Oktoberfest Was A Bust

Achtung! Just went to Oktoberfest last Saturday at 1-Utama with a few of my friends, after much of my constant persuasion and bitching since I've never had the chance to experience this beer fest. I'm a sucker for soaking up new cultures. The repeated advertisement in the papers promised German Weissbier for a gold RM1 coin (yep, the soon-to-be defunct national currency come December 7th), mouth-watering wieners, frankfurthers, and sauerkraut.

But looks can be deceiving indeed.

Instead of Weissbier, I got Foster's. Instead of a nice dinner of wieners and German beer, I had to settle for a meal of ramen noodles and cola. Instead of nice local barmaids in sexy Bavarian off-shoulder dresses, I got equally nice waitresses in that ramen shop (albeit not kimonos though). Instead of a rowdy bar fight involving lots of drunken, pissed-off Germans and locals alike, I had to draw out the nearest katana from beneath the counter to fend myself and slice my way through the thick crowds of rampaging Nihon-jins and locals while shouting "Banzai!!!".

Nah the last part was a joke. But should those kind of scenarios ever happen to me in real-life, I would seriously contemplate taking the nearest knife to defend myself. It's my life we're talking about here!

Anyway, back to the topic. Oktoberfest 1-Utama wasn't exactly what I had in mind. Not only were there insufficient tables and seats, the food was also in short supply. My friends and I were actually quite interested to savor the Deutsch cuisine spread out in front of us, but later changed our minds after seeing hordes of people suffocating that little area and knowing those who got to the tables would be occupying them longer than the Japanese in Malaya during World War II (even those who had already finished eating at the tables). We turned and left. The people in line for the wieners stretched miles anyway, so we guessed they'd be over long before we even reached the front line. Therefore, we missed the chance to listen to the live Bavarian band. Man that sucks.

About 30 meters from the event, we found ourselves a few sofas, sat down and, beer in hand, we all drank to the disastrous Oktoberfest. All but one girl gave away their redeemed Foster's and shunned even a drop of it. Okay so maybe I shouldn't be complaining so much since at least I got myself a bottle of beer for dirt-cheap RM1. But still I felt that the organizers should've stuck to their promise. Nevermind.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur - we went to the afore mentioned dinner, then a few split up, another guy took off, two more broke off from the remaining group until at long last, only two guys were the last ones standing. So with nothing to do, apart from looking at pretty gals passing by us, the both of us watched Jackie Chan's "The Myth". Somehow or the other it made me feel a bit weird inside to see a gracefully-aged Jackie hooking up with a hot Korean chick, probably young enough to be his daughter and has the hots for him.

Moral of the story : Avoid future Oktoberfests at shopping malls with insufficient amount of tables open to the public and be suspicious of Weissbiers going for RM1. Chicks dig guys who can fight mean and carry a badass sword, nevermind if they're slightly aged.

Nostalgia : Bidor

My car cruises at a comfortable travelling pace, passing by a row of pre-war shophouses in a sleepy semi-town area. Those shops entice me, with each of them having their own great history to tell. I love old shophouses. I'd give just about anything to spend a quiet night in one of them, looking out at the moonless sky, while the dim glow of the yellowish light bulb is the only source of light in the room. Barely moderate, but just enough to my own perfection. I like it that way. Someone slides in a cassette of the greatest romantic songs from the 60s, interrupting my train of thought, and immediately the unmistakable voice of Paul Anka comes out, belting out the love piece, Venus. And as his dreamy voice croons on, so does my car, with each passing second nearer to our destination.

The sun, peeking slyly from behind the clouds ever so occasionally, plays tricks on my eyes, conjuring up the greatest mix of landscapes by producing shadows of great mountains to eclipse my car or to cast the cotton-white clouds' shadows upon the flatlands. Paul Anka's song, still playing at this point, seems to be the perfect soundtrack for all this majestic beauty. I see the peaks of the hills and mountains alike in the distance, surrounded by lush invitating flora. I was only ten at that time, but I promised to scale them once I'm much older and having the chance to do so.

Soon, after another half an hour or so of travel time, we stop by the next town for a short break. At a glance, to me it looks just like any other quiet small town filled with pure nostalgia, but to my father it's different; he knows every town in Perak well. I reach for the door's handles, and upon opening it, a whole new world beckons me. The smell of the country air, the sound of the running river nearby. These are some of the things in life you realise that money won't be able to buy once it goes away forever.

Gently, my father takes me by the hand and tells me of the wonderful history of how the town started as a small Chinese settlement community during the early turn of the twentieth century. And I watched, with all the amazement a ten year-old could ever offer, my eyes following the antics of the shopkeepers and roadside traders while they milled with their daily routines. We then head for the same Chinese coffee shop housed in those ubiquitous pre-war shoplots that is the trademark of small, sleepy towns of Malaysia, with my mum and brother in tow. Each year as we make our journey up North, we never fail to stop by the shop and savour the char-siew paus, reputed to be quite famous, or so to me it seems.

One thing about these typical coffee shop houses which have such a special place in my heart is due to the surrounding environment and all that there is that I have grown to love from an early age. The off-white marble table tops, the sturdy wooden chairs, and the good old way of serving hot coffee in those millet-brown china cups complete with a plasticky orange stirring spoon.

And then, after a hearty meal of traditionally-brewed teh tarik and nescafe peng, it was time to hit the road once more and complete the last leg of the journey. This time however, the scenery takes an abrupt change from wide open spaces to heavily-wooded road paths, mostly rubber trees which would sometimes grow so tall they practically block out some of the sunlight at certain areas. Randomly, there would be a wooden Malay house situated in the middle of the rubber plantation. During this time I still remember I always kept myself busy looking out for Chinese and Malay women selling guavas, for it would mean that we were on the brink of reaching the outskirts of my beloved Bidor hometown itself.

But of course, along all old Malaysian roads, there are roadside plaques planted a click apart from each other that would ultimately indicate precisely how much further more one was from his or her intended destination. Numero uno would always be the much sought-after digit. Just try to picture it - a lonely road with some wild grass growing at the side, while in the background looms the distant green hill and beyond it, a blue sky dotted with clouds. Finally numero uno does come, and upon passing the Goodyear service building, we are officially in the borders of Bidor. The sight of the town famous for its chicken biscuits and egg-yolk crackers is a welcome sight indeed.

My father carefully negotiates the car along the familiar bend of the road, descends up the slight of a hill and steers right upon reaching the first junction. It is but a small junction, but yet deep in my heart I know this very same road leading right up to the housegates of my grandmother (now long passed on) holds much delightful precious memories. Her dog, a brown mongrel barks enthusiastically, knowing we were back for the Chinese New Year reunion dinner just like we did every year. And as always, my grandmother is ready to welcome her son back and to coo over her young little grandchildren.

I miss my grandmother.

After nearly a year or so of not seeing each other, no doubt there is a lot of catching up to do with my three cousins. We do exactly that, but the part whereby we all rush to the outside and soak up all the fun comes later - we still have another two more cousins awaiting. In time, it is their turn to arrive at the gates, and thus so the circle of cousinhood is complete. We waste no time to explore the vast fields, no-man's-lands, and every nook and cranny of Bidor, running off into the direction of the evening sun.

At this point, the camera will pan in a steady motion upwards. Above me, the same cotton-white clouds drift lazily along their charted courses in the blue sky, with the stillness of the quiet nostalgic town of Bidor occasionally punctuated with the laughter and giggles of six young children heading off for another adventure, possibly the nearby river creek or hiking across the grassy plains, glad for the day's blessings and wishing the best for tomorrow.

It's been ages since I last made a trip back, but everytime I look back upon this, a smile is etched on my face as I recall back the memories of Bidor.

Memoirs of a G.I. in Normandy

My name is Corporal Anderson, attached to Baker Company of the United States Army. Today is the 6th of June 1944, the day in which many had already anticipated with mixed feelings. Some had dreaded it, while others were looking forward to this invasion. As the coxswain steered the Higgins boat, a square cigar box-shaped personnel carrier towards its final destination, my last thoughts were with my family. My father had already been posted to North Africa to stop Rommel's Afrika Korps stationed there, while my brother was sent to the Pacific to fight the Japanese. It would be tragic if all three of us were to be killed in action.

My train of thought was interrupted by the coxswain telling us of the impending arrival to the beach, and possibly our doom. Someone near my side quipped that one day our great-grandchildren will read of our heroic feats. I returned a faint smile to him. The smell of burning wood was in the air. Each of us carried backpacks stuffed full of equipments crucial to our survival, and in addition to that, all of us wore combat vests, slung ammo harnesses and had a steel helmet on our heads, each adding to the weight. I had still a bit of time to say a last prayer, wishing for God's guiding hand to be upon my brother and father and to bring all three of us home safely. I gave my thanks to the Lord.

And the ramp finally fell, and for the first time ever, I saw the beach we were all trained to invade and secure away from the Germans, codenamed Omaha. For two gruelling years, my comrades and I trained for this moment, and now it was here. The beach, with marble-white sands, would have made quite a wonderful holiday paradise. But the tranquility was short-lived as a sudden burst of machinegun fire erupted from the cliffs and concrete bunkers littering Omaha, killing the first man in front. His head just popped open like a watermelon, splattering blood onto the men behind him. But they never had a chance to recover from the horror, for they too were cut down by the deadly hail of bullets where they stood. Others, including myself, discarded all proper troop disembarking procedures and went over the side.

With nearly eighty pounds of ammo and equipment strapped to my back, I sank down to the seafloor like a rock. The seawater hurt my eyes and in the temporary confusion, it was easy to get disoriented. Objects were all around me, and I recognised them by touch to be helmets, rifles, discarded equipment and occasionally, a drowned G.I. infantryman. I finally made it to the surface, struggling to catch my breath and I saw, to my horror, the landing craft on my left lowering the ramp, and immediately a storm of machinegun bullets rained in. No man was given time to jump.

My hands started to shake slightly. Not out of any inflicted disease known to Man, but rather by the thunderous sounds of the never-ending falling shells, raining death onto the men on the beach, and spreading pain and misery to those not killed by the enemy artillery but wounding them gravely in the process. I had just witnessed Death doing its job, and no one who has ever seen what a bullet or a mortar round could do to a human body can fully understand the horrors of war.

I was neither wounded nor injured, but the mortars had a different impact on my nerves. Even the M1-Garand which I'd been accustomised to carrying over these two years of training suddenly felt like deadweight in my hands. The waterlogged clothes wet from the channel water didn't help me in my struggle across the deadly beach either. Men on both sides of me seem to go down screaming or in some cases, just fall like a potato sack without nary a sound uttered. The latter must've been killed by bullets that have found their vital points. Some were, by chance, blown to pieces when a well-aimed shell struck them. They would be there one moment, and in a blinding flash of light, they were gone and all that remains is a sickening stew of steaming bones, flesh and lots of blood.

I found temporary refuge by a small rock, barely enough to provide full protection to my torso, but in that kind of scenario, I would have even welcomed a small bush as a ballistic deflector. There was already another G.I. cowering behind the same rock, but in that few moments of chaos I only thought of my own safety. When a mortar round exploded nearby, I pushed my face into the sand, and even then the ground shook so violently I accidentally swallowed some sand. Choking and coughing my eyes caught sight of the same fellow soldier beside me at the rock. He was as dead as could be, eyes wide open, and I immediately saw what caused his death - two small holes neatly puncturing his steel helmet. Blood was already flowing down his face, and whether he died from mortar shrapnel or otherwise is known only to God.

Moments after the shock had set in and the grim reality of questioning one's mortality had passed, the whole place seemed to come alive and angry once more when another round of artilleries started raining on the beach. I felt sorry for the poor chap. But there was no time to indulge in self-pity. Remembering that mortars hitting on rocks made a deadly combination, I regained my composure to my knees and started for the shingles once more, determined to make it through this hellish nightmare alive. But not before jettisoning some of the cargo stowed in my backpack. I told myself I would rather travel light and fight with limited ammo than be bogged down by it and make myself an easy target for the Germans high above the ground.

I did not want to die, but the chain of events that presented itself to me made me believe every bullet fired from the enemy's gun had my name inscribed on it. Or nearly, at least. By now the channel tide was catching up with my struggle, running red from all the blood spilled on this day. Severed limbs were floating freely amongst numerous dead bodies of men killed in the first wave. To say that nausea did not try to take over me at that point would have been a lie. It is made worse when you recognise some of the faces as your friends whom you've already known since the first day of boot camp, but now they all share a same thing in common - Death.

I shed a silent tear for them. There is this nagging feeling that you are the only one left in this struggle, and when you go down, no one will hear your cries of help; the musky, coppery smell of blood being your only companion to the grave. With each step, more men fell, and I had anticipated every breath I took to be my last. God must have intended it not to be that way, for I made it across to the seawall safely, albeit slightly shaken. I huddled there with the rest of those lucky enough not to have meet their end. Maybe not yet. Just a few feet from where I stood moments earlier, another young soldier had his left arm severed and left thigh reduced to a bloody pulp by a shell. He was still alive, but was in great pain. A medic who tried to brave the bullets and drag the young boy's body to safety took a round to his head and was killed instantly.

God have mercy for us sinners in this hour of our death, I thought to myself, keeping my head clear of any would-be enemy snipers.

A man, presumably the captain, began shouting orders for a few sticks of bangalore torpedos. Several helmeted heads automatically turned to look at me. I found out why - by chance, back at the rock when I'd jettisonned most of my cargo, I had inadvertently kept the last stick of three issued bangalores, poking from my backpack like an awkward radio antennae as I ran across the killing beach. But we still needed at least two more to effectively blast an opening through the barb wires. Everyone fell silent and no one volunteered until the captain grew impatient and picked a few from us. Since I provided the first, I was exempted. All eyes were fixed on the two as they scurried across the sands to retrieve a stick each.

After what seemed like an eternity, both men came back unscathed. We grabbed the bangalores greedily like a hungry man snatching at a morsel of bread. I helped pass it to the rest and assumed back my proning position. While awaiting the men to fix and fuse up the charge, I had nothing to do but wait for the explosion to happen. There was a dead G.I. slumped a few feet from me, and I could see that his combat boots were dry and untouched by the channel's water. It was pretty easy to come to that conclusion since his feet were facing me. I took his boots and changed my socks to dry, warm ones, delighted that the size of the footwear was a comfortable fit.

Having no tanks and armour of any type on land made things worse. We were like sitting ducks in this dreadful scenario and the heavy armours, which could have been a welcome sight to any shell-shocked infantryman, was instead mostly floundering in the channel. Those pitiful few which made it up the beach front was immediately put out of action by the shells, with the crew trapped inside the burning tanks. The smell of acrid burnt flesh permeated the nostrils.

"Take cover, fire in the hole!" a voice rang out, followed by several others echoing that statement. It meant one thing - get your ass real low unless you want to be blown away by the bangalore shrapnels. God it was terrifying. It lasted nearly a whole minute, those explosions. But once the smoke cleared we saw a perfect path paved in front of us. With cries and rallying shouts, each man gathered his weapon and set across once more. I did the same. Some of them died immediately from random bullets shot from hidden sources just as they traversed over the shingle. These are the ones who would never live to see another sunset nor go home to their loved ones again. Those poor bastards.

END OF PART 01

An original fictional war memoir by JDream Anderson-Smith. Copyright 2005.

Guyver : The Bio-Boosted Armor

Guyver: The Bio-Boosted Armour is probably my biggest anime affection since Macross. With a great storyline, interesting characters and tons of violence (and gore), this makes for a great viewing on lazy Saturday afternoons. I used to have almost the whole collection of the manga series, but was unfortunately ripped off by some evil skinny bunny-toothed bastard and his rotund accomplice during my high school years when I lent it to them in a goodwill spirit. And now ever since then, I've been looking all over for reprints of this excellent manga.

The sad thing is, no comic publishing house seems to want to get them reissued once more. The even sadder thing is, the anime series only ran for a total of twelve episodes before being cancelled. The saddest thing is, the animation quality from episode six onwards took a spiralling turn to the bowels of sucky-crap hell due to the sudden change of animators and illustrators. The feeling was likened to eating great-tasting potato chips for all this while, and then suddenly some gruffy old fart takes over the chip-processing plant, abolishes the present workers, eliminates the recipe and sets about making his own taste of bland chips. Shit.

Come 2005, sources in Japan announced that they've decided to revive this old series. The better thing is, it won't continue from where it left but instead the whole series will be given a new fresh start. Finally, the best thing is it will stick more to the manga than the original 80s counterpart. Well, sort of. Of course, I hoped that with the release of this new revamped version, maybe some comic house would take notice of it and start to reprint the entire forgotten manga books to cash in at the moment. MPH 1-Utama stocks some pretty good eigo versions of Guyver (with glossy covers), but being graphic novels, the price that comes with it is pretty astronomical as well. Plus, the volumes are kinda incomplete.

One of the things which I've often pondered in the series is how nonchalantly those bad guys in nondescript black suits and their jumpsuited goon counterparts just shred apart their expensive clothings. I mean, come on, those are good business suits and uniforms we're talking about here. Chronos Corporation must be spending a bomb just to dress up their minions alone, as each time those guys transform into Zoanoids, they practically tear their clothes apart in order to do battle with the Guyver. Most die in the process but some survive to retreat back to the base in their original human form, buck naked. Wouldn't it be better if Chronos dressed them all in Spandex? That way, they can just be Zoanoids, and then when they assume humanly forms again, their clothes are still there, not to mention their decency. But the winning ratio of any standard Zoanoid over the Guyver is a mere 0.001%, so I guess that's probably one of the reasons why Chronos just gives them a one-time good Armani suit to rip.

Talking about Guyver reminds me of an incident. The other day while I was in a certain shopping megaplex with my friend, I came across the hobby shop displaying newly-issued Guyver action collectible figures. There was a Guyver 1, Guyver 3, ZX-Tole and Aptom Final Stage figure displayed alongside each other, enough to make any anime fan drool. Out of curiosity, I decided to go in and inquire about the price. If it was right, then I know what to get myself for Christmas this year. The pimply fat shop assistant was behind the counter, and when I inquired if the figures were based on the new anime, he just looked at me and wondered what the heck I was asking about. Not about the Guyver figures, mind you, but the WHOLE anime itself. "New Guyver series?", he said, his eyebrows narrowing. "No-lah, where got new one coming out? Only one series what", he continued and gave me this look as though I had green slime oozing out of my nose.

Shoot, and he's supposed to be working in a hobby shop whereby he needs to know all stuff relating to animes and action figures, I told myself, sighing at the same time.

Continuing on my journey, I decided to stop by the anime shop at the top floor before calling it a day. I wanted to inquire if the fore mentioned new series had already hit our shores, and if it had, how much it would cost. The guy there (slightly nerdy) gave me the same puzzled look. "Eh, new series? No-lah, where got. Those two Guyver DVDs over there were all they made, no more new one coming out-lah", he said while pointing to the above said DVDs. And his English was atrocious.

Crap, and he's working with an industry that IS supposed to keep abreast with the latest developments in anime pop-culture, I told myself in my heart, while giving him my best smile and nodding my head. I walked out of the shop, disappointed and shaking my head, and made a mental note NOT to get the series from that shop because the people in there are so totally ignorant!

Now I'm wondering if I should get that Guyver 1 action figure for Christmas, ignorant hobby shopkeeper be damned.

Leave No Man Behind: The Story of Black Hawk Down

Today marks the 12th anniversary of the failed attempt by US Army Rangers and Delta Operators to catch two top lieutenants of warlord Mohamed Farah Aidid in an attempt to quell the famine that was ravaging Somalia at that time and restore order to the stricken country.

About a hundred fifty Rangers and Delta Operators took part in the assault, which went horribly wrong, leading to the downing of two US Blackhawk helicopters and eighteen US soldier casualties, with about seventy-three wounded. The tally for the Somali dead scored past a thousand. The next morning after the ill-fated firefight, mobs of enraged Somalis dragged the corpses of dead American soldiers through the streets of Mogadishu, causing revulsion on the US homefront and prompting President Bill Clinton to call off the mission and withdraw all American servicemen from Somalia. Blackhawk pilot Mike Durant was, however, captured by the SNA militiamen and is the only survivor from the second Blackhawk crash site.

I've read the book, but not before watching the movie of the same name. And believe me when I tell you that not everything you see in the movie is based upon the book. Listed down are a few of the discrepancies that I find slightly not to my liking (might be yours too, I dunno. Just read the book for goodness' sake!)

Discrepancy 01: Sgt. Hoot and Sgt. Sanderson never existed
It's true. Read the book. The above two Delta operators are purely fictional, created for the movie. From what information I could gather, "Hoot" (Eric Bana) was based upon Sgt. Norm Hooten with the cool attitude from Sgt. Macejunas while "Sgt. Sanderson" (William Fitchner) is a mixture of Sgt. Rierson's leadership and Sgt. Paul Howe's anger mismanagement.

Discrepancy 02: Neither did Specialist John Grimes
Another fictional character created to fill in what was actually Specialist John Stebbins the Ranger company clerk, the avid coffee drinker seen offering a cup of Joe to Sgt. Sanderson in the movie. It seems that Stebbins had a problem with the law after the Battle of Mogadishu and I guess the producers didn't want to use his name due to legal reasons I know why of but I won't state here.

Discrepancy 03: Gary Gordon is NOT a blonde
He was a brunette, as was Randy Shughart. Actual pictures from the Net and books show this fact. In the movie however, only Randy was shown to be a brunette while Gary was, well, blonde-haired. However, Randy's character description in the movie still had a vital flaw - the REAL Randy had grey hair around the sides of his head.

Discrepancy 04: Where's Earl Fillmore?
The short, stocky Delta operator who died from a single random bullet to his head, was nowhere to be seen in the movie. In the book, the Americans had to carry his body on a stretcher after he was killed in action, and was moved from place to place until finally they all found temporary refuge in a vacant compound. I often wonder what prompted the producers to leave this part out of the movie itself.

Discrepancy 05: The recoil-rifle technical scene
The scene where the Skinnies are firing their truck-mounted cannon into the Americans' hiding enclavement and subsequently a few of the Rangers led by Delta operator Hooten are seen sneaking behind the Somalis with the aid of NVGs is pure fictional. It never happened. The Rangers and D-boys were so pinned down at the compound they had to take preventive measures from being overrun, let alone venturing out in a short but extremely daring mission. In fact, none of them even brought their NVGs along in the first place.

Discrepancy 06: The crew of Super Six-Four
Although most of the dragged bodies in real-life television shown on CNN were from the second Blackhawk crash site, there was no potrayal of any of the crew members of Super Six-Four in the movie. Given the lives lost around the second Blackhawk crash site, I feel it would only be appropriate to show and acknowledge the men.

Discrepancy 07: Randy and Gordy's ground insert
When Master Sgt. Gary Gordon and Sgt. Randy Shughart's call for the ground insert to protect Super Six-Four was finally approved, we see the both of them hopping out of the hovering helo over a clearing that was probably as big as a football field. In truth, they had to manage a narrow insert as the streets of Mogadishu were kinda crampy. They then had to fight their way across a few blocks of tin shacks and grimy shanties to get to Durant's crash site.

Discrepancy 08: Randy Shughart's last phone call
In the scene where Randy makes a final phone call to his wife back at the States, it shows his call being transferred to the voice recorder and he hangs up just as his wife Stephanie was to answer the call. The time looked around some 1500 to 1700 hours US Time (note the grocery bags carried in Stephanie's arms). Trouble is, Somalia is way East of the US, and logically at that time (15:32 hrs Somalia time) it would have still been night time in the United States.

Discrepancy 09: Leave no man behind
In the movie, we see a beaten-up and exhausted Mike Durant being held captive by the Skinnies and interrogated. Moments later, an AH-60 Little Bird roars overhead the city and broadcasts this message "Mike Durant, we will not leave without you". This did happen in real life, but not on the day of the battle itself, which was Sunday. The people back at the JOC only found out he was still alive much later and the broadcast was only made the following day.

Discrepancy 10: The missing Little Bird helos
When night finally fell and the men of Task Force Ranger were trapped in the above mentioned compound, we hear nothing. Quietness. The silence of the night. In actual fact on that same night, those Little Bird helicopters were continuously doing runs and giving much-needed support for the ground elements, raining brass shells onto the tin roofs each time they did (as taken from the book) while waiting for the Malaysian and Pakistani APCs to arrive.

SOURCES
Black Hawk Down: A Story Of Modern War by Mark Bowden

In The Company Of Heroes by Michael J. Durant & Steven Hartov. Foreword by Mark Bowden

The Battle Of Mogadishu edited by Matt Eversmann and Dan Schilling

Losing Mogadishu: Testing US Policy In Somalia by Jonathan Stevenson