CAN’T WAIT TO SEE THE MOVIE! (repost)

Title: MALACCA GOLD
Author: Wayne Stier
Publisher: Meru Publishing
Pages: 369
ISBN 983-99152-0-7

My trusty Britannica describes Ophir as “an unidentified region, famous in Old Testament times for its fine gold.” In the time of King Solomon (circa 920 B.C.), “Ophir was thought of as being overseas... the Jewish historian Josephus... evidently understood that India was the location of Ophir...”

How does this relate to Mount Ophir (now known as Gunung Ledang) which straddles the border of Malacca and Johore? Was this landmark peak named after an original Mount Ophir located in the Pasemah Highland of Sumatra - where English mining engineers found ancient gold mines dating back at least 3,000 years? Could this have been the true location of King Solomon’s legendary mines?

Farfetched as it may sound at first, the notion isn’t altogether preposterous. Otherwise, Wayne Stier’s rambunctious but highly readable romp through Malacca’s intriguing past and present could simply be dismissed as a darn good yarn spun by a Texan gunslinger-turned-punstringer who happens to write “in a hammock with a laptop on top of his lap on the veranda of a house in a coconut grove on the beach of an island in the Gulf of Thailand.”

This might explain Mr Stier’s “swinging” style - which gleefully combines swashbuckling adventure and historical romance with a dash of mystery, treasure-hunt travelog with a generous dollop of vaudeville comedy, maverick scholarship (guaranteed to annoy the dour academic) with straight-talking, in-your-face satire.

But pure whimsy alone would not have fired the author’s imaginative flair to such a compelling degree of literary ardor and passion. Stier is quite clearly convinced that he has stumbled upon a mystery of mind-boggling significance. Yet, he has opted for a flamboyant, flippant tone - and further protected himself by attributing the entire manuscript to an ex-colleague and barmate named Edwin Prebble - who, in turn, credits the story to a certain Ms Cindy Anna from Montana, salivatingly described as a “luscious, statuesque woman” with “long, blonde hair... long supple legs... powerful lapis eyes... stunning!” Hmmm. Who do we cast in that role? Kim Basinger? Sharon Stone? Uma Thurman? Daryl Hannah?

Can’t wait to see the movie. Maybe if Steven Spielberg turns it down, Wayne Stier will offer the film rights to me? Malacca Gold undoubtedly has all the ingredients of a big-time Hollywood box office hit. The epic action sweeps across time and space: starting on an island in southern Thailand, we’re taken on a dizzy Disneyland ride to Munich, a beach resort in Spain, then on board a gas tanker bound for Tokyo. Our heroine Cindy Anna accidentally falls into the Malacca Strait and gets rescued by a boatload of amateur Gudang Garam (clove cigarette) smugglers. After a brief sojourn in a hormonally charged Malay village, she meets the dramatis personae of the Majestic Hotel - Alfonso Fernandes, Dominique D’Abreu, Jimmy Ng, Arthur Rangjit, Percival Wiggins, and Vijay the newshound - who take turns guiding us on a whole gamut of magical-mystery-history tours.

Here’s what you get for the price of your ticket: Malacca before, during, and after the Portuguese; medieval China, the Revolt of the Red Eyebrows, Shaolin Temple, ta’i ch’i chuan, kungfu monks, and the rise of the Chinese triads; Mesopotamia, Ptolemaic Egypt, Phoenicia, Palestine, Damascus, the Dead Sea Scrolls, cryptic gold inventories; the Knights Templar and the secret history of Freemasonry; Madagascar, the Solomon Islands, and Pulau Upeh (a nondescript isle off the Malacca coast). Somehow there’s even space and time for a few poignant Chinese immigrant vignettes like Tai Tai Bong and Lucky Lim’s amazing lifestories - set against the soap opera backdrop of Malacca’s Baba and Nyonya families, and the hellish horrors of the Japanese Occupation.

Stier manages to conjure a constant undercurrent of mystery in his copious history with titillating references to magical kris (wavy-bladed Malay daggers), “gileega” stones (usually spelt geliga, bezoar stones associated with dragons, the mythical guardians of subterranean hoards), Batu Pahat gold (reputedly the finest in the world), and apocryphal speculations about the cabalistic Keys of Solomon and the precession of the equinoxes.

Among the colorful and everchanging cast of characters in Malacca Gold, two are particularly memorable: the young Portuguese troubadour-chef Duarte Fernandes, and retired planter Percival Wiggins. Duarte Fernandes is portrayed as a prototype Forrest Gump: besides playing romantic lead to the beautiful 16-year-old firebrand Anyi, daughter of Utimuti Rajah, Duarte is credited with (among other things) introducing the joget and red hot chili peppers to Malacca high society, penning the lovesong that would later be adopted as Malaysia’s national anthem, and “donating” a drummer dwarf named Captain Universe (Panglima Awang) to Fernao Magalhaes, better known as Ferdinand Magellan, the “first” world circumnavigator.

Anyi and Duarte’s foredoomed liaison parallels the ill-fated passion of Putri Ledang for her lover, Dua. (Note the “coincidental” similarity of the names Duarte and Dua.) Putri Ledang, of course, was the love-maddened princess and sorcerer’s daughter of Malay legend after whom Mount Ophir was renamed.

Stier’s portrait of Percival Wiggins as the archetypal expatriate-gentleman-scholar-raconteur is charmingly crafted. (Sir Alec Guinness would have been the ideal choice for this plum role.) The fact that Planter Wiggins - the embodiment of the late Classical European mind at its scientific and encyclopaedic best - is named after the Percival (or Parsifal) of the Grail Quest is significant. It reinforces the intricate interlocking motifs of all major planetary myths: lost kingships, lost civilizations, lost treasure, lost keys to the Mystery, lost stories, lost meanings. Wiggins is a crucial lynchpin of this multi-layered, meandering tale; indeed his solid characterization anchors the more exotic sub-plots in the realm of the credible.

Despite her obvious sex appeal, Cindy Anna (from Montana not Indiana) emerges as a perfectly edible... sorry, credible and well-developed central figure (pun intended, if only as an example of the spicy ribaldry that seasons Stier’s storytelling). Indeed she comes across as a fine embodiment of feisty, free-spirited femininity: adventurous, intelligent, imbued with an earthy spirituality. When she describes ch’i as “that mysterious force in the universe that causes water to ripple, and mountains to fold, that puts the spin in planets and makes stars explode and then reform within our bodies,” she makes perfect, poetic, profound sense. The quest for buried treasure - the thematic thread which links the diverse characters in Malacca Gold - acquires an altogether deeper, alchemical meaning in the light of many such metaphysical epiphanies hidden throughout the text.

Author Wayne Stier in his Hawaii home

However, it is as a veteran writer of travel documentaries that Stier’s prose flows most comfortably. The cinematic detail of his descriptions of Malacca and its street life are among the most animated and vivid I’ve read. Naturally he couldn’t resist throwing in a satirical montage of “current affairs” images culled from reading the local newspapers. The Great Malacca Drought of 1991 and the two-million-ringgit “High-Tech Rainmaker” scam receive prominent attention, along with grisly gossip inspired by Mona Fandey (the infamous killer-witch) and the private shenanigans of people in public office.

Occasionally, the narrative flow is broken by the interjection of painful puns and sophomoric sexual innuendoes - which, of course, the reader must blame on gin-and-tonic-loving Ed Prebble, recording angel and interlocutor. Ed comes across as an incorrigible pedant with his poker-faced, pseudo-academic footnotes, signed “Ed, ed.”

Alas, Ed’s pedantry is sometimes unjustified, as his facts are not always impeccably researched. (For instance, Ed informs the reader that Malayan independence was declared “in a ceremony in the center of Malacca” on August 31, 1957. This isn’t completely correct: the imminent granting of Merdeka (independence) was announced in Malacca on February 18, 1955. But the actual Merdeka ceremony was staged in the national capital, Kuala Lumpur more than two years later.)

In a brilliantly succinct chapter on the advent of the Knights Templar as the first international bankers, Stier - or, rather, Ed - misspells the name of the first Grand Master, Hugues de Payens - as well as the last, Jacques de Molay, who was burnt at the stake on the orders of King Philip le Bel, and died cursing the French monarchy. But these are trivial complaints when weighed against the sheer entertainment value and little gems of gritty, witty insight Malacca Gold provides. For example, Cindy Anna on her short stint as a sidewalk mime: “Takes a lot of concentration to stand still. I never realized how much we use speed to help keep our balance. I think that’s why so many people are afraid to slow down - afraid of crashing. It takes guts to do nothing.”

I won’t vouch for the originality of the following quirky quip, but I liked its sparkle: “He calls himself a ‘Heinz 57’ breed, a mixture of a little English stock, Dutch, and probably some orang asli, the aboriginal people of the Malay peninsula. Alfonso hinted that there might also be an orangutan swinging around in Dominique’s family tree.”

Is there anyone on earth who can deny that we all have a primate or two swinging around in our family tree? After all, recent paleo-anthropological evidence suggests that the Adamic race may have been created by the “Sky Gods” - Nefilim from the planet Nibiru (symbolized by the winged orb of the Sumerians/Assyrians/Egyptians and the splayed cross of the Templars) - specifically to mine for gold. Isn’t that why men (and women, too) have always been obsessed with the Metal of the Gods?

Personally I found Wayne Stier’s fantastic patchwork of short and tall stories so engaging and enjoyable, I would have happily kept the Malacca and forgotten about the Gold. But who knows... the world may soon be queuing for the movie version, thereby inspiring Mr Stier to switch from Gudang Garam to Lucky Strike.

Read Wayne Stier's memoirs, Stars When The Sun Shines.

Postscript: In June 2009 I received an email from Mars Cavers, Wayne's wife and lifelong traveling companion, informing me that Wayne had succumbed to the cancer he had been diagnosed with in his early twenties. Seizing life with superhuman passion, Wayne Stier was extremely productive till his death at the age of 62, churning out travelogs, novels, plays and metaphysical poetry. He even tried his hand at woodcarving and sculpture, and did a few tours as an itinerant monologist and raconteur. I dedicate this post to an old pal who made a few inspiring cameo appearances in my life.

[First posted 19 June 2011, reposted 17 October 2018 & 4 September 2023]

SEEMS LIKE ONLY YESTERDAY... (updated & revisited)

"Growing old is not for wimps." ~ Jock Smith & Bette Davis

Barbie turned 67 this year! Barbie is a fashion doll manufactured by the American toy company Mattel, Inc and launched in March 1959. American businesswoman Ruth Handler is credited with the creation of the doll, using a German doll called Bild Lilli as her inspiration.

Siegel and Shuster created the character Superman in 1934 and intended to sell the character as a daily newspaper comic strip. They told Superman's origin over the course of twelve strips, ten of which detailed the planet Krypton.

In early 1938, the success of Superman prompted editors at the comic book division of National Publications (the future DC Comics) to request more superheroes for its titles. In response, Bob Kane created "the Bat-Man." The first Batman story, "The Case of the Chemical Syndicate," was published in Detective Comics #27 (May 1939).

Wonder Woman is a DC Comics superhero created by William Moulton Marston, first appearing in All Star Comics #8 (December 1941).

Spider-Man is a fictional Marvel Comics superhero. The character was created by writer and editor Stan Lee and artist and co-plotter Steve Ditko. He first appeared in Amazing Fantasy #15 (August 1962).
Thor is a fictional superhero who appears in publications published by Marvel Comics. The character first appeared in Journey into Mystery #83 (August 1962) and was created by editor-plotter Stan Lee, scripter Larry Lieber, and penciller Jack Kirby.

Bob Clampett created the character that would become Tweety Bird in the 1942 short A Tale of Two Kitties, pitting him against two hungry cats named Babbit and Catstello (based on the famous comedians Abbott and Costello). On the original model sheet, Tweety was named Orson (which was also the name of a bird character from an earlier Clampett cartoon Wacky Blackouts).

"Maybe life isn't the party we were expecting, but in the mean time... we're here and we can still dance."

[Thanks to Denis Hewett @ Captain Haddock - who was beamed up to the Mother Ship on 20 December 2025 - for forwarding the images above. There's a huge pile of heavy thoughts I'd like to put down in words and publish on this blog, but it feels like too much work right now, so I'm relieved to be posting some silly stuff instead. Anyway, as far as Malaysian politics is concerned, the hottest news online quickly turns cold like chicken shit. Are you surprised? The Altantuya and Teoh Beng Hock murders are no-brainers. Both crimes have grown long fingers and they all point at the very highest echelons of power. In any civilized country, several governments would have been forced to resign by now. But with the sleaziest Attorney-General and Inspector General of Police in the nation's history hard at work covering the plump rumps of our pink-lipped and smooth-cheeked poltroons in Putrajaya, it's busyness-as-usual... or else!]

Here's another amusing item I found on some other blog...

COURTROOM DRAMA

Defense Attorney: Will you please state your age?

Little Old Lady: I am 94 years old.

Defense Attorney: Will you tell us, in your own words, what happened the night of April 1st?

Little Old Lady: There I was sitting in my swing on my front porch on a warm spring evening, when a young man comes creeping up from out of nowhere and sits down right beside me.

Defense Attorney: Did you know him?

Little Old Lady: No, but he sure was friendly.

Defense Attorney: What happened after he sat down?

Little Old Lady: He started to rub my thigh.

Defense Attorney: Did you stop him?

Little Old Lady: No, I didn't stop him.

Defense Attorney: Why not?

Little Old Lady: It felt good. Nobody had done that since my Albert died some 30 years ago.

Defense Attorney: What happened next?

Little Old Lady: He began to rub my breasts.

Defense Attorney: Did you stop him then?

Little Old Lady: No, I did not stop him.

Defense Attorney: Why not?

Little Old Lady: His rubbing made me feel all alive and excited. I hadn't felt that good in years!

Defense Attorney: What happened next?

Little Old Lady: Well, by then, I was feeling so 'spicy' I just laid down and told him, 'Take me, young man... take me now!'

Defense Attorney: Did he take you?

Little Old Lady: Hell, no! He just yelled, "April Fool!" And that's when I shot him, the little bastard.

This post is dedicated to Lily Fu, mother of my two beautiful girls, and a very active blogger herself.

[First posted 18 November 2009. Reposted 30 August 2014]

WHAT MY HEART TRULY DESIRES (updated)

1. That Joy and Freedom and Love and Abundance be restored as the keynote features of Life on Earth - and throughout the Cosmos.

2. That my family, my friends and I shall effortlessly draw to ourselves a neverending flow of material and spiritual well-being; and nevermore be in need, nor suffer scarcity.

3. That good health and unbounded wealth, in every form, be ours to enjoy - and that prosperity will continue to increase and facilitate great happiness and pleasure, benefiting an ever widening circle of other beings.


4. That the Love of My Life (in all her enchanting forms) will blossom into my Twin Flame as she yields to the inevitability and undeniability of our boundless passion for one another; that she will love me as deeply as I love her (no matter what form we happen to inhabit) and be inspired to evolve to hitherto unknown levels of awareness, intelligence, power and wisdom.


5. That I will be inspired, motivated, and ably assisted each day to be a conduit of Beauty, Truth and Wisdom in all the things I do - which I shall do with utmost pleasure, joy and masterful ease.

6. That all souls - incarnate and disincarnate - will successfully fulfil their evolutionary potential and destiny, and participate gratefully in perpetual celebration of Life... Life in all its endless mystery, wonder, and exquisite beauty.

7. That all previous conflicts be experienced as Dynamic Tensions necessary to the completion of the Human Experience; and that henceforth all sentient souls shall awaken to the Infinite Glory and Absolute Perfection of Creation in all its multidimensional and kaleidoscopic variety.

I unearthed this memo I wrote to myself several years ago and decided to share it with everybody as a blogpost. First posted 5 May 2013, reposted 21 August 2017 & 27 August 2023.

All Quiet on the Domestic Front... (updated & revalidated)

I write this on the last day of 2010 and all is quiet on the domestic front...

Too quiet, in fact. Without Roger Putra to grace our scenic veranda and to amuse all and sundry with his galloping cute bum whenever he runs ahead (as he must) to the river for his daily dip and photo ops on the rocks.

Roger's wholly unnecessary and meaningless murder at the hands of a demented Orang Asli on 14 December 2010 has soured what has otherwise been an entirely sweet year for me.

For the nation and for the planet as a whole, whether 2010 has been sweet or sour - or a bit of both - depends on what constitutes your sources of information. If you subscribe to the mainstream news media and watch a lot of TV, then it has been a generally chaotic and frustrating year, with rogue regimes stubbornly (often violently) clinging on to power while natural (and unnatural) disasters continue to inflict massive hardship and suffering on the disenfranchised and the destitute.

However, if you've been listening to your heart more than to your head, you might have sensed that humanity is waking up very swiftly and spontaneously.

You might also have noticed that there are vast numbers of amazing children incarnate on the planet right now - some already in their teens, others still toddlers - but all of them represent a new octave of evolution for the human species.

These rainbow starchildren (some might label them Indigo Crystals) arrived fully conscious with minimal karmic or neurotic impediments. Just look into their eyes and you will recognize them as Master Souls - entities from celestial realms who have volunteered to be physically incarnate at this crucial juncture of the planet's evolutionary process.

I met a large number of Indigo Crystals recently at a special gathering in Bali. The youngest, Eilidh (above, right), was only 10 months old. From the moment I laid eyes on her (she was playing in the hotel pool with her mother Elspeth) she focused directly at my energy field and her face broke out in a beatific smile. On the last day of the gathering of healers, shamen, wizards, magicians and starseeds, Eilidh's dad Anthony had her on his shoulder while he walked slowly around the grand ballroom. I noticed that Eilidh made eye contact with every single one of the individuals present - all 115 of them. I felt blessed to be in the same space - indeed, on the same planet - as her.

And then there were Akyuna (16) and Elena (24) who seemed to have arrived on earth riding the same beam of love from beyond the stars. Although Elena got here 8 years ahead of Akyuna, when they gaze lovingly into each other's eyes, they are both completely ageless - just a radiant unified field of divine love. With Akyuna and Elena I never really had to communicate verbally. Every time we bumped into one another, a tender hug was the only currency we traded in - and ear-to-ear grins that spoke volumes about the pure joy bursting from our hearts. Although Akyuna lives in Hawaii and speaks only English and star language - and Elena lives in Moscow and speaks Russian, English and the language of the heart - they communicate regularly via facebook, and all who love these luminous starchildren rejoice in their earthly reunion.


What about Tonatiuh and Taisia? He was born in Mexico, went to Germany for further studies and that's where he met his future bride, the exquisite Russian-born Taisia. The sacred union of North and South, Latin and Slavic royal bloodlines. In Peru at the second part of the 8th Gate Activation in 2009, Tonatiuh and Taisia awakened to the fantastic truth of their earthly incarnations as embodiments of the White Dragons - noble beings of magical and primordial wisdom that have not inhabited these dense realms for aeons. [Update: In March 2025 those who knew Tonatiuh and Taisia were stunned by news that Tonatiuh had crossed over to the spirit realm, leaving his beautiful wife and three young daughters distraught and in distress. I trust that in 2026 their situation has stabilized.]

I returned from Bali to the ecstatic embrace of a starry princess named Nannan (a true Indigo Crystal) who chose to incarnate in China, so she could embody the deep and ancient memories of a hardy and resourceful land that has seen heavenly glory and known the darkest despair, deprivation and sorrow. Her spirit so bold and fearless - yet as merciful as the compassionate goddess Kwanyin and wise as only a rider of dragons can be. Our reunion triggered long-buried echoes of memories from beyond the veil of forgetfulness, stretching across many lifetimes. To recognize and to be recognized is indeed the epitome of true love! [Update: Following the calamitous tectonic shift and tsunami of 11 March 2011, Nannan abruptly vanished from view or jumped timelines and has not been sighted again.]

Beyond any doubt, I feel powerfully connected to an ever expanding network of incarnate souls representing all the Primordial Creator lineages - beings that originate from archangelic and angelic realms, volunteers from exotic star systems and wizardly technicians from all points in time and a staggering profusion of probable realities and parallel universes...

They are already here on Earth, in beautiful human embodiment, eating and chatting and laughing and making love with other awakened and awakening humans. Their radiant energy fields are luminescent and vibrant fields of limitless love and unbounded intelligence, transcending the 3-dimensional confines of the Matrix and immune to the primitive, fear-based, scarcity-conditioning and mind-control mechanisms installed in the early versions of Homo sapiens by the Anunnaki and other spiritually immature ET factions.


Each one of us is in the process of integrating our celestial and terrestrial neural circuitry and emerging as authentic masters, like a hundred million Krishnas, Buddhas, Padmasambhavas, Muhammads and Christs that have managed to sneak past the border guards right into the heart of the Occupied Zone. The Revolution we are fomenting is essentially a mental and spiritual one, without recourse to violence.

The Agent Smiths of the New World Order cabal and the evil priesthood of the ancient vampire bloodlines will, as to be expected, lash out in panic, thinking they can quell any large-scale rebellion through the force majeure of the police state at home and their military might abroad.

When physical violence erupts, as it occasionally will, physical bodies get damaged, even destroyed. As far as possible, we shall be extremely cautious when negotiating these dangerous political reefs - but none of us, in the ultimate sense, fears death or incarceration, if only because we have all been through this sort of low-grade scenario time and again. Yes, some of us remember the Inquisition vividly; some of us still bear the emotional scars of a dozen massacres and bloody wars. We have navigated labyrinths and resurrected ourselves from fictitious crucifixions countless times. We're veteran Jedis of numerous Star Wars.

We are fighting this war of enlightenment to liberate the human spirit from the fetters of deadly dogma and dull doctrine; from Neo-Darwinian notions and Malthusian misconceptions that have resulted in grotesquely iniquitous and unbalanced distribution of the planet's majestic abundance. We will not bow or cower before deformities dressed in the robes of earthly power, usurpers of and pretenders to the throne of heaven on earth. All the puffed-up honorifics and titles they bestow upon themselves will not protect them from our scrutiny and our scorn.

They believe they can cork the leak by arresting and harassing a cyber-revolutionary like Julian Assange. But can they cope with ten million Assange clones in Guy Fawkes masks?


Sooner rather than later their own children will recoil in horror at the stupid cruelty of what their parents and grandparents have done to the planet and all her lifeforms - and the psychosis they conceal behind their botoxed façades of respectability. And these children will open up the fortesses and palaces from within to let in some desperately needed fresh air and some pure new blood to renew the view from Pisgah and restore the divine blueprint of heaven on earth.

LET'S MAKE THIS THE YEAR WE HUMANS FINALLY RECLAIM OUR PLANET AND BOOT OUT THE PSYCHIC PARASITES OF FALSE AUTHORITY THAT HAVE GORGED THEMSELVES ON OUR VITALITY FOR FAR TOO LONG!

[First posted 31 December 2010, reposted 1 December 2019 & 23 August 2022]

I wrote a crazy fan letter to Frank Zappa in 1975...

 Kit Leee @ Magruser Eeel

7 Pesiaran Ampang Hilir

KUALA LUMPUR 16-06

MALAYSIA

Frank Zappa

c/o DiscReet Records Inc

5831 Sunset Boulevard

Hollywood, CA 90028

United Mutated States

Dear Frank:

Having just got up from troubled sleep on a Sunday morning I felt compelled to head straight for the typewriter and mail this off to you - even if it turns out to be an embarrassing variation on the Crazed Fan Letter theme. I can't help being personal about it - but here's the self-introductory blurb which just might explain everythang:

I'm 25½ years old and almost Chinese. In April 1968 I witnessed my first teenaged rock concert in the Fillmore East and afterwards you told me about Lumpy Gravy and even handed me a weird looking

chocolate knob which I consumed unthinkingly several hours later; I also talked with Ian Underwood who was very kind, and I shook hands with Jim Black not realizing at that time he was the Indian of the Group. 

Anyway, since that night the universe has mutated for me in a most bizarre but absolutely fun way. Because the very next year (1969) my mind got zapped and I suddenly discovered what everything was all about. Doctors might try and blame it on the marijuana I was smoking at the time - but I believe if anything triggered off the entire episode it was Music performed at a certain UHF level which helped raise my kundalini (if you'll pardon the expression). 

Anyway, I have managed in the face of uneven odds to obtain every album you've churned out - not caring that people thought I was just another little sucker, tasty or not. Of course that qualifies me to apply for membership in United Mutations - but that kind of thing could become impossible to cope with and I have preferred to run a sort of UNITED MUTATIONS (Local Chapter) anyway and I hope you don't stop me and make me pay royalties or whatever because I ain't rich yet.

The question/s is/are: Are you really God? Can I be your Son? Or to put it less obviously, aren't you in fact the Monster Magnet? And am I not your Son returned? There must be some kind of relationship here that the perceptive genealogist might hold up for public inspection. Maybe you're just Uncle Meat and that makes me another nephew or niece (probably both).

Don't worry about it, I'm not. Worried, I mean. In fact I'm pretty excited - and have been for the last 7 years. Tell me it's true, Frank! Put some Meaning & Purpose into my post-teenaged life. Jeez. This letter wasn't intended to degenerate into such a low order of cheesiness — but I sincerely don't care. (Now am I consciously ripping off these lines from you or is it merely a natural process of a normal mutant education?)

Carbon copy of the original!

Anyway, I have forgotten most everything I'd wanted to say in this preliminary attempt to project some basic form of communication. Yes, I was going to outline some dreams I have enjoyed! Just to give you an idea: I'm stuck on the ground waiting for something to show up; suddenly a formation of jets whizzes out of the blue and Holy Hotcha! they aren't planes, they're the Mothers and Frank Zappa is squadron leader; and the next thing I Know is that I'm being sucked up into that formation. Pretty obvious but pleasant. Another time you're making some wholesome movie in a big field full of cables and wires and chimpanzee cages and actual caravans - and I just happen to be passing through and... I forget what happens next.

Any clinical psychologist that's worth his gravy would point out that these dreams are only picture fragments set up by my impressionable subconscious after hearing all them songs.

Especially since the flight sequence is straight out of “Absolutely Free" and the other bit of perversion looks suspiciously like a revamp of the liner illustration in CHUNGA'S REVENGE! This sort of thing never fails to screw me up completely on a nice Sunday morning. I mean to say that the problem is not a localized one. A week back I met an Austrian artist who told me he talked to you in some Viennese nightclub; and he said you're the least hung up, most open, and genuinely nice person he's ever met in the music business etc. 

And I replied, "That's probably because Zappa is an Operating Thetan" hoping to scare him into silence but - Double Your Money & Wowie Zowie to the Power of Ten - that guy knew all about Ron Hubbard!

All this is not intended as a Plea for you to don your famous Zorro cape and Ur-Mu robe direct from Woolworth's Jupiter... I'm only trying to make you understand why it's pretty important that I get to

hear from you — my superego is in grave danger! Hate to whine about this but you realize that for a while things got so out of hand I'd be using you as an Authority crutch like: Zappa does this, it's gotta

be good etc. Or: Would Frank do the same etc? I hope that by the mere feat of establishing a solid physical channel of communication (as opposed to a fantasy plane correspondence) the situation will be restored to beautiful perspective, whatever that looks like.

In a way I can dig why all this is happening. Having read and transcribed a long 1968 interview you had with some guy named Kofsky, I have convinced myself that it's no mirror trick and that you can really do it. Do what, I can't say if you asked.

Okay, more confessions. After all it's Sunday. I confess to having at certain phases of Expanded Consciousness blissed out on the Idea that you were, in actual fact, just myself in another mode of Time. In other words or worlds, your whole physical manifestation could be described as myself in the Future being transplanted into the Past (1941 or nine years before I was born) and now coexisting in simultaneous spacetime like some freak phenomenon. 

This kind of solipsism is dangerous to put down in black & white - but I don't care because I've had an uneasy sleep and things were getting a little murky - and I hope that the physical reality of my writing to you might help correct the metaphysical focus of my dental hygiene dilemma - do you have bad teeth too? I would also appreciate any help from your direction in getting a clear view of what Ron Hubbard has been doing. It's important to me because: just think! if Hubbard is for real everything is going to turn out different from what Hymen Cunt expects.

(Notice how often I use the word “real”: remember I asked you one question at the Fillmore in 1968, a silly question in retrospect: "Is your hair real?" Mine was on the short side then and I couldn't

believe anyone could grow hair like that. Incredible.)

I snapped this pic in 1968!

In case it means anything I'll just fill you in on some other irrelevant technical data about my present circumstances. The nifty envelope this letter comes to you in with the INRI mark represents my singlehanded attempt to incorporate truth into mass communications. INRI is the name of an atom—sized company I own which dabbles in advertising for income while the insane brain cooks up megalomanic schemes whereby I, too, will eventually have a record label of my own (AKASHIC) and maybe even produce a couple of films. Holographic movies are out of the question right now for obvious reasons - but I have been inspired by your growing success on the financial plane and view it as a Statement of Faith. Yes, I play music but not in a band because I haven't got any instruments worth discussing. Suffice to say I was raised on a snob diet of Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Leonard Bernstein and my own internal soundtrack. Which is why I like your music without its having to come around and bite me in the ass. I recently bought an Edgar Varese album but find you cleaner, wholesomer fun — and more danceable too.

I used to be “married” with two girls (aged 6 and 3 named Moonlake and Tinkerbell Love) but she’s now living with another guy and it’s quite all right though occasionally it drives me to strange paths, such as this letter might indicate. We are a closely-knit but not together-enough community of freaks, quasi- & pseudo- & absolute. Not everybody digs real music; lots dig the blues which I suppose is all right if you're completely fucked. 

Not too long ago Muhammad Ali was in Kuala Lumpur which was like putting this dump on the Atlas. And immediately afterwards the Disney circus rolled up and even Charlie Byrd. Things are squirming in some reassuring semblance of life. I have begun to entertain secret thoughts that one day we'll have Dylan and the Mothers blowing the equatorial pants off the local flora & fauna etc. Why not? Pete Townshend almost made it here two years ago, or did he? Even if nothing happens over here I hope that later on (maybe middle of next year) I will get a chance to go back to the States and see about further saturating the record industry with the local product. In such an event could you & would you be of Great Help? I mean, do you want to do something like that or do you prefer to do your thang and let me do mine alone no matter what a drag it is to even think about?

Do you still live in Laurel Canyon with wife and kids? Only wanna know. Anyway I'm running out of tape and would honestly LOVE to hear from you. But if you don't bother to reply I won't hold it against you.

Eternal Excitement Ecstasy & Love

  

Kit

27.VII.75

This doodle served as filler for the 3rd page, with the handwritten inscription:
"Love to all The Mothers - old and new!"

THOSE MOIST AND SALTY MOMENTS (revisited)

By Lee Bee Doh

MR H.S. LOH stood in line, hands in his pockets, twiddling his thumbs. He had a habit of playing with himself whenever there was nothing else to do. Fondling his privates in public was particularly appealing, because he had to be careful not to get himself too excited, which usually got him even more aroused.

He smiled secretly thinking about the few occasions he had developed a full-blown hard-on while standing in a queue. One time he managed to conceal his bulge behind a copy of Utusan Malaysia (not that he actually read the rabidly racist rag, but he enjoyed walking around with a copy under his arm or over his crotch just to annoy people). It also came in handy whenever he felt the compulsion to idly swat a few rent-seeking flies.

Another time he happened to be standing behind his plump-rumped girlfriend, Lascivia Lum, and was able to good-humoredly goose her till she had to trot off giggling to the ladies and plug her overflow with tissue paper.

H.S. (as he preferred to be called, because his father had perversely named him Hum Sup, weird sense of humor) was a congenital erotomaniac. In Cantonese, Hum Sup literally means “salty and moist.” In plain English, H.S. was addicted to sex. In other words, he chose to attain Oneness through physical conjugation rather than transcendental meditation. In fact, the only constant in his life was to fuck and wank at every opportunity.

Eating and sleeping served only to recharge his batteries between battering ram episodes when he would attempt to break down the fortified gates of feigned prudery. Indeed, H.S. Loh sometimes saw himself as a crusader for the suppressed libido, tilting at windmills of false piety and genuine hypocrisy.

Those who knew H.S. suspected that he enjoyed shocking erotophobes (making their auras shrink in dismay) even more than indulging his congenital erotomania. His current squeeze, Lascivia, was cute and cuddly enough – but the fact that her father was a Baptist preacher added spice to their love affair.

AS A KID at Sunday school, H.S. had been intrigued by the story of humanity’s “Fall from Grace.” The watered-down official version made it seem like Adam and Eve were tossed out of Heaven for disobeying God and eating the Forbidden Fruit. Why God would plant a “forbidden” fruit in the Garden of Eden was beyond human comprehension. And to then tell these innocent babes in the wood they could do whatever they liked except taste that particular fruit made it clear that God was setting them up big time.

He probably had a stopwatch in hand, waiting to see how long it would take Adam and Eve to discover the exquisite pleasures of fornication and commit their Original Sin. (I bet God had at least four CCTV cameras installed to record the event, just in case He needed to resort to blackmail somewhere down the line. Or maybe He just liked to watch.)

Preachers call it “illicit sex” because Adam had yet to propose to Eve, and she hadn’t even considered signing a contract agreeing to be physically and emotionally bound to him for life. Anyway, if Adam and Eve were the First Couple and there were no other humans around, then neither could contemplate carnal intimacy with anybody else, could they? Being promiscuous would be a complete waste of time in the Garden of Eden.

Unless Eve was kinky enough to be turned on by the Serpent’s slinky muscularity and allowed it to perform cunnilingus on her with its forked tongue and Barry White voice. You may not know this, but male snakes do have penises – not one, but two. Okay, some biologists say the snake’s hemipenes are in fact a bifurcated penis, rather than two separate organs. So it’s quite possible that the Serpent may have ventured beyond foreplay and penetrated Eve with one, or both, of its reptilian penises.

It’s also entirely possible that when Eve says she was tempted by the Serpent, she was merely waxing lyrical about Adam’s morning erection. I mean, if you’re a newly minted woman and have never seen a fully erect male organ, your first close encounter with one in all its glory might well cause you to spontaneously lubricate and cream yourself.

Whatever actually happened in the Garden of Eden, you can be sure of one thing: it had to do with sex.

And that’s why H.S. Loh was obsessed with the subject. Any activity that can get one evicted from paradise must be well worth investigating. Yet, how could it possibly be “paradise” if sex is forbidden? Are there different categories of paradise, some XXX-rated and others approved for General Audiences?

However, sex wasn’t the only thing on his mind – though one might argue that everything would look sexy to a man named Hum Sup Loh.

As a student of philosophy, H.S. had always preferred Socrates (right) to Plato; Laotzu to Confucius. People often speak of “platonic” love but how come they never boast about their passion being “socratic”? Socrates was officially married to Xanthippe, who gave him three sons. But he was, like most Athenian nobles, also known to enjoy the company of young and handsome male athletes. Umno would most certainly disapprove and attempt to fitnah him left, right and center.

Laotzu was a legendary sage who lived in forested hills far from civilization and successfully avoided being awarded titles and positions by the palace. It is recorded that Confucius, hearing of Laotzu’s great wisdom, found Laotzu after many months of searching, and asked if he would accept Confucius as his humble student. Laotzu simply said: “Why waste your time and mine? Go back to your job as an academic!” To his credit, Confucius never spoke ill of Laotzu; indeed, he described him as a cosmic phenomenon, awesome and unreachable as a dragon flying through the clouds.

But to H.S. Loh the most admirable contemporary philosopher was a fellow named Hugh Marston Hefner (left), better known as the chief editor and publisher of Playboy magazine. Launching the first issue in December 1953 on $8,000 of borrowed capital, Hefner not only became a multi-millionaire entrepreneur – but he also planted the seeds of the sexual revolution that swept across the world in the 1960s (bypassing Malaysia and the Middle East, some will be relieved to know).

Many of Hefner’s monumental accomplishments were unknown to the hordes of salivating appreciators of Playboy’s monthly centerfolds. Hefner was a vigorous crusader for free speech and civil liberties; he stood by stand-up comedian Lenny Bruce when the government was harassing him and later produced recordings and a feature-length film documenting Lenny Bruce’s turbulent career (Lenny, starring Dustin Hoffman, 1974).

Hugh M. Hefner preached what he practiced. He loved beautiful bodies, fast cars, good food, fine clothes, freedom and lofty ideas – and that’s exactly what he promoted in Playboy. At the ripe old age of 86, Hefner married a buxom 26-year-old hottie named Crystal Harris. That’s not half-bad by anybody’s reckoning, especially H.S. Loh’s… so what if the whole affair was doomed to failure from the start? [Harris later revealed, in a candid interview with Howard Stern, that she and Hefner had only had sex once: "He’s had so much sex, he’s kind of over it. It lasted two seconds. It was an out-of-body experience."]

And so what if Hugh M. Hefner was exposed, after his death at 91 in September 2017, as having been part of a CIA honeypot operation aimed at video-recording prominent figures in compromising positions for blackmail purposes? Most famous people have secret lives we know nothing about until after they're dead.

These were some of the random thoughts drifting lazily through H.S. Loh's mind as he waited in line at the KTM Komuter ticket counter. By the time he got to his turn, his willy was more than half-erect. “Kuala Kubu Bharu,” he said, giving his throbbing dickhead a friendly rub while fishing around for some loose change in his left trouser pocket.

H.S. was thrilled to finally be meeting his childhood hero, a man who had made a career out of priapic prose, and who fancied himself a latter-day incarnation of the nature god Pan. As the train pulled out of the station, H.S. sent a text message ahead, alerting the recipient to his estimated time of arrival. Hope he likes the present I got for him, H.S. smiled, fingering the beautifully gift-wrapped box of super-strength tongkat ali capsules in his shoulder bag.

_______
Lee Bee Doh is just another alias of that elusive entity, erstwhile known as Kit Leee (actor, author, cartoonist, arts reviewer and producer), who vanished into the woods, only to reappear in cyberspace as Antares (blogger, musician and jungle chef). [Originally published on LoyarBurok. First posted here 19 May 2011, reposted 4 June 2014, 28 July 2016, 30 May 2018 & 9 July 2022].

ARE WE STILL WAITING FOR THE MESSIAH? (reprise)

I haven't written about local politics since the Great Reset of May 9th, 2018, apart from a 500-word overview for The Edge's Merdeka Special.

There are several reasons for my silence. First, I have been preoccupied with the construction of a guest facility behind our house which has consumed much of my energy and all of my cash reserves. Secondly, now that Barisan Nasional is no longer in power, I feel that my political crusade (which began after October 1987) is more or less accomplished. Thirdly, people are getting much more vocal on social media now that the fear has receded and the cacophony of clamorous voices isn't something I wish to add to, although I look upon it as the grating sound of a nascent democracy akin to construction noise (which we tolerate when it's our own house that's being built).

So why do I feel compelled to put in my two bits' worth now? Truth be told, folks, I'm fatigued by the quarrelsome adversarial nature of political rhetoric. I have never liked to argue for the sake of argument, which I regard as nothing more than a competitive sport, a game of semantics. cunning lingual exercises that never penetrate beyond mere superficialities.

Above all, I have never subscribed to the notion that authentic change can be effected on the political level, that all it takes is to replace one captain or manager with another. It's the very idea of being subject to external authority, generation after generation, unquestioningly surrendering our innate power and sovereignty as conscious individuals, that needs to be reassessed and outgrown.

So why did I publicly endorse, consistently over 20 years, the prime ministership of Anwar Ibrahim? The answer is simple: I am no game-player and find politics every bit as tedious and banal as courtroom proceedings. I generally prefer engaging my right brain and gut feelings to getting embroiled in hair-splitting left-brain exercises. That's why when Anwar led a massive rebellion against Mahathir in 1998 I decided to monitor him closely. His determination, stoicism and tenacity impressed me greatly, so I made Anwar my political avatar.

Through Anwar I could be vicariously involved in the grubby, sordid world of political power play, without physical risk to myself. I can't imagine enduring 10 years of imprisonment for my political views - but Anwar did and I wholeheartedly admire his fighting spirit and resilience. To me his astonishing perseverance against all odds qualifies him as a bona fide national hero.

Anwar Ibrahim was politically crucified in 1998 by Mahathir, who spared no effort to humiliate and crush his adversary. Not only did Anwar survive six years as a political prisoner (and, I believe, at least one attempt to poison him with cyanide), he successfully resurrected himself as a messiah and led the opposition coalition called Pakatan Rakyat to a near-victory in March 2008, then again in May 2013. Indeed, were it nor for the all-too-obvious partisanship of the Election Commission which aided and abetted massive electoral fraud, I'm certain BN would have fallen five years ago, and Anwar anointed as Malaysia's 7th prime minister.

I was overjoyed, like many others, when Anwar Ibrahim received a full pardon from the Agong on May 16th, 2018, vindicating his 20-year battle against the behemoth BN. It was a great relief for everyone who can't bear to witness such grotesque travesties of justice, and a poignant moment indeed for his beautiful family. For me, it didn't matter who deserved the most credit for removing the utterly corrupt BN from power. Whether we succeeded with Mahathir leading the charge... or voters silently resented Najib's brutal incarceration of Anwar... or the rotting white elephant in the room named 1MDB finally began to stink too badly to be ignored... it's purely academic now. I'm certain it was all these factors, compounded with the collective will of a sizeable majority of young voters, that won the great victory against cynicism and fatalism.

What prompts me to speak up now is the vitriolic antagonism I see directed against Anwar, even before he made his "PD move." Cherished friends whose opinions I respect and value have risen up as a bilious phalanx of vociferous opposition in an attempt to thwart Anwar Ibrahim from fulfilling his political destiny.

He's too ambitious... a political chameleon... he endorses the reactionary Turkish dictator, Erdoğan, whom he regards as an ally... Anwar will be forced to pander to the religious fundamentalists, just to maintain his power base. 

That's what I hear all the time on my Facebook newsfeed. Anyone who makes a career of politics has got to be ambitious and adapt chameleon-like to changing circumstances, so these are actually positive traits. As for cozying up with the likes of Recep Tayyip Erdoğan... well, it could just as well be Paul Wolfowitz, Bashar al-Assad, Emmanuel Macron, Vladimir Putin or, God forbid, Donald J. Trump. End of the day what we think we know of public figures is mostly from media reports. Anyone can be easily demonized by media shills with an occult agenda. Remember what the Zionist-controlled media did to Saddam Hussein and Muammar Gaddafi? One day we might even discover that Winston Churchill was far more villainous than Adolf Hitler, and that Barack Obama was, in truth, a Manchurian candidate installed by the CIA on behalf of the Deep State.. so keep your mind open (at least a crack).

Can all these well-informed, highly intelligent and articulate friends be utterly wrong? Yes, they can. Their judgment may be clouded by their own biases, fears and prejudices. After all, they are mostly the same "street-savvy" Anglophilic crowd who delight in dismissing Donald Trump as a buffoonish boor, unfit to occupy the White House. That's right, folks, this may come as a shock to you but I have nothing seriously negative to say about Trump's presidency, which I view as instrumental to a Great Geopolitical Reset.

Notwithstanding DJT's apparent lack of lexicological range, I am inclined to regard him as the reincarnation of some ancient Roman emperor who has been given the opportunity to step up to the world stage at this evolutionary juncture as a wild card (or more appropriately the Joker), even as the entire deck is being reshuffled. 

Enough of meaningless labels like left and right, liberal and conservative. Life is way too complex and fluid to fit into a simple binary context of Good and Bad, Right and Wrong, Democrat and Republican, Whig and Tory, Government and Opposition. If you can be so easily classified as either this or that, then it's probable that you haven't been completely candid with yourself. Or perhaps you have been conditioned to rely on ideas and opinions injected into your psyche by the plutocrat-owned miseducation system and mass media - instead of your own instincts and intuition.

I doubt if there has ever been a political figure of note who isn't somehow controversial - who inspires admiration from some and triggers fear and loathing in others. If the founders of the world's main religions were active in today's cybernetic world, imagine what the media pundits and shills would have to say about them - whether they be Krishna, Laotse, Confucius, Siddhartha Gautama, Moses, Jesus, Muhammad or Baha'ullah. Imagine the scandals buzzing around them like bluebottles, the stinking muck raked up, the nasty remarks, cynical deconstructions, scholarly critiques written about these long-gone icons. Humans, time and again, have created gods to adore and worship - only to rip them apart or crucify or debunk them when they suffer a collective mood swing.

Perhaps it's time we begin to accept responsibility for how we experience the world around us - instead of hoping for a messianic cult figure, some great savior to rescue us from the confusion and mayhem of everyday reality. Don't you think it's puerile of us to still believe that a single president or prime minister or guru figure can set aright all that has gone wrong in the nation, resolve all problems that beset humanity, and lead us all to the Promised Land?

Having said that, I'm painfully aware that the vast majority of my fellow citizens may not be ready as yet to upgrade their own software and become self-governing entities. They must be given time and a conducive space to take their first faltering steps into an unknown, but potentially glorious, future. If I were to do the unthinkable and offer myself as a political candidate, my open disregard for all forms of institutionalized religion would scare, shock and offend too many. I probably wouldn't survive a week in politics. However, someone like Anwar has not only survived, he actually seems to thrive in the midst of controversy.

Nobody can dispute his resolve, tenacity, resilience and inner strength. His remarkable rise in politics, followed by a fall of mythical proportions, and his ultimate resurrection and ascension, lead me to conclude that he is indeed capable of overcoming all obstacles and inspiring the entire populace, regardless of racial or religious conditioning, to transcend the artificial divisiveness that has kept us from becoming a truly splendid and accomplished nation.

I don't reside in Port Dickson, but if I did, I would support Anwar Ibrahim in his quest to be reinstated as an active Member of Parliament. Those who condemn his strategy of triggering a by-election through the voluntary resignation of an incumbent MP do so without a full understanding of all the nasty intrigues going on behind closed doors. This species of low-grade jostling for positions and power has long been part of political culture everywhere - not just in Malaysia. Non-players and outsiders only know what gets reported - or leaked.

Occasionally an internal rift reveals itself like a crack in the wall, weakening the prospects of a particular political party owing to petty ego conflicts. Unless you are fully immersed in the water, it's impossible to know what's lurking below the surface, and even then you can be caught off-guard by sabotage and the invisible machinations of rivals. This is a game of thrones I myself have chosen not to play, except by proxy.

There appears to be a contradiction here: while I have never taken economics or politics all that seriously, I am at the same time aware that the 3D Matrix is still largely influenced by the primal drives for money and power. A single individual at the helm, with the unwavering support of a large enough majority, can dramatically alter the course we chart as sovereign nations. A charismatic leader can steer the ship of state towards dangerous reefs by publicly preaching unity while privately sowing seeds of discord and discontent - but he or she can also opt to play the pivotal role of maintaining harmony and stability during a major transition between eras.

On April 14th, 2008, I was present at the Sultan Sulaiman Club in Kampung Bahru when Anwar Ibrahim made a stirring comeback speech in which he declared it was time for us to replace Ketuanan Melayu (Malay Supremacy) with Ketuanan Rakyat (Supremacy of the People). The response was unanimous and absolutely moving. Looking around me, I saw locals in white skull caps and robes enthusiastically cheering Anwar for his vision of Greater Unity and Harmony, transcending artificially imposed racial and religious barriers. It was as if we had finally stepped across an invisible threshold between adolescence and adulthood as a nation. I saluted Anwar for articulating this truly powerful sentiment and he reinforced this vision by intoning at every subsequent ceramah:

"Anak Cina anak saya, anak India anak saya, anak Iban, anak Kadazan, anak Melayu semua anak saya!" 

I am inclined to believe that, after ten years of unjust imprisonment as a political dissident within a tradition-bound feudalistic establishment, this is essentially what Anwar Ibrahim desires to be congratulated and remembered for. His destiny, I am still convinced after 20 years, is to steer the nation back on its intended course - to evolve gracefully into a unified, harmonious and mature melting-pot of diverse cultures, looking forward instead of backwards.

There, I have broken my silence. Time to shed the wrinkly old skin of identity politics, people. Let's all outgrow the childhood indoctrination that keeps us living, generation after generation, under the proverbial coconut shell of Tempurungist jingoism.

5 October 2018

[Reposted 11 December 2021]