting to empathize with the protagonist. Whenever talk turns to football, or soccer, as the Americans call it (the Americans?... that would be me right?), I tune out.

I used to like sports, football (American football) and basketball. But I no longer know the team names or towns that they represent. The rules I imagine have changed a bit and if I do catch a game on ESPN I’m never sure why the ref blows his whistle. It all seems foreign to me now.

Later that night my wife told me that all of the ladies at her table wondered why I was sitting with the Chinese and Malay men, the ‘local’ table, instead of the Caucasian table. Funny thing is I didn’t notice a Caucasian table. Funny thing is I no longer know what color I am. After 20 years of washing in foreign water a bit of me has faded to gray. Sometimes I pull out my passport and look at the cover. It has a nice blue cover with a golden embossed eagle stamped in the middle. The title still reads ‘The United States of America’ and the author’s name seems vaguely familiar, but it’s starting to look like a book I’ve never read.

-----------------

The following are a couple of answers someone asked regarding my 'neck of the woods' and the kind of food offered at the potluck dinner:

1. My neck of the woods is no longer in the woods. I live just on the fringe of downtown Kuala Lumpur in a *gasp* gated community (thus the number of expats). But don't worry, we still manage to have break-ins and my neighbor was arrested for drug trafficking so I do live in a somewhat normal environment. I’m not deprived. Outside the confines of the neighborhood things are a bit worse but nothing a can of pepper spray usually won't fix. It’s just life in a city much like any city in any country except we use mostly knives and machetes instead of guns, though guns are becoming more fashionable and in my opinion a cleaner option requiring less cleaning up afterwards.


2. The food was surprisingly a disappointment except for the curry crabs someone brought. Two families brought spring rolls (we were one of those families and my wife made them Thai style with chicken and glass noodles). There was some mee siam, a small rice noodle cooked a bit spicy, and some mee hoon, rice noodles cooked with dark soy sauce and fish cakes and prawn (mee is basically a word for noodles). There were two types of fried chicken, turmeric and chili. sushi. salad. two families brought rojak, a mix of pineapple and things I’m not sure about with a spicy sauce made of chili and other things I’m not sure about. Spaghetti. Fried rice. Japanese cheese cake though I’m not sure what constituted it as being Japanese (it was cooked by a Chinese lady). Fried bananas. A couple of basic bakery cakes. And for drinks a yellow concoction that tasted a bit like lemonade but left you feeling a little suspect. Alcohol and pork are not served because some of the families are Muslim. Thus the suspect yellow liquid and lack of bacon or pork chops. And someone ordered pizza from pizza hut... must of been the Americans.

Reading, writing... not walking...

Where have I been you may ask... at work or reading. I haven't done as much walking lately (read: lazy and putting on a few pounds). But I've been reading... and writing. Reading has taken up much of my time (outside of work) and writing the remainder. Here's what I've gone through so far this year (UPDATED 29 JULY 2008):

Currently Reading

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Mark Twain
Other Colors: Essays and a Story, Orhan Pamuk

2008 Completed Books

The Fugitive, Pramoedya Ananta Toer
The Mezzanine, Nicholson Baker
The 210th Day, Soseki Natsume
Absalom, Absalom!, William Faulkner
Winesburg, Ohio, Sherwood Anderson
Invitation to a Beheading, Vladimir Nabokov
Lamb to the Slaughter, Roald Dahl
Light in August, William Faulkner
July's People, Nadine Gordimer
All About Lulu, Jonathan Evison
The Lost Honour of Katharina Blurn, Heinrich Böll
Edith's Diary, Patricia Highsmith
As I Lay Dying, William Faulkner
The Palace of Dreams, Ismail Kadare
Candide, Voltaire
Zombie, Joyce Carol Oates
All That Is Gone, Pramoedya Ananta Toer
Junky, William S. Burroughs
The Waste Land and Other Writings, T.S. Eliot
My Name Is Red, Orhan Pamuk
Taras Bulba, Nikolai Gogol
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
If on a Winter's Night a Traveller, Italo Calvino
Masters of Atlantis, Charles Portis
Dusklands, J. M. Coetzee
Wonderful Wonderful Times, Elfriede Jelinek
The Moviegoer, Walker Percy
The Box Man, Kobo Abe
The Master of Go, Yasunari Kawabata
The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea, Yukio Mishima
The Dog of the South, Charles Portis
Liquidation, Imre Kertesz
The Futurist, James P. Othmer
War & Peace, Leo Tolstoy
First Love and Other Novellas, Samuel Beckett
Snakes and Earrings, Hitomi Kanehara
Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie, Henry W. Longfellow
The Successor, Ismail Kadare
The Idiot, Fyodor Dostoevsky

... and here's my reading plan, though it changes regularly like everytime I set foot in a book store.



Go ahead... click on the image so you can see the bigger picture.