#its giving faux outrage simply because people do not like her

[lunarvalleysbetterplanet]

my thoughts on 'I hate it here' and the "backlash" against those particular lyrics:

My friends used to play a game where We would pick a decade We wished we could live in instead of this I'd say the 1830s but without all the racists And getting married off for the highest bid Everyone would look down 'cause it wasn't fun now Seems like it was never even fun back then Nostalgia is a mind's trick If I'd been there, I'd hate it It was freezing in the palace

without all the racists and getting married off for the highest bid ie. she recognizes it was a shit time to live. the 1830's was the romantic era, the year Emily Dickinson was born and the book secret gardens starts in the 1830's as well. all of those facts matter in context with the rest of the song. it's about getting lost in a fantasy because things are terrible irl. romanticising your life and trying to believe everything is okay.

Her saying without all the racists is a nod to being young and immature but still recognizing that hey, things were bad then. it's not downplaying slavery or the other host of issues from that time. i am pretty sure if t.s. had managed to write about every single bad thing going on in 1830 people would just give her shit for that too. and the whole point is that she ruined the game by bringing up that things would be awful. nostalgia is a mind's trick. they're all caught up on the romanticism of the 'good' and she knows it.

she says the game wasn't even fun while she was playing it.

i remember how popular quizzes like 'what decade are you' used to be. or how many times i've heard someone say "i totally belonged in the 70's". It's clueless and tone deaf to the way real life was in the past, but that is the point.

by all means dislike t.s. but at least consider that this is false outrage. the entire lyrics are below:

[Verse 1] Quick, quick, tell me something awful Like you are a poet trapped inside the body of a finance guy Tell me all your secrets, all you'll ever be is My eternal consolation prize You see, I was a debutante in another life, but Now I seem to be scared to go outside If comfort is a construct, I don't believe in good luck Now that I know what's what [Chorus] I hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind People need a key to get to, the only one is mine I read about it in a book when I was a precocious child No mid-sized city hopes and small-town fears I'm there most of the year 'cause I hate it here I hate it here [Verse 2] My friends used to play a game where We would pick a decade We wished we could live in instead of this I'd say the 1830s but without all the racists And getting married off for the highest bid Everyone would look down 'cause it wasn't fun now Seems like it was never even fun back then Nostalgia is a mind's trick If I'd been there, I'd hate it It was freezing in the palace [Chorus] I hate it here so I will go to lunar valleys in my mind When they found a better planet, only the gentle survived I dreamed about it in the dark, the night I felt like I might die No mid-sized city hopes and small-town fears I'm there most of the year 'cause I hate it here I hate it here [Bridge] I'm lonely, but I'm good I'm bitter, but I swear I'm fine I'll save all my romanticism for my inner life and I'll get lost on purpose This place made me feel worthless Lucid dreams like electricity, the current flies through me And in my fantasies, I rise above it And way up there, I actually love it [Chorus] I hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind People need a key to get to, the only one is mine I read about it in a book when I was a precocious child No mid-sized city hopes and small-town fears I'm there most of the year 'cause I hate it here I hate it here [Outro] Quick, quick, tell me something awful Like you are a poet trapped inside the body of a finance guy

[sailtoafarawayland]

Oh, Captain!

Summary - Emma think’s she’s hurt Killian and deals with the consequences, saving him from himself just might be the one she didn’t see coming. 

Rated for all, no warnings. 

Tumblr Exclusive for now- will be posted over at AO3 and FF (Farawayland) when life allows. I just needed to write some happy what with all this not happy I’m watching on the news. Most likely a one-shot. 

Chapter 1

Emma’s heart was in her throat.

He knew.

He knew, and she hadn’t even been the one to tell him.

“Don’t!” she pleaded, catching up to him and snatching at his sleeve, her fingers seizing the thin, black fabric and wrapping around his forearm. “Killian, please…”

The warmth of her hand, the chill of her fingertips—they were always so cold, despite his many attempts to warm them—stopped him in his tracks, the tension between them slackening as he allowed himself to be swayed back toward her, but she held on tightly, too afraid to let him go.

Afraid of what he would do.

“Am I supposed to simply let it go, Emma?”

She could hear the outrage, low and dangerous, in his voice—and it hurt, because she knew it was her fault.

“Belle shouldn’t have said anything—I told her not to, that I would handle it. I just wanted to wait until after tonight. I was afraid if you knew he’d kissed—”

“He kissed you?” Killian growled, his features darkening as he yanked his arm from her grasp, the prop hook clattering to the floor between them as he stormed toward center stage where Neal was mid-scene with Tinkerbell.

“Shit,” Emma groaned.

Belle probably hadn’t mentioned that, had probably only implied she’d seen Neal hitting on her and refusing to take no for an answer, but had left out the part where he’d tried to steal a kiss.

Emma didn’t know why she had so much trouble with words—why the things in her head couldn’t just exit her mouth in the right way, or at least in a way that didn’t always make things worse. It should have been so easy to explain—that the minute Neal leaned in, she’d shoved him halfway across the library, and if that hadn’t left an impression, she had a right hook ready. That in that moment, she’d been so sorry that she’d insisted on keeping her relationship with Killian a secret. That she wanted nothing more than to have been sitting there with his hand wrapped in hers, for everyone to see—no one else trying to take what wasn’t theirs.

Emma wavered where she stood, not sure how to process the shit show everything had become in such a small space of time. Killian was seething, his black leather coat flaring behind him as he stalked across the stage—much to the surprise of the cast performing. Ashley stumbled over her line and twisted her hands in the lime green tutu she wore as Killian reached them, his long fingers wrapping around Neal’s shoulder and jerking him into an about-face.

The gasps of confusion from the opposite wing were audible as everyone tried to figure out why Killian was on stage when he shouldn’t be, and the murmurs from the audience were no better. She was sure they were all wondering why Captain Hook was confronting Peter Pan out of nowhere. Time slowed as she watched Neal’s features twist from surprised to nervous, her eyes snapping down to Killian’s hand as he clenched it into a tight fist. She couldn’t take her eyes off the chunky, heavy jewelry from the prop department adorning his knuckles.

Props that she knew he was about to drive into Neal Cassidy’s face.

Principal Gold’s son.

The man who always had it out for Killian.

“Shit.”

Her boyfriend was about to get expelled, and it was all her fault. She should have told him earlier, but she couldn’t fix that now. She had to do something—anything—now.

Trying not to think about how far from normal this opening night was turning out to be, or how Wendy had no place in this scene, she rushed after him, doing the only thing she could think of to keep him from getting thrown out of his senior year.

“Oh, Captain!” she cried, feigning exhaustion and leaning heavily against the backdrop of painted, wooden jungle. She paused for a moment, catching her breath and glancing warily behind her, as if she were afraid at any minute something dangerous was going to pounce from the bushes.

Three sets of eyes from center stage turned to her, along with every head in the packed auditorium.

She caught her breath and tidied the blue bow perched on top of her perfect curls. “You found me! I thought I would be trapped here forever—”

Killian’s grip was still white-knuckled on Neal, who was starting to squirm uncomfortably, and Ashley looked like she wished she could actually turn into a ball of light and fly away, but she could see the curious sparkle in Killian’s eye beneath a cheekily arched brow, and it gave her the bravado she needed to keep going. She had no idea where this scene was headed with her at the helm, but it didn’t really matter.

Saving the play wasn’t the point.

Saving Killian was—the rest would just be a bonus if she could pull it off, so she continued.

“—stuck caring for Pan’s lost boys, washing their socks, cooking their meals, and do I ever get a thank you, Wendy—what delicious coconut salad, Wendy? No, never!” Righteous indignation flooded her face and she straightened her dress brusquely, angling toward the audience as she arched an eyebrow and rested her hands on her hips. “And let me tell you, not a single washing machine or microwave on the whole island.”

Not waiting for the reaction, but smiling inwardly as the wave of laughter rippled through the crowd, she turned her attention back to the strange trio that was a squeamish looking Peter Pan, a very nervous fairy, and an inscrutable Captain Hook. Relief washed over her as she saw Killian’s face losing that dark edge as she approached, her breath catching in her throat as they locked eyes. It may have been a cliché, but he’d always been able to do that to her, to just steal her breath away. It didn’t help that he looked sinful as anything in that pirate get-up. She thanked her lucky stars that he’d tossed that ridiculous wig and hat in the trash and decided to give Captain Hook his own spin.

He met her halfway between the wing and centerstage, letting go of Neal’s arm without a backward glance. To her surprise, the spotlight followed him, bathing them both in its glare as they came together. Her hand brushed along the rough stubble of his jaw before settling on the back of his neck, his arms circling her, and though he was dressed as a pirate, the possessive squeeze of his hand at her waist was all him.

There was anger and regret simmering, she could see it in the way he held his jaw, but there was also happiness, and laughter, and something more in the warmth of his eyes—something she would catch glimpses of sometimes when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, but she knew what it was, and that he held back for her—because she’d been so insistent about keeping everything between them a secret, because for some reason she was terrified if she admitted what she felt, and what she wanted, that she would lose it. It was a silly thing, and now it had hurt them.

“I never thought I’d fall in love with a pirate—” and it was not how she thought she’d tell him she loved him, so it was probably good that technically it was Wendy telling Captain Hook—“but you see me when no one else really does—made me realize that I have dreams, Captain. I can do anything I set my mind to. I can be anything—a lawyer, a sheriff, a high-end fashion designer specializing in faux-crocodile-vegan-leather accessories…”

She had no idea where that came from, but the raucous laughter from the audience made her feel a little better—at least they were having a good night. Then her gaze slipped to the side and she finally saw all of the horrified faces of the cast and crew watching the debacle from backstage. Well, maybe there was no way she was going to save the show, but even if Gold let loose, he couldn’t put the blame solely on Killian now. She was in the thick of it too, and she doubted he’d go so far as to expel Sheriff Nolan’s daughter.

“I’ve yet to see you fail, Wendy,” Killian asserted, and though the name was wrong and he was projecting enough to reach the back of the auditorium, she knew the words were meant for her, because he’d always believed in her, always believed in them.

She hated that she had been so afraid of what this could be, that she hid it away, worried if she put her heart out there, it would all fall apart.

“While I used to think that catching that crocodile was my happy ending,” Killian continued, grinding his jaw at the thought of the sneaky reptile, “I know now that it’s you, it’s always been you, so tell me, love,” and he dipped his lips closer to hers, teasing a kiss before turning his gaze on the audience, a rakish grin spreading across his face as he gestured broadly over the crowd, “will you sail away with me?”

“Always,” she breathed, “to the end of the world, and time!”

There was a roar of noise from the audience—laughter, clapping, whooping, whistling—and while she had no idea where the words had come from, what came next, well, that was no mystery. She grabbed her pirate, hands fisted in his jacket as she rocked into him, bodies swaying as their lips clashed. It didn’t matter that they were standing in front of the entire school, every detail illuminated by the hot spotlight—in that moment, there was nothing but the two of them.

It wasn’t until they broke apart—and if people hadn’t known about them before, they sure did now—that Emma heard anything outside their bubble, but then it hit—the crowd was clapping and laughing, perhaps at the insanity of it all, but who cared. Gold’s voice was cutting through the chaos backstage, reaching that thin, forced pitch that meant he was furious, and Belle was already picking up the pieces. Neal was grumbling and nursing his arm—maybe the best acting he’d ever done—beating a retreat from the stage, and the rest of the cast and crew couldn’t take their eyes off of her and Killian as they scrambled to close the curtains and help Belle figure out what came next.

Emma tugged Killian into the wing and back through the stacks of equipment and props to a quiet corner, wanting to find a place they could speak, but also to remove him from Gold’s eyesight as quickly as possible.

“I’m so sorry. I should have—”

“Emma,” he murmured, tilting her chin up so she could see the truth in his words. “I’m not upset with you. How could I be?”

“It was my fault. If I hadn’t insisted that we keep our relationship a secret, then he…”

“Oh, Swan. It is not your fault that Neal assaulted you.”

“Assault is a little…look, if he had known we were together, he wouldn’t have tried to kiss me.”

“He shouldn’t have tried to force a kiss on you, regardless. You’ve been more than clear, for years, that you have no interest in him. Though, maybe I shouldn’t have lost my temper and stormed the stage,” Killian admitted, ducking his head and scratching his ear in that way that always made her heart flutter. “Thanks for saving me from myself, lass.”

“I meant what I said, Killian,” she whispered, her voice dropping as she pushed the words out before they could crawl back in. “I think…I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”

“Are you sure it’s not just the hook, Swan?” he teased, giving her the out, because he just understood her that well, but she could see the hope in his eyes, and suddenly all of that old trepidation was gone.    

“You’re not even wearing the hook,” she pointed out. “I’m sure, Killian Jones. I love you, whether you’re a smoldering-eyed pirate, or not.”

“You think my eyes smolder?”

“Stop it!” she laughed, shaking his shoulders gently as he waggled his brows at her, the both of them enjoying the smile of the other before he grew serious once more.

“And I love you, Emma—so much.”

“Yeah, I know.”

 *     *     *

Gold’s fury had tapered down to mild annoyance by the next morning, no small thanks to Sydney Glass and his cover story on their humble production. He’d praised the comical genius of their work, calling it far from ‘just another retelling of the same old story’. He highlighted the unexpected romance and praised the heartfelt acting of the two leads, whose whirlwind chemistry swept the audience away. He even went so far as to paint the play as a tongue-in-cheek examination of eternal youth versus personal growth, and while Emma thought that the whole piece was a little lofty, she was more than happy that there hadn’t been any blowback on Killian for his stage-crashing.

Overall, opening night hadn’t been a total failure, and Belle had been more than capable of a hasty rewrite for their follow-up performances. While Neal wasn’t thrilled with his sudden decrease in lines, Emma was hardly going to complain that she got to kiss her smoldering-eyed Killian Jones on stage each night—and if the hook and pirate costume went missing from the prop department for some reason, she doubted anyone would notice.

 END

[aswithasunbeam]

 March 1805

A quick, efficient knock on the bedroom door jolted Eliza awake. Eyes closed, she struggled, pinned down on her back, a great weight holding her paralyzed in place. Upon hearing a soft snuffle near her ear, though, she relaxed. Alexander, she recognized fondly. He must have rolled over on her in his sleep.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hamilton.” Mary had slipped into the room bearing a tray with her morning tea, coffee for Alexander, and a stack of newspapers.

Eliza fought to lift her head and wrestled her arm out from beneath the weight of her husband. “Good morning, Mary. Just set that on the side table, if you would.”

When the door had tapped closed behind the maid, Eliza rested her head back onto her pillow. Alexander was still snuffling against her neck. She debated pushing him off her back onto his side. Instead, she ran her fingers through the short, gentle curls of his rapidly greying hair and wrapped her free arm around his shoulders.

Soon enough, she felt him stirring against her. He gave a sleepy grunt, adjusted the arm slung across her, and pushed himself backwards onto the pillows that had propped him up on his side during the night. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right, dearest.”

“You could have shoved me over.”

“I didn’t want to.”

His brow raise in amusement, though his eyes were still closed. “You’d rather let me keep crushing you?”

“Yes.”

He laughed, then gave a great yawn. Snuggling down into his pillows, he said, “I’m sleepy. You kept me up too late.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining last night,” she parried.

He grunted again.

A tingle washed over her at the memories of the night before. They’d always had a very physical relationship, and as Alexander had grown stronger, so too had their hope for the return of their love life. After a candid conversation with Doctor Hosack about Alexander’s desire to return to his husbandly duties, as he’d politely phrased it, they’d taken the doctor’s advice to experiment.

“It’s certainly not impossible for you to resume your usual intimacies, although you may find arousal more difficult to achieve and maintain,” Hosack had explained, his slightly pink cheeks the only hint to any discomfort with the subject matter. “But I have no medical objection. You’ll simply need to find what feels good for you, now.”

And so, last night, when she’d climbed into bed with him, a boyish grin of anticipation had lightened the deep lines of his face as he’d said, “You’ll need to be on top from now on, I suppose.”

“So, not all that different, then,” she’d teased.

He’d given an indignant squawk. “What are you saying? I’m a lazy lover?”

“Never, darling,” she’s assured him. “Quite the contrary.”

In truth, she’d been delighted at his determination to make love again. As he’d climbed out from the dark depths of illness and despair, he’d taken to exercising, a distinct, firm layer of muscle forming on his arms and torso in place of the sickly, skeletal thinness. His hair had started to grow out as well, still short, but less severe. All in all, she found him as utterly desirable as she always had.

He was particularly sensitive along his lower abdomen, just where sensation began for him, they’d found. That had seemed a promising discovery at first, but as soon as she’d lifted his shirt, he’d tensed. Craning his neck, he’d looked down at his stomach, a pinched expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t they bother you? The scars?”

A long, bright pink line wound its way down from up near his sternum, around his belly button, terminating just at his waist. Across from the line, near his hip, a pink, raise circle marked him where Burr’s bullet had entered. She traced her finger down along the line before looking up at him.

“This scar,” she said, continuing to trace the line lightly with her fingertips even as she maintained eye contact with him, “This is why you’re still with me. This scar saved your life. To me, it’s the most beautiful mark on you.”

His eyes had gone bright, and he swallowed once, fighting down emotion. “Really?”

“Really.”

He’d relaxed to her touch after that. She’d teased him with feather light touches and soft kisses across the slope of his stomach until he’d moaned with pleasure. Receptive as he was, it wasn’t translating as it usual would to visible arousal. After an hour of attempting to make love in the more traditional way, with little result, he’d grown frustrated. He had other ways to please her, and he’d employed them with great skill, but his lacking sensation remained a challenge. She’d need to give more thought to how best to return the favor, as it were.

She felt warm all over from her wandering thoughts. Chancing a glance at her husband, she saw his eyes were finally open, and he was smirking at her knowingly. With faux innocence, he asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” she said. Then she kissed him to wipe the smugness from his expression. His eyes drifted closed when she pulled away. “You know, you can go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

“I can’t.” He yawned again. “I have too much to do today.”

Her brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

He looked at her, his expression turning serious. “Well, I’m meeting with your sisters’ attorneys and the other Executors of your father’s Will this morning.”

She huffed in annoyance at the reminder. “I can’t believe Cornelia and Caty. Of all the petty things, to insist I’m not due my share of the estate because Papa helped us after your injury. And they must know he’d be so disappointed to see us squabbling.”

“Grief very often doesn’t bring out the best in people. I’ve seen it enough in my practice. No mediations are more vicious then a family attempting to divide up an estate. And, in fairness, I think it’s more Morton and Malcolm’s doing then Cornelia and Caty. They see it as an opportunity to pad their investments.”1

“That’s hardly better,” she insisted, anger roiling in her stomach. “We were always so close. After all you did supporting Cornelia and Washy, that they’d turn on you like this, it just…” Her hand waved between them as she searched for a phrase. “It...steams my gourd.”

That made him laugh. “What does that even mean?”

“Oh, hush you. Don’t laugh at me when I’m angry.”

“I can’t help it. You’re adorable when you’re angry.”

She sniffed in disbelief, which only encouraged him to lean in for another kiss. Softening, she said, “I’m sorry. All this stress, I haven’t been at my best lately.”

“I love you at your best, and at your worst, and all the times in between.”

“Charmer.”

He grinned.

“Can I come with you? Perhaps seeing each other face to face will help settle the matter.”

“They won’t be there. Just the lawyers. And I’ll be going straight on to another meeting after, anyway.”

“What else are you doing?” she asked, surprised.

“I have a settlement conference regarding an insurance claim in the afternoon.”

“What?” That was news to her. He hadn’t said anything about picking up his legal practice again. “Are you sure you’re ready for that? It’s barely been half a year since...everything.”

“I’ll be fine. It’ll hardly be taxing. I could negotiate these things in my sleep. I think I may have a few times.” She smiled at that. “It’s time I start bringing in an income again.”

“If you’re sure,” she said, worrying gnawing at her.

“I am.” He stretched and twisted around towards the tea tray, feeling for the morning papers. “Let’s see what’s going on in the world, shall we?”

He opened the New York Post first, laying the others down in the space between them. The Washington Federalist sat on the top of the pile. Her eye caught on a name in the topmost headline: Burr. The villain had given a farewell address to the Senate, apparently to great acclaim, or so the paper reported.  “The whole senate was in tears,” the article read, “so unmanned, that it was half an hour before they could recover themselves.”2

“Have you seen this?” she asked, her voice an octave higher than usual, outrage coursing through her. Barely six months earlier the man had attempted to murder the love of her life; now he was receiving accolades, and from a Federalist newspaper no less?

“Burr?” Alexander clarified, annoyingly calm. “I’ve seen it. Have you gotten to the part of the speech where he thanks God for having no memory for injuries?3 I found that particularly amusing.”

“How dare they!”

“Betsey—”

“He tried to kill you, Alexander. But for the miracle of French surgical training, you’d cold in your grave right now. I cannot even fathom what would have become of me and the children. And your own Federalists see fit to laud him for a bit of oratorical showmanship?”

“I didn’t die, as you can plainly see,” he replied patiently. “And they’ve been feeling more kindly towards him ever since the Chase trial.”

“From what I read, his treatment of Justice Chase bordered on harassment. Constant interruptions, he nearly drove the poor man to tears.”

“He gave Chase a dose of his own medicine. I can’t hold that against him. More importantly, he ran the trial with impartiality and civility, and saw it through to the right result. That Jefferson attempted to impeach a Supreme Court Justice for the crime of disagreeing with him politically, now that…what was it, steams my gourd?”4

He was trying to be cute to charm her out of her temper, she knew, but she refused to let him. “Could you be serious for one minute?”

“I am being serious.”

“You’re trying to change the subject to Jefferson.”

“He’s the one I’m worried about now. Four more years. Heaven help us.”

“Stop being so cool and logical! You must be angry with him, I know it. Why can’t you just show it for once? You’re driving me insane with your.…”

“Forgiveness?”

“Yes!”

“An odd position, for you of all people.”

“Why can’t you just hate him with me?”

He rolled closer to her, the newspapers crumpling between them. “I was angry with him, at first. I hated him, blamed him. But I was as much to blame, Betsey. More so, honestly. I had the opportunity to uphold my moral convictions, to make a stand against that barbaric custom. And I didn’t. I held my reputation too dear, I was too frightened of what others would think of me. In trying to prove myself not a coward, I made the most cowardly decision of all. I risked your happiness, your livelihood, the children’s welfare, for my selfish purposes. I can’t blame Burr for any of that. Neither can you. If you hate anyone, it should be me.”

Her throat felt tight at the guilt swimming in his eyes. So that’s why he’d been so forgiving towards Burr – he’d been using him as a proxy for his own guilt. He must have been carrying those painful thoughts for so long, all that self-blame. She inched closer to him on the pillow until they were nose to nose, her arm wrapping tight around his waist to draw him to her.

“He challenged you, sweetheart. He put you in that position.”

“I didn’t have to say yes.”

But he did, she thought to herself. Of course he’d had to say yes. There was an innate insecurity in him that made him constitutionally incapable of exposing his reputation to the charge of dishonor. The sting of childhood wounds, the fear that he wasn’t good enough, even now, after all his service to a country that delighted in abusing him. He could no more change that part of him than he could wish away his brilliant mind.

None of that would serve as an answer.

“I forgive you,” she said, simply, sincerely.

He shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I do. I forgive you, Alexander. Always.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you. And I love you, for exactly the person you are.”

He let out a ragged breath and buried his face into the pillow and her hair. He wasn’t crying, exactly, but he seemed to be fighting a great swell of emotion. She rubbed his back tenderly, letting him work through his thoughts in the quiet.

When he peeked up at her again, his eyes were a little damp.

“Feel better?”

“My angel. Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

“You don’t have to deserve me, Alexander. You just have me, forever,” she promised.

He was still struggling with emotion when she heard the door easing open. The pitter-patter of flat feet followed, and little Phil appeared, pulling himself up onto the bed. He clambered over his father, plopping down into the minuscule space in between them.

“Good morning, my little lamb,” Alexander greeted, wiping at his eyes and plastering on a smile. “What have you got there?”

Phil pressed a story book into his father’s hands.

“Want a story before we start our day?”

Phil nodded, burrowing down between them. Eliza rubbed the little boy’s back as she watched Alexander flip through the book.

“How about this one?”

Phil jabbed a chubby little finger at the blanket beneath him, ignoring his father's question. “What color’s this, Papa?”

Alexander squinted at the spot where his son's finger was pointing. “Green.”

“Good job, Papa! What’s this one?”

He was clearly trying hard to suppress a laugh. “Red.”

“Good Papa!” Phil patted at his arm, encouragingly.

“You know, my dear fellow, I think we’ve got this a little backwards. I’m meant to test you on your colors, not the other way round.”

“What's this one?” Phil asked, undeterred.

“Pink,” Alexander answered, tickling the boy and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Phil squealed with laughter, wriggling between them like a dancing worm.

Alexander glanced up at her, catching her eye, expression radiating only joy and contentment now.

She grinned back at him.

[mattdaemon7]

Morrissey’s Views

Oh, Morrissey. Song-writing, strong-jawed, wrong. “That’s racist” is not the absence of an argument, but the establishment of an individual’s moral boundaries. If you wish to redefine a word, to stress that your definition of racism is so very different from the “loony left”, you have to acknowledge that other people have different interpretations. A basic yet not inaccurate interpretation of racism is the perjured preconception of a person or people, based solely upon the evidence of their ethnicity. The fact that your definition allows you to sink so much further into the abyss of intolerance and hypocrisy doesn’t make the rest of us devoid of reason. We are simply having what is known as a strong disagreement. You disagree, of course. We aren’t at opposing political spectrums; no, you are right, everyone else is wrong. Let’s trace exactly where our opinions stray from one another. Acid attacks are awful. Agreed. Sadiq Khan has a cockney accent. Agreed. Theresa May needs an autocue to remember her own name. That one’s nearly witty, and again, agreed upon. Only ethnic minorities throw acid. That one grates a little: Arthur Collins’ attack in April 2017, to be used as a high-profile example, would be my reasoning for disagreeing. Because he was Caucasian, and political correctness won’t change that. Carrying on, Hitler was left-wing. His party had the word ‘Socialist’ in it but his politics were rather aggressively anti-immigration, militant, and Machiavellian. If we want to use evil individuals from the past to discredit current movements, Hitler was also apparently a vegetarian, Morrissey. Your cat would have loved him.

 You are only validated when you’re hated, and you are currently feeling a validation like no other. I’ll give you that as a free lyric. Unless you’re polarising society, what have you got to offer? A 58-year-old singer lost within a creative lull whose last decent record came in 2009, and last great one was in 1994. There’s none of that suave sex-appeal, Thatcher has gone and Johnny Marr has done alright for himself elsewhere. If politics is a horseshoe, it has proven an unlucky one to have picked up. You appear so intent on alienating yourself from your fan base, for seeming aloof and flighty and lonesome, that you’ve come across as a bit of a meandering fool. You’re homeless, politically and musically. Stop braying on about your politics if you cannot accept an opposing view. Stop supporting paedophilia and blaming the 14-year-old child for seducing an adult before feeling disappointed that he was abused, but not the way he wanted, then claiming the audio evidence is misquoting you. Stop spicing up your banal personality with barbs and shots that stretch and chase each other further across the line of acceptability, and then retracting your curling, hateful tentacles when the guillotine of public opinion slams down. We’ve finished forgiving you, Morrissey. You’ve overextended your privilege as a darling of Manchester music, allowing you to crawl back under your rock when you take things too far. You’re out in the open, exposed and alone. You’ve found yourself in a circumstance you’ve romanced for years now; we do dislike you. we do all think you’re wrong, and it would be much better for us all if you could go to sleep, for a fair old while, and when you wake up hopefully shake off some of the cantankerous bluster and waffle that seems to have clogged your mind in recent years.

 I’m not calling you a racist, because it is becoming a word that has lost its meaning to you. Racism is becoming a badge of honour to a certain type of person. “Racist apparently, lol”, read the Twitter accounts of  keyboard-smashing hate merchants who take Barry Stanton as a fundamental religion. Those who aren’t racist would reel from the very suggestion, the loathsome implication of the embrace of division and hatred in society. You see it as a necessity, a challenge to the establishment. Challenge the establishment over their willingness to bomb Syria but failures in keeping their own people off the streets. Challenge the hypocrisy of the expense system and mutual benefits cuts. Challenge the idea of a second referendum if you really must. Acceptance and tolerance are easy targets and they are the wrong ones: one cannot be so against Trump purely because he holds a position of power, when you are so happy to sit and ride the ripples of fear he has spanned across the globe. If I were to call you a racist, you would crow, spring to your pen and come up with a witty rhyme for how unfair I am to judge you without truly knowing. You would never acknowledge yourself as racist, but would happily redefine the boundaries and concepts of what racism entails, accepting the unacceptable, to allow yourself to avoid the label. At what point do you acknowledge that you have stepped beyond the bounds of non-racist behaviour, what I would call civilised behaviour, and say that it is not everyone else’s definition that is incorrect, but your viewpoint is at such a disagreement that you must be what we oppose? If you cared so little for what us “loony left” think, then acknowledge yourself, publically. Don’t stretch our snowflake semantics to suit your character, stand up and define yourself honestly, beyond the faux-outrage and near witticisms, and place yourself at odds with a multicultural society. I won’t insult you with what I see as a horrific label, but I will suggest you adopt it yourself. Perhaps I have offered an argument beyond the name-calling that so infuriates you.

[toldnews-blog]

New Post has been published on https://toldnews.com/technology/entertainment/some-journalists-wonder-if-their-profession-is-tweet-crazy/

Some journalists wonder if their profession is tweet-crazy

If Twitter is the town square for journalists, some are ready to step away.

That’s happening this week at the online news site Insider — by order of the boss. Reporters have been told to take a week off from tweeting at work and to keep TweetDeck off their computer screens. The idea of disengaging is to kick away a crutch for the journalists and escape from the echo chamber, said Julie Zeveloff West, Insider’s editor-in-chief for the U.S.

Addiction to always-rolling Twitter feeds and the temptation to join in has led to soul-searching in newsrooms. Some of it is inspired by the reaction to the Jan. 19 demonstration in Washington involving students from a Covington, Kentucky, high school, which gained traction as a story primarily because of social media outrage only to become more complicated as different details and perspectives emerged.

Planning for Insider’s ban predated the Covington story, West said.

She often walks through her newsrooms to find reporters staring at TweetDeck. Her goal is to encourage reporters to find news in other ways, by picking up the telephone or meeting sources. An editor will make sure no news is being missed.

Twitter “isn’t the place where most people find us,” she said. “Reporters place this outsized importance on it.”

The Washington Post’s David Von Drehle called Twitter the “crystal meth of newsrooms.” He dates his moment of disillusionment to the Republican national convention in 2012. In the section reserved for reporters, he noticed many watching TweetDeck feeds instead of listening to speeches from the podium or stepping away to talk to delegates.

“Twitter offers an endless stream of faux events,” Von Drehle wrote in a column this past weekend. “Fleeting sensations, momentary outrages, ersatz insights and provocative distortions. ‘News’ nuggets roll by like the chocolates on Lucy’s conveyer belt.”

Since Twitter is irresistible to journalists who have the smart-aleck gene — probably the majority — a newsroom quip or instant observation is now writ large.

The Covington story uniquely played to Twitter’s faults. Early video that depicted Covington student Nick Sandmann staring down Native American activist Nathan Phillips spread rapidly across social media and many people rushed to offer their takes. An event that may have otherwise gone unnoticed instantly became a story by virtue of its existence online.

Yet when a wider picture emerged of what happened, in some respects quite literally from the view of a wider camera lens, a story that seemed black and white became gray. Some of the early opinions became embarrassing and were quietly deleted. But since there’s no such thing as a quiet deletion when people are watching online, the incident became fodder for another outbreak of partisan warfare.

The episode led Farhad Manjoo, a columnist for The New York Times, to declare Twitter “the world’s most damaging social network.”

In a column, he said he plans to stifle the urge to quickly type his opinion on every news event and suggested others follow his lead. Between mistakes and overly provocative opinions, too much can go wrong for journalists on Twitter, he said in an interview.

“In order to be good on Twitter, you have to be authentic,” he said. “But authenticity is also dangerous. It leads people to make assumptions about you. It can go bad in different ways.”

Perhaps it’s inevitable at a time that Twitter needs to be constantly monitored because it is one of the president of the United States’ favorite forms of communications, but Manjoo said too often reporters spend more time in the virtual world than the real one.

“The way the media works now, we’ve just gone overboard on Twitter,” he said.

Days after Covington, some news outlets proved his point by writing stories about NBC “Today” show host Savannah Guthrie’s interview with Sandmann that were nothing but collections of Twitter comments about how she did. Some tweeters thought Guthrie was too hard on him. Some thought she was too soft. Simply by nature of the forum, few who thought it was just right bothered posting.

Media experts wary of Twitter quitters said a distinction between the platform and how people use it should not be lost.

“I really don’t think it’s so hard to avoid commenting on a moving story when the facts are not clear,” said Jay Rosen, a New York University journalism professor.

Leaving Twitter means cutting off a valuable news source since many newsmakers use the venue to make announcements, he said. It’s also an equalizer in giving access to a virtual town square to people who might otherwise be overlooked, said news consultant Jeff Jarvis.

“Journalists should be looking for every possible means to listen better to the public,” Jarvis said. “If you cut yourself off, it’s ridiculous.”

Some have done that, or tried. Manjoo’s colleague at The Times, White House correspondent Maggie Haberman, wrote last July about how she was stepping back from Twitter after nearly nine years and 187,000 tweets.

“The viciousness, toxic partisan anger, intellectual dishonesty, motive-questioning and sexism are at all-time highs, with no end in sight,” she wrote. “It is a place where people who are unquestionably upset about any number of things go to feed their anger, where the underbelly of free speech is at its most bilious. Twitter is now an anger video game for many users.”

Haberman predicted she would eventually re-engage with Twitter but in a different way. She’s back; she tweeted five times and retweeted links six times by 10 a.m. Tuesday. She’s up to 194,000 tweets and has a following of more than a million people. She declined a request for an interview about how the experience changed her.

Kelly Evans was an early Twitter user at The Wall Street Journal and then at CNBC, where she’s a news anchor. She found it a valuable place to get ideas, and to connect with readers, viewers and fellow journalists.

But she realized in the summer of 2016 that it was taking up too much of her personal time with little contribution to her professional life. She publicly signed off and has kept to her pledge for the most part. She says now she doesn’t regret it.

Evans admits she may have missed some story tips, but questions the reliability of much that is on Twitter.

“I feel more healthy and I feel like I’m able to do my job better,” she said.

———

Associated Press researcher Rhonda Shafner in New York contributed to this report.

[thisdaynews]

‘Can Any of These People Beat Trump?’

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/can-any-of-these-people-beat-trump/

‘Can Any of These People Beat Trump?’

DES MOINES, Iowa—Anderson Cooper commences the presidential primary debate in Westerville, Ohio, by asking Elizabeth Warren whether Democrats should bother impeaching President Donald Trump given that voters will decide his fate at the ballot box a year from now. It’s a layered question, one every candidate is eager to take a swing at. Sensing as much, the achromatic CNN anchor assures Warren’s neighbors onstage they’ll get a chance. “You’re all going to get in on this,” Cooper says.

Nearly 700 miles away, seated at a faux mahogany table inside Room 209 of the Embassy Suites in downtown Des Moines, one viewer struggles to suppress his frustration. “Oh, that’s good to know,” Michael Bennet says, his cheeks stuffed with pizza, slapping the table as he addresses Cooper’s image on the television 10 feet away. “We’re all going to get in on this.”

Story Continued Below

The Westerville gathering features a record-setting swarm of candidates—12—but Bennet, a Colorado senator, is not one of them. Lagging far behind his primary opponents in fundraising and struggling to break 1 percent in most national and state polls, Bennet failed to meet the criteria set by the Democratic National Committee to qualify for a podium. So, instead of standing before the cameras and speaking to an audience of millions around the world, Bennet is sitting with me, munching on Fong’s street taco pizza, sipping a Lagunitas IPA from the bottle and wondering why Beto O’Rourke belongs onstage and he doesn’t.

“We’re tied, you know,” Bennet says, nodding toward the former Texas congressman. He flashes a grin. “Or at least within the margin of error.”

Bennet’s failure to earn entrée to the event owes mainly to his manifest limitations as a candidate. He scarcely exudes charisma. He struggles to hit rhetorical high notes. He does not look or dress the part of a presidential contender.

At the same time, Bennet’s absence from the limelight Tuesday evening—and those very weaknesses that are to blame—reflects an alarming truth about the state of modern politics.

It’s true Bennet will never make a crowd swoon or send chills down an Iowa caucusgoer’s spine. It’s also true he would probably make a fine president. In the decade he has served in the U.S. Senate, Bennet has earned the reputation of a sober-minded, results-oriented workhorse, someone who is smart and studied and reliably well-prepared. The 54-year-old former school superintendent is a liberal—there is no questioning this among his peers—but wherever there is a battle being waged, whether over immigration or gun control or climate change, Bennet can be found in the deal-making trenches, laboring to build a bipartisan coalition in pursuit of a workable outcome rather than lobbing bombs from the safety of an ideological bunker.

The instincts that guide Bennet—being pragmatic, deliberative, restrained—are what many Americans say are precisely what’s needed to run the White House. But now, perhaps more than ever, those instincts are the opposite of what’s needed towinthe White House. Once upon a time, there was a limited return on investing in outrage and demagoguery; statesmen were in high demand no matter the supply. That’s no longer the case, and not simply because a celebrity showman named Donald Trump is president of the United States. The painful reality of this political moment slides over Bennet like a barbed-wire blanket as he flops onto the couch and kicks off his faded brown dress shoes, preparing for a three-hour reality-television show that will help determine who leads the free world.

All the more irksome to Bennet is the fact that five of his fellow senators are staring back at him from beneath the bright lights; he is the only member of the “world’s greatest deliberative body” seeking a promotion who is excluded from the festivities. Not only that, but the one whose brand of campaigning disturbs him the most—Warren, a Massachusetts populist—is continuing to evade questions about how she would pay for a “Medicare for All” program estimated to cost tens of trillions of dollars. Bennet predicted this would happen, and now, leaning forward in his seat, he shakes his head at Warren’s refusal to acknowledge her intent to raise taxes on working- and middle-class Americans. “At least Bernie’s been honest about it,” Bennet says. “The general election is too late for us to find out how Elizabeth is going to pay for these things.”

At one point, when pressed by the moderators to give a yes-or-no answer to that question, Warren dodges yet again—and Bennet lets escape an audible groan. The Massachusetts senator says she knows what voters care about, having hosted scores of town hall meetings, visited 27 states and taken 70,000 selfies, “which must be the new measure of democracy,” she quips.

Bennet falls back into the couch. “I hope not,” he sighs.

A little while later, as the debate goes to its first commercial break, Bennet stands up and wanders over to the door. “Let’s see if the people downstairs are watching,” he says, turning the handle and stepping out to the balcony. The senator glances one floor down to the open atrium of the hotel, where a large crowd is gathered, drinks in hand, staring up at a massive television screen. “Baseball,” Bennet says, pumping a fist.

But what if theywerewatching? What would be their takeaway from the first hour? What isBennet’stakeaway, as a voter and as a presidential candidate?

He sits down and thinks, taking more than 30 seconds to ponder. Finally, he shrugs. “More taxes.”

***

“I don’t get it,” Bennet says, arching an eyebrow. “Why is this her …thing?”

Now he’s talking about Tulsi Gabbard, the Hawaii congresswoman whose support for Syrian dictator Bashar Assad continues to be a source of curiosity within the Democratic Party. She is denouncing the presence of American troops in the Middle East and blaming the U.S. for its part in a supposed “regime-change war” in Syria. Bennet cannot fathom Gabbard’s position, nor can he understand the appeal she holds with whatever thin slice of the primary electorate propelled her onto Tuesday night’s stage.

“How much does it piss you off,” I ask, “that she’s onstage and you’re sitting here with me?”

He forces a smile. “I just miss Marianne Williamson.”

Indeed, with the self-help guru sidelined from Tuesday’s event, the designation of strangest participant belongs to Tom Steyer, the billionaire activist who effectively bought his way into the event and made no real impression other than to leave Twitter talking about his Christmas-choir necktie. At one point, when Steyer uses the phrase “frenemies” in discussing U.S. foreign policy, Bennet glances from side to side, as if to make sure we had heard the same thing, then puts on his glasses and burrows into his iPhone, muttering something indiscernible.

And then there is O’Rourke. It doesn’t seem the Colorado senator has anything personal against the former Texas congressman; it’s just that Bennet, like many Democrats, is annoyed with what they see as O’Rourke’s habit of staking out irrational policy positions for the sake of going viral, saddling the party and its eventual nominee with baggage that won’t easily be shed. The most recent example was O’Rourke pledging at an LGBTQ forum to strip the tax-exempt status of churches that refuse to marry same-sex couples, a flagrantly unconstitutional idea with the potential to alienate white conservatives and black liberals alike. But Bennet is still hung up on O’Rourke’s line from the last presidential debate: “Hell yes, we are going to take your AR-15, your AK-47.”

A few days after that debate, Bennet recalls, he was meeting with a group of blue-collar labor Democrats in New Hampshire. The group’s leader asked him, “Why are you talking about taking our guns?” When Bennet responded it was just one person, the man pushed back. Because nobody else on the stage challenged O’Rourke, the man said, they were perceived as agreeing with his stance. Bennet walked away from the exchange dazed and deeply concerned.

The irony is, Bennet isn’t a moderate on guns. He supports an assault-weapons ban and wants to outlaw high-capacity magazines. Coming from “a Western, pro-Second Amendment state” that implemented extensive gun-control measures after the mass shootings in Columbine and Aurora, Bennet believes there is a blueprint for the federal government to follow. But it requires building broad consensus and winning incremental battles, he says, starting with universal background checks, taking the long view of a problem that won’t be solved with sound bites or campaign slogans.

Looking on as Pete Buttigieg clashes with O’Rourke over this very topic, Bennet says he sides with the South Bend, Indiana, mayor. “I’m not saying, Don’t think about the big things,��” Bennet explains. “But we’ve got to focus on what we can do first.”

The discussion surrounding guns, Bennet fears, is symptomatic of a broader illness in today’s political climate. “This is becoming a competition to out-do each other in the Twitterverse, instead of actually addressing the problem,” he says. Noting how he’s held 10 years’ worth of town hall meetings and talked with thousands of gun-control activists, he says “90 percent of them” are focused on passing universal background checks—a readily attainable goal that has enormous public support. But now, because of the confiscation talk, “Trump can just say, ‘They’re all going to take your guns away,’” Bennet says, turning the discussion into a zero-sum game. “And the labor guys in Iowa and New Hampshire, that’s what they say. I just heard the same thing in Reno: ‘You’re going to take our guns away.’”

This, Bennet fears, is how Trump might luck into a second term. Oh, sure, the president will continue to scare moderates and independents with his erratic behavior. But Bennet wonders if Democrats might scare them even more—what with talk of seizing guns, banning fracking, guaranteeing health coverage to undocumented immigrants, raising taxes across the board, imposing political litmus tests on churches, and of course, eliminating private insurance for more than 150 million people.

“Just listen to this debate,” Bennet says, motioning toward the television. “Medicare for All shouldn’t even have made it to the debate stage. I mean, we’re a free country, and that’s fine. But of the Democrats who won in 2018, in those suburban districts, all but one person won their primary running on the public option—againstcandidates who supported Medicare for All. I understand this has been Bernie’s thing forever. But for some of the leading candidates to sign on to his bill gave it legitimacy. It’s just…”

He drifts off, shaking his head.

“We’re going to pick a policy we can’t even unify Democrats around, much less bring in others who could support it from the outside. Which means we’ll wind up fighting a losing battle for that instead of achieving the other stuff,” Bennet adds. “That’s not catering to the people I talk to at town halls; it’s for the people on Twitter and the people on cable news at night.”

As the debate approaches the two-hour mark, Bennet goes silent, gazing emotionlessly at the television for a prolonged stretch. Finally, I ask what’s on his mind. “I’m sitting here thinking, ‘Who can beat Trump?’” he says. “Can any of these people beat Trump?”

***

What gets under Bennet’s skin, as he watches the debate unfold, is how Warren and Sanders implicitly cast their rivals as timid or beholden to the status quo because of fundamental policy disagreements. It’s a running theme of the 2020 primary competition, and for the first time Tuesday, several of the candidates, such as Buttigieg and Minnesota Senator Amy Klobuchar, push back forcefully.

Bennet was glad to see it—not just because he is a centrist at heart, but because he has grown suspicious of the business model associated with ideological purity. “I’m not sure this is about progressive vs. nonprogressive,” he says. “I think it’s about what will satisfy the social media interests on a given day.”

What does that mean? Do some of the Democrats not really believe what they’re proposing?

He opens another IPA and takes a swig. “If someone is proposing free college, which is a regressive policy, or debt forgiveness, which is a regressive policy—.” He stops and shakes his head. “I mean, single-payer, that’s been a progressive view forever. But now it’s embodied by Bernie’s very particular Medicare for All, which is an actual legislative proposal that has become the emblem for whether you’re woke or not woke, or progressive or not progressive during this primary.”

He continues, “The equities that are being satisfied are the responses that you get on social media and your ability to raise money on the internet. And that has led to people offering up policies that—.” He stops himself again. “You know, when Obama ran in 2008, there was an outer edge, because that political market could only bear so much. But this political Twitter market can never bear too much; the more extreme you are, the more rewarded you are.”

When I mention the cautionary tale of what has become of the modern Republican Party, Bennet acknowledges the parallels. But he sees one key difference. “Trump and McConnell don’t need a functioning democracy to achieve what they’re trying to achieve. Trump doesn’t care whether he has a functioning democracy or not, and McConnell doesn’t need one because it’s all about putting judges on the courts,” the senator says. “But if you actually want to fix the health care system, or deal with climate, or do the other things we want to do, you have to have a durable coalition of people that support you. … There’s been a complete breakdown in our exercise in self-governance. And that has created a vacuum into which the anti-government impulses of the country have flown, and now, the overpromising impulses have flown.”

Bennet says it wasn’t always this way. Reaching for the book he authored, “The Land of Flickering Lights,” he shares a passage describing how President Ronald Reagan worked with Democrats to pass critical bipartisan legislation and fortify the public’s confidence in government. He doesn’t seem to recognize the irony of giving a long, academic recitation—reading from a book, glasses over his nose—after acknowledging the political imperative of going viral.

What Bennet finds himself wondering these days is whether Democrats can win—much less govern—by pledging to do merely the possible. Whether they will be rewarded for telling voters what they need to hear, instead of what they want to hear.

“Barack Obama tried to do that, and that’s not ancient history,” Bennet says hopefully.

Isn’t it?

He thinks for a moment, then practically leaps from his seat, as though a light bulb hasn’t merely gone off but overheated and shattered inside of his brain. “Maybe it is. Maybe it is. Maybe it is. Because Barack Obama tried to do that, and he was rewarded with complete intransigence by the other side. He used to say when he was running for reelection that ‘the fever will break’ after he won reelection. But the fever has never broken. Not only has it not broken, Trump’s now in charge,” he says. “I think the real question for our democracy is, can our exercise in pluralism really continue under these circumstances?”

Bennet swears he’s an optimist; it’s what gets him out of bed in the morning. But as our conversation progresses, with the debate flickering toward its closing minutes, the senator sounds as pessimistic as any politician I’ve spoken with in the Trump era.

“We’ve been terribly careless with our democracy. I believe that Donald Trump could not get hired in almost any business in America—the HR implications alone would be enough not to hire him, not to mention you couldn’t listen to him all day long if you were at an insurance company or a loading dock. Like, ‘This fucking guy!’” Bennet sighs, throwing up his hands. “The only way he could get elected is we have sufficiently degraded view of our political institutions that we’re willing to put a guy in charge who we would never put in charge of anything else. And why? Because we want to blow the place up. And the conversations I have with people who voted for Trump is, ‘Congratulations, you achieved your objective. Now what?’”

Bennet glances at the television. His Democratic peers are entertaining the question of whether they would consider packing the Supreme Court. “And this is making it worse!” he growls, wagging a finger at the monitor.

Just then, right on cue, Cooper asks the candidates about the emerging divide in the party—on questions of ideology, but also of tactics. Former Vice President Joe Biden takes the opportunity to criticize the progressives flanking him, Sanders and Warren, singling out the latter for being “vague” about her plans. Bennet nods along in agreement. But he also winces during the remarks, as he has several times earlier in the night, an apparent reaction to Biden’s choppy and stilted speech pattern. It’s clear Bennet aligns himself with Biden on a great many issues. But it’s also clear Bennet, and at least a few others in the center-left space, wouldn’t be running if Biden were regarded as an imposing political force at 76 years old.

Responding to Biden’s critique of the left’s ability to defeat Trump, Sanders argued the 2020 election would be won by bringing in new voters. Bennet cannot stomach this assertion. “But do you bring them in with false promises?” he asks. “Is there another way of exciting people and getting them involved besides making false promises? I don’t know. But when you do make false promises, and they never get accomplished, it just breeds more cynicism. That’s how we got here.”

Bennet is growing more impatient. His dark hair, once neatly combed to the side, is frayed from his hands running through it; his pale blue shirt, once crisply ironed, is disheveled and mostly untucked. Finishing his beer and walking over to the door, Bennet glances down at the crowd and the big screen. “Still baseball,” he smiles.

***

Surely, there is every temptation to quit—to get back to Colorado, to sleep in his own bed, to spend more time with his family, to stop slogging from one small town to another, meeting with crowds of 10 or 20 in hopes of planting a seed that might sprout months later under the most unlikely of conditions.

Every politician has an ego; Bennet is no exception. Still, for the U.S. senator who refused to be photographed for the cover of his own book—surely a first in the annals of presidential campaigning—it seems there’s more at stake than personal vanity. Bennet is convincing when he says he’s genuinely concerned. It’s not simply about a country that’s losing its way, he says, but about a party that might snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in 2020.

“The people who have promised to deliver undeliverable things have had the jump on the rest of us. But the people in Iowa and New Hampshire, I think, are trying to figure out one thing, which is: How do we beat Donald Trump?” Bennet says. “That’s the question they’re trying to answer. And if I can hang in there long enough, and there’s change at the top of this field, there may be an opportunity to say, ‘Here I am.’”

Bennet knows he may never get the opportunity. But if he does—if things break just right, if Biden falters and neither Buttigieg nor Klobuchar nor any of the other moderates coalesce the support of the center-left—it would present the starkest of contrasts. Sure, on the substance, Warren or Sanders would represent the sharpest possible departure from the incumbent. But as a matter of style, of tone and of temperament, it’s fair to say Bennet is the antithesis of Trump. Making that argument might be his last best hope—assuming he can refine it.

“He’s incredible,” Bennet says of the president. “He’s got, ‘Build the wall.’ He’s got, ‘Lock her up.’ He’s got, ‘Make America Great Again.’ He’s got, ‘Drain the swamp.’”

What about Bennet?

He shrugs, staring ahead. “I got nothing.”

Read More

[topfygad]

Kuala Lumpur’s Choice Chinese Cooking

Chomp your way through the Malaysian capital’s storied eateries.

  The city blocks are chock-full with heritage eateries and roadside stalls. On a single outing visitors will most likely see satay (top left) licked by flames, the vermillion skin of Peking duck (top right), chopsticks pull at a tangle of beef noodles (bottom left), and billows of hot air coursing out of behemoth bamboo steamers holding a trove of dim sum (bottom right). Photos by: Julian Manning

Plumes of cigarette smoke rise like white ribbons, coiling amidst the clamour of Kuala Lumpur’s Chinatown. What incense is to Tao temples, cigarettes are to these streets. Warm notes of roasted chestnuts are replaced by the beer-soaked breath of elderly men quarrelling in Cantonese as I walk down Petaling Road—the spine of a neighbourhood predominantly made up of Chinese immigrants new and old, and throngs of tourists eager to eat.

Some people insist that Chinatowns are the same everywhere. They are, simply, wrong. From haggling over sweet pork sausages in Bangkok to rolling dice over whisky shots in San Francisco, in my experience, Chinatowns are far from cookie cutter replicas of each other. And if I had to choose one in particular to challenge that ill-informed notion, it would be the wonderfully scruffy streets of KL’s Chinatown.

Cherry-red arches and faux Yeezys on ‘discount’ hardly define the area. Cooks are the core of the community, whether they don a sweat-stained ganji or a double-breasted chef’s jacket, and you will realise as much walking down the streets. The culinary roots of this Chinatown’s inhabitants spread out in a tangle, like that of a banyan tree. Baba-Nyona cuisine, also known as Peranakan cuisine, is a mix of influences from early Chinese immigrants who integrated themselves with the local Malays. They are represented by dishes like beef rendang and nasil emak, the latter a medley of coconut milk rice, sambal, fried anchovies, a boiled egg, with the typical addition of chicken. Later waves of immigrants brought along delicacies from their respective regions: char siu pork and dim sum of the Yue cuisine, porridges of Fujian or Hookien cuisine, and the much-coveted Hainanese or Hunan chicken rice, to name a few. In the bylanes of this bustling quarter, culinary traditions stick to these streets like the patina of a well-used wok.

Here, vermilion-hued ducks hang from hawker stands, glowing like the gauze lanterns that line the streets, outshined only by flames dancing below clay pots filled with golden rice and morsels of chicken, fish, and lap cheong sausages. Each stall and station is manned by a master of their craft. Plastic chairs become portholes to skewers laden with charcoal grilled meat and bowlfuls of fragrant asam laksa, wafting tangy notes of tamarind, the broth waiting to be swiftly slurped up.

Finding a memorable meal in KL’s Chinatown is as easy as promenading down its central streets. A hot jumble of thick hokkien mee noodles have been a staple at Kim Lian Lee for decades, the once-upon-a-time stall now a two-storey tall institution. Just across the street is Koon Kee, another neighbourhood stalwart serving up their popular wan tan mee, char siu pork-topped Cantonese noodles tossed in a sweet black sauce, served with pork and shrimp dumplings. And just down Madras Lane (the street’s name has officially been changed, but locals still use its original title) lies a long line for yong tau foo, tofu typically stuffed with minced pork and fish paste, which has had customers queuing up for over 60 years. The catch? In this hubbub, it is all too easy to miss some of the less central but equally important eateries.

This storied assortment of kopitiams (coffee shops), family restaurants, and outdoor stalls from the halcyon days of Chinese culinary influence in Kuala Lumpur are tucked away from the bustle, a few even mapped outside of the boundaries of Chinatown. So if your palate craves a bit of the past in the present, weave in and out of Chinatown and explore restaurants where the same dishes have been served up for decades, for very good reasons.

  1. Sang Kee

Est. 1970s

Address: 5A, Jalan Yap Ah Loy, City Centre

At dinner time Chinatown’s sidewalks (top) turn into a menagerie of meals. Chef Won San (bottom) gets to work on an order of freshwater prawn noodles. Photo by: Julian Manning

Sang har mee, or freshwater prawn noodles, are quite the treat in KL. The best sang har mee places are typically stalls, yet they do not come cheap, the most popular joints serving up the dish from anywhere between RM50-90/Rs835-1,500. Even though the portions are usually enough to fill two people, for those kind of prices you want to be sure you’re indulging in the best sang har mee in the neighbourhood.

Tucked in a discreet alleyway in the shade of pre-World War II buildings, on a little lane where late night courtesans would once congregate, lies Sang Kee. For over four decades this open air kitchen has been serving up some of the best freshwater prawn noodles in KL.

Those interested in a performance can inch up in front of the old man behind the wok and watch him work his wizardry, he doesn’t mind. Two beautifully big freshwater prawns are butterflied and cooked in prawn roe gravy, stirred in with egg, slivers of ginger, and leafy greens. Wong San, the chef, understands his wok like Skywalker understands the force—meaning, the wok hei (wok heat or temperature) is on point.

Once on your plate, plucking a plump piece of prawn out of the open shell is an easy feat. The fresh and supple meat is charged with the gravy, bite into it, and a flash flood of flavour courses out. In KL most versions of sang har mee sport crisp, uncooked yee mee noodles, which are then drenched in the prawn-imbued sauce. A lot of people love ’em this way, but I personally feel this gives the noodles the texture of a wet bird’s nest. Sang Kee’s noodles are cut thick, boiled, and then stir-fried, coated with oodles of scrambled egg, a style that lets the prawn’s flavours permeate every bit of the dish. At Sang Kee, for most folks a single p

ortion is enough for two at RM65/Rs1,085 a plate, but if that’s too steep a price, you can get the dish made with regular prawns for significantly less.

  2. Soong Kee Beef Noodles

Est. 1945

Address: 86, Jalan Tun H S Lee, City Centre

The fine people at Soong Kee have been serving up beef noodles since World War II, and the product speaks for itself. It’s always crowded at lunchtime, but don’t worry about waiting around too long. Usually a server will squeeze you in at one of the many large round tables with plenty of neighbours who don’t mind the company. I love this approach because it means you get a good look at what your table-mates are munching on. That being said, newcomers should inaugurate their Soong Kee experience with beef ball soup and beef mince noodles—simple but hearty dishes that will give you a good idea of why the place has stuck around (small bowl of noodles from RM7/Rs120).

  3. Sek Yuen

Est.1948

Address: 315, Jalan Pudu, Pudu

Mealtimes beckon travellers to dig into bowlfuls of beef ball soup (bottom left), pluck of piping hot scallop dumplings (middle left), and perhaps chow down on a myriad of meat skewers (top right). For dessert, munch on crunchy ham chim peng (bottom right), delicious doughnuts filled with red bean paste. If the flavour is too earthy for you, just pick up an entire bag of regular doughnuts (top left) or roasted chestnuts (middle right) from one of the city’s many street vendors. Photos by: Julian Manning

Sek Yuen is made up of three separate sections, spread out over adjacent lots a few feet from each other. One is being renovated, another is the original 1948 location, and the last is the crowded AC section built in the 1970s. I wanted to eat in the original section, but by the time I arrived the service was slowing down and everyone was dining in the AC section. When in doubt, follow the locals.

Two noteworthy staples of the restaurant, steam-tofu-and-fish-paste as well as the crab balls, were already sold out by the time I placed my order. So I happily went for the famous roast duck with some stir fried greens. The duck was delicious; the skin extra crispy from being air-dried, yet the meat was juicy with hints of star anise, which paired well with the house sour plum sauce. But what I enjoyed most was the people-watching. A Cantonese rendition of “Happy Birthday” played non-stop on the restaurant’s sound system for the entire 50 minutes I was there. The soundtrack lent extra character to the packed house of local Chinese diners, most of them regulars. To my right, a group of rosy-cheeked businessmen decimated a bottle of 12-year Glenlivet, and were perhaps the most jovial chaps I’ve ever seen. In front of me, a group of aunties were in party mode, laughing the night away with unbridled cackles. Perhaps the most entertaining guest was the worried mother who kept scurrying over to the front door, pulling the curtains aside to check if her sons were outside smoking. The sensory overload hit the spot. You could tell people were comfortable here, like it was a second home—letting loose in unison, reliving old memories while creating new ones.

I learned that when all sections of the restaurant are operational, Sek Yuen is said to employ around 100 people, many of whom have stuck with the restaurant for a very long time, just like the wood fire stoves that still burn in the kitchen (duck from RM30/Rs500).

  4. Ho Kow Hainan Kopitiam

Est.1956

Address: 1, Jalan Balai Polis, City Centre

Although it has shifted from Lorong Panggung to the quieter Jalan Balai Polis, Ho Kow Kopitiam remains outrageously popular. Customers are for the most part locals and Asian tourists, unwilling to leave the queue even when the wait extends past an hour. In fact, there is a machine that manages the number system of the queue, albeit with the help of a frazzled young man whose sole job is telling hungry people they’ll have to wait a long time before they get any food. It’s safe to say the gent needs a raise. If you haven’t guessed already, get there early, before they open at 7:30 a.m.—otherwise you’ll be peering through the entrance watching the best dishes get sold out.

Many tables had the champeng (an iced mix of coffee and tea), but I’m a sucker for the hot kopi (coffee) with a bit of kaya toast, airy white toast slathered with coconut egg jam and butter; treats good enough to take my mind off of waiting for an hour on my feet. I then dove into the dim sum, and became rather taken by the fungus and scallop dumplings. The curry mee, whether it is chicken or prawn, was a very popular option as well. When it comes to dessert, the dubiously-named black gluttonous rice soup sells out fast, which devastated the people I was sharing my table with.

They also serve an assortment of kuih for dessert, including my personal favourite, the kuih talam. It is a gelatinous square made up of two layers—one green, one white. They share the same base, a mixture of rice flour, green pea flower, and tapioca flour. The green layer is coloured and flavoured by the juice of pandan leaves, and the white one with coconut milk. For someone like myself, who doesn’t have a big sweet tooth, the savoury punch, balanced by a cool, refreshing finish make this dessert a quick favourite (kaya toast and coffee for RM5.9/Rs100).

  5. Kafe Old China

Est. 1920s

Address: 11, Jalan Balai Polis, City Centre

A relic from the 1920s, the Peranakan cuisine at Old China continues to draw in guests. The ambience seems trapped in another era, as is the food, in the best way possible. Post-modern, emerald green pendant lamps, feng shui facing windows, and old timey portraits make up the decor. A meal here is not complete without the beef rendang, hopefully with some blue peaflower rice. It is also one of the few places to get a decent glass of wine in Chinatown (mains from RM11/Rs190).

  6. Cafe Old Market Square

Est. 1928

Address: 2, Medan Pasar, City Centre

Kuala Lumpur skyline (top left) lies adjacent to the low-slung Chinatown neighbourhood (bottom right); A regular customer looks inside the original Sek Yuen restaurant (bottom left); Cooked on charcoal, the traditional clay pots brim with chunks of chicken, slivers of lap cheong (Chinese sausage), and morsels of salted fish (top right). Photos by: Julian Manning (food stall, woman), BusakornPongparnit/Moment/Getty Images (skyline), f11photo/shutterstock (market)

There is something incredibly satisfying about cracking a half boiled egg in two at this café, the sunny yolk framed by a cup of kopi, filled to the point the dark liquid decorates the mug with splash marks, and slabs of kaya toast. Despite a new lick of paint, I could feel the almost 100 years of history welling out of the antique, yellow window shutters lining the three storey facade of the building, the last floor operating as the café’s art gallery.

This place won me over as the perfect spot to read my morning paper, everything from the high-ceilings to the petit bistro tables allowed me to pretend I was in another era—a time when people still talked to each other instead of tapping at their smartphones like starved pigeons pecking at breadcrumbs. Yet, the best time to see this place in its full form is post noon, when the lunch crowd buzzes inside. Droves of locals cluster in front of the nasi lemak stand placed inside the café, hijabs jostling for the next plate assembled by an unsmiling woman with the unflinching demeanour of a person who has got several years of lunchtime rushes under her belt (lunch from RM6.5/Rs110, breakfast from RM1/Rs17).

  7. Capital Cafe

Est. 1956

Address: 21, Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman, City Centre

Beneath the now defunct City Hotel, Capital Cafe is your one-stop satay paradise. The cook coaxes up flames from a bed of charcoal with a bamboo hand fan, using his other hand to rotate fistfuls of beef and chicken skewers liberally brushed with a sticky glaze. The satay is a perfect paradox, so sweet, yet so savoury; the meat soft, but also blistered with a crisp char. This snack pairs wonderfully with hot kopi—perhaps because it cuts the sweetness—served by a couple of uncles brimming with cheeky smiles and good conversation (satay from RM4/Rs70). 

  8. Yut Kee

Est.1928

Address: 1, Jalan Kamunting, Chow Kit

Like many of KL’s golden era restaurants, Yut Kee moved just down the road from its original location. Serving Hainanese fare, like mee hoon and egg foo yoong, with a mix of English and Malay influences, YutKee has remained one of the most famous breakfast joints in all of KL for almost 100 years. At breakfast it features an almost even mix of locals and tourists, the former better at getting to the restaurant early to snag their regular tables.

During peak breakfast hours, waiters slap down face-sized slabs of chicken and pork chops, bread crumbed and fried golden brown, sitting in a pool of matching liquid gold gravy, speckled with peas, carrots, and potatoes. You can’t go wrong with either one. If your gut’s got the girth, follow up a chop with some hailam mee, fat noodles tossed with pork and tiny squid.

On weekends guests also get the opportunity to order two specials, the incredible pork roast and the marble cake. A glutton’s advice is to take an entire marble cake away with you. By not eating it there you save room for their seriously generous portions. The cake also lasts up to five days, which gives you about four more days than you’ll actually need. Plus it makes for a perfect souvenir, especially since the Yut Kee branded cake box is so iconic.

One of the many delighted people I gave a slice of cake to back home hit a homerun when they put into words what was so special about the marble cake: “It’s not super fancy, with extra bells and whistles, but it tastes like what cake is supposed to…like something your grandma would make at home.” As he said the last words he reached for another sliver of cake (chicken chop is for RM 10.5/Rs180, a slice of marble cake is for RM1.3/Rs20).

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source http://cheaprtravels.com/kuala-lumpurs-choice-chinese-cooking/

[mikemortgage]

Some journalists wonder if their profession is tweet-crazy

NEW YORK — If Twitter is the town square for journalists, some are ready to step away.

That’s happening this week at the online news site Insider — by order of the boss. Reporters have been told to take a week off from tweeting at work and to keep TweetDeck off their computer screens. The idea of disengaging is to kick away a crutch for the journalists and escape from the echo chamber, said Julie Zeveloff West, Insider’s editor-in-chief for the U.S.

Addiction to always-rolling Twitter feeds and the temptation to join in has led to soul-searching in newsrooms. Some of it is inspired by the reaction to the Jan. 19 demonstration in Washington involving students from a Covington, Kentucky, high school, which gained traction as a story primarily because of social media outrage only to become more complicated as different details and perspectives emerged.

Planning for Insider’s ban predated the Covington story, West said.

She often walks through her newsrooms to find reporters staring at TweetDeck. Her goal is to encourage reporters to find news in other ways, by picking up the telephone or meeting sources. An editor will make sure no news is being missed.

Twitter “isn’t the place where most people find us,” she said. “Reporters place this outsized importance on it.”

The Washington Post’s David Von Drehle called Twitter the “crystal meth of newsrooms.” He dates his moment of disillusionment to the Republican national convention in 2012. In the section reserved for reporters, he noticed many watching TweetDeck feeds instead of listening to speeches from the podium or stepping away to talk to delegates.

“Twitter offers an endless stream of faux events,” Von Drehle wrote in a column this past weekend. “Fleeting sensations, momentary outrages, ersatz insights and provocative distortions. ‘News’ nuggets roll by like the chocolates on Lucy’s conveyer belt.”

Since Twitter is irresistible to journalists who have the smart-aleck gene — probably the majority — a newsroom quip or instant observation is now writ large.

The Covington story uniquely played to Twitter’s faults. Early video that depicted Covington student Nick Sandmann staring down Native American activist Nathan Phillips spread rapidly across social media and many people rushed to offer their takes. An event that may have otherwise gone unnoticed instantly became a story by virtue of its existence online.

Yet when a wider picture emerged of what happened, in some respects quite literally from the view of a wider camera lens, a story that seemed black and white became grey. Some of the early opinions became embarrassing and were quietly deleted. But since there’s no such thing as a quiet deletion when people are watching online, the incident became fodder for another outbreak of partisan warfare.

The episode led Farhad Manjoo, a columnist for The New York Times, to declare Twitter “the world’s most damaging social network.”

In a column, he said he plans to stifle the urge to quickly type his opinion on every news event and suggested others follow his lead. Between mistakes and overly provocative opinions, too much can go wrong for journalists on Twitter, he said in an interview.

“In order to be good on Twitter, you have to be authentic,” he said. “But authenticity is also dangerous. It leads people to make assumptions about you. It can go bad in different ways.”

Perhaps it’s inevitable at a time that Twitter needs to be constantly monitored because it is one of the president of the United States’ favourite forms of communications, but Manjoo said too often reporters spend more time in the virtual world than the real one.

“The way the media works now, we’ve just gone overboard on Twitter,” he said.

Days after Covington, some news outlets proved his point by writing stories about NBC “Today” show host Savannah Guthrie’s interview with Sandmann that were nothing but collections of Twitter comments about how she did. Some tweeters thought Guthrie was too hard on him. Some thought she was too soft. Simply by nature of the forum, few who thought it was just right bothered posting.

Media experts wary of Twitter quitters said a distinction between the platform and how people use it should not be lost.

“I really don’t think it’s so hard to avoid commenting on a moving story when the facts are not clear,” said Jay Rosen, a New York University journalism professor.

Leaving Twitter means cutting off a valuable news source since many newsmakers use the venue to make announcements, he said. It’s also an equalizer in giving access to a virtual town square to people who might otherwise be overlooked, said news consultant Jeff Jarvis.

“Journalists should be looking for every possible means to listen better to the public,” Jarvis said. “If you cut yourself off, it’s ridiculous.”

Some have done that, or tried. Manjoo’s colleague at The Times, White House correspondent Maggie Haberman, wrote last July about how she was stepping back from Twitter after nearly nine years and 187,000 tweets.

“The viciousness, toxic partisan anger, intellectual dishonesty, motive-questioning and sexism are at all-time highs, with no end in sight,” she wrote. “It is a place where people who are unquestionably upset about any number of things go to feed their anger, where the underbelly of free speech is at its most bilious. Twitter is now an anger video game for many users.”

Haberman predicted she would eventually re-engage with Twitter but in a different way. She’s back; she tweeted five times and retweeted links six times by 10 a.m. Tuesday. She’s up to 194,000 tweets and has a following of more than a million people. She declined a request for an interview about how the experience changed her.

Kelly Evans was an early Twitter user at The Wall Street Journal and then at CNBC, where she’s a news anchor. She found it a valuable place to get ideas, and to connect with readers, viewers and fellow journalists.

But she realized in the summer of 2016 that it was taking up too much of her personal time with little contribution to her professional life. She publicly signed off and has kept to her pledge for the most part. She says now she doesn’t regret it.

Evans admits she may have missed some story tips, but questions the reliability of much that is on Twitter.

“I feel more healthy and I feel like I’m able to do my job better,” she said.

——

Associated Press researcher Rhonda Shafner in New York contributed to this report.

from Financial Post http://bit.ly/2CRoWTL via IFTTT Blogger Mortgage Tumblr Mortgage Evernote Mortgage Wordpress Mortgage href="https://www.diigo.com/user/gelsi11">Diigo Mortgage

[superreviewsworld-blog]

fake on line book critiques and the way to keep away from Them

Print courses hold to stop strolling e-book reviews and are even going out of commercial enterprise as increasingly readers turn to the internet to get their records. inside the past, advertising in print courses blanketed the value of book evaluations, but nowadays, authors usually need to pay for exposure packages to acquire ebook critiques, or supply a nominal rate to compensate the reviewer for their time.

The result is that people could make cash off writing book opinions, and some so-called reviewers are doing so with out truely studying the books. Why could everybody write a faux e book review? because it takes many hours to study a ebook, and the greater e book reviews reviews you may write, the more money you may make, so why now not just keep time with the aid of no longer reading the books and instead simply write the reviews and acquire the payments so that you can make extra money. consider me; this situation happens all of the time.

other reviewers do now not rate for reviews but they request multiple copies of books. Why do they need a couple of copies when they don't read the ones books? so that it will resell them on-line and make more money at the same time as writing faux critiques.

however won't people catch on to those fake evaluations? sure, the majority need to, however not every person does. most of these faux reviewers consist of the so-called reviewer copying and paraphrasing what's at the back cowl and then including some flowery caveat like "This e book is a ought to-study for its thrilling motion" or "An exciting and shifting love tale you might not want to miss" to make it appear like the reviewer honestly study the e-book. Of path, whether the e book is exciting or fun or not, the reviewer has no concept-he might not even have cracked open the e-book.

So how can you as an creator, who needs legitimate critiques, or as a reader trying a terrific book to read, without a doubt inform if a review is valid? right here are five easy recommendations for spotting faux e-book reviews:

forget about opinions written through authors, their pals, and circle of relatives:I draw back on every occasion I see a five celebrity evaluation written by the writer; generally it's performed underneath the guise of the author wanting to offer readers with extra information approximately the e book, but the area for this is inside the product description. Any author who gives his very own book 5 stars is clueless about the publishing enterprise and what is moral, or he is simply tactless. sometimes a valid review can be written through a colleague, consisting of "i've regarded Barbara for fifteen years and that i realize her commercial enterprise advice works due to the fact...." however i've additionally visible ones that say such things as, "This e book is lots of fun because it describes the places the author and that i used to hang around as kids when we were developing up." that's great but it's now not a motive why everybody who isn't always pals with the author must read the e book.

Be skeptical of definitely positive reviews. ok, don't be definitely skeptical, but past the "satisfactory book ever" and "a splendid, compelling story" comments, search for symptoms that the high quality evaluation is legitimate-discussions of the characters and plot that make it clean the ebook became read. after all, there are accurate books out there that deserve advantageous opinions. do not be glad with "This incredible story" however look for causes of why the tale is first rate.

Be skeptical of totally bad opinions.a few reviewers and customers have axes to grind. I can not inform you how regularly i've visible one-famous person opinions given at on line bookstores because "the e book by no means arrived." it's the fault of the bookstore's transport system, no longer the writer or book's fault. At different instances, a person may additionally simply not like the author so he desires to slam the e-book, or he might not like the problem count number, saying something like, "Homosexuality is a sin and there is a gay couple on this e-book so I gave it one star" or "the main individual had an abortion. it is incorrect! One celebrity." you could even believe the reviewers on those troubles but are those evaluations sincerely honest? Do they bear in mind the e book's plot, characters, structure, fashion, originality, or issues to offer an intensive or correct assessment?

be careful for plot summaries.A e-book review isn't always an basic faculty e book file. yes, there are plenty of readers available posting e-book opinions who do not know a way to write properly or how to write a ebook overview, however there are also phony reviewers who definitely replica the text off the back cowl that summarizes the plot to write down a evaluate. an amazing review will point out a detail within the plot or even quote an powerful passage from the book. it will also tell you not best what happens inside the e-book but how the reader felt (changed into moved) by way of what befell.

If a review looks like a fake, appearance to see what different books the person has reviewed. Are all of the individual's critiques quick and sparkling? it is feasible this one overview ought to just be a badly written, faux-looking one while other reviews look nicely-written and are valid. Has the reviewer published a couple of book evaluate nowadays, or been posting numerous every day? (critically, how many books can someone study in every week?) And do not be afraid to google the reviewer to look whether you could discover lawsuits approximately her or him on line. What can you do about fake evaluations?

Now which you realize the way to spot a fake assessment, or even that faux opinions exist, you could experience a chunk outraged-I recognize I do. So what are you able to do approximately such opinions? here are some tips:

in case you are an creator and you get a faux evaluate, name the reviewer on it-especially if you paid for a assessment. but even if the man or woman evaluations the e book by using his own decision, while not having contact with you, if the evaluate is fake, you could request that the internet site where the evaluation is posted cast off the evaluation. determine whether or not the state of affairs is worth stepping into an argument with the phony reviewer. Will the overview harm your e book's credibility? If it is negative but suggests proof that the book was not examine, it might. you might also sense referred to as upon to combat the good fight for the rest of the authors accessible who ought to go through because of the reviewer's conduct.

if you are a reader, check to see verification of buy, that is now and again a characteristic at numerous on line bookstores. If the individual bought the book, it is possibly he or she examine it. That said, take into account that reviewers usually get hold of complimentary copies. but, to get round this situation, I know a few authors have requested reviewers buy their books at online bookstores after which have compensated the author for the price of the e book so a buy verification be aware suggests up on the assessment.

[jeanmbaker]

The List

When Franklin Covey was Franklin Quest, they had a tool called the Prioritized Daily Task List. Well, they still have it, but it’s so buried in all their other “bells and whistles” that it’s lost its impact (in my humble opinion). I liked the PDTL because it helped me prioritize, figure out what was most important, and then eliminated the need to decide what to do next after completing each task. I had already made those decisions in the context of my long-term goals. It is very linear thinking, but can be highly efficient in getting things done.

Recently, though, I was thinking about a different kind of “list” of priorities. We often hear people say things like, “Put God first,” or, “God, family, then work.” And that sounds right and wise, but it does have its flaws, the biggest of which is that it creates the question of “enough.” It suggests that God gets a certain amount of time, then our family, then work—as though these are disparate, non-overlapping categories. And in terms of time, if we look at our calendars, it often seems as though work is our highest priority.

How much time do we have to spend “on” God in order for it to prove He’s our top priority? How much on our family to prove they are second in line? Does this allotment of time change from week to week? If I pray every morning and go to church most Sundays, is that “enough”?

At some point, we realize that simply measuring time and trying to “balance” it according to our priorities, is exhausting. And guilt creeps in (or storms in, as the case may be) scolding us for spending too much time on “lower” priorities. So we justify our time allocation by distinguishing between quantity of time and quality. We tell ourselves that even though we spend more time at work, the time spent with our kids at dinner and reading a bedtime story is better quality time, and makes up for the lack of quantity. A weekly date night with our spouse makes up for the fact that we haven’t been home to help with the laundry or the dishes.

But then the pressure is on to make those scarce hours (or minutes) meaningful. We end up forcing things, and become angry when our kids don’t want to participate in our “quality,” memory-making events. We are faux-outraged when our spouse doesn’t “appreciate” the effort (or more likely money spent) we went to to provide an impressive evening out. If we’re lucky, at some point, we begin to wonder whether we can truly have “quality” time without quantity. It’s a little like brainstorming; the more ideas you generate (quantity), the better the final choice (quality) will be. The more time you spend with your family (quantity), the more likely the overall time together will be better (quality).

This weekend, I read a book called Lies We Believe About God, by Wm. Paul Young (author of The Shack). Lie #8 was, “God wants to be a priority.” His point was not that God shouldn’t be important, but that instead of putting him at the top of a list, it is far better to make Him the center of everything we do. Bring God to the center of our families, our work, and our play. Certainly it’s important to create time exclusively for God in the form of prayer and worship, but beyond that, keep Him center of everything.

As I thought about this, it also occurred to me that if there is something in my life that I couldn’t bring God to the center of, maybe I shouldn’t be doing it in the first place. To give some rather extreme examples, it would be crazy to say, “God, I’m going to rob this bank. Can you please make sure I get out before the police arrive?” or “God, I’m going to meet my lover. Will you please make sure my wife and kids don’t find out?” But even the seemingly smaller things count; promising your daughter that you will go to her school concert, and then backing out at the last minute to work late probably means you didn’t put God in the center of that decision.

God is a co-Creator with us—not a co-conspirator.

Of course, bringing God to the center of our lives does not mean that we will suddenly live an enchanted, problem-free life. But it does help us get through the challenges and the downright “bad” stuff. It helps us keep the challenges in perspective, helps us learn from them, and helps us figure out how to “use them for good.” Not turn them into good, but to use them for good.

So go ahead and make your grocery lists, your company’s-coming cleaning lists, and your task lists at work. But don’t confine God to a list, even if He’s at the top.

Instead, invite Him into the center of your life.

[topfygad]

Kuala Lumpur’s Choice Chinese Cooking

Chomp your way through the Malaysian capital’s storied eateries.

  The city blocks are chock-full with heritage eateries and roadside stalls. On a single outing visitors will most likely see satay (top left) licked by flames, the vermillion skin of Peking duck (top right), chopsticks pull at a tangle of beef noodles (bottom left), and billows of hot air coursing out of behemoth bamboo steamers holding a trove of dim sum (bottom right). Photos by: Julian Manning

Plumes of cigarette smoke rise like white ribbons, coiling amidst the clamour of Kuala Lumpur’s Chinatown. What incense is to Tao temples, cigarettes are to these streets. Warm notes of roasted chestnuts are replaced by the beer-soaked breath of elderly men quarrelling in Cantonese as I walk down Petaling Road—the spine of a neighbourhood predominantly made up of Chinese immigrants new and old, and throngs of tourists eager to eat.

Some people insist that Chinatowns are the same everywhere. They are, simply, wrong. From haggling over sweet pork sausages in Bangkok to rolling dice over whisky shots in San Francisco, in my experience, Chinatowns are far from cookie cutter replicas of each other. And if I had to choose one in particular to challenge that ill-informed notion, it would be the wonderfully scruffy streets of KL’s Chinatown.

Cherry-red arches and faux Yeezys on ‘discount’ hardly define the area. Cooks are the core of the community, whether they don a sweat-stained ganji or a double-breasted chef’s jacket, and you will realise as much walking down the streets. The culinary roots of this Chinatown’s inhabitants spread out in a tangle, like that of a banyan tree. Baba-Nyona cuisine, also known as Peranakan cuisine, is a mix of influences from early Chinese immigrants who integrated themselves with the local Malays. They are represented by dishes like beef rendang and nasil emak, the latter a medley of coconut milk rice, sambal, fried anchovies, a boiled egg, with the typical addition of chicken. Later waves of immigrants brought along delicacies from their respective regions: char siu pork and dim sum of the Yue cuisine, porridges of Fujian or Hookien cuisine, and the much-coveted Hainanese or Hunan chicken rice, to name a few. In the bylanes of this bustling quarter, culinary traditions stick to these streets like the patina of a well-used wok.

Here, vermilion-hued ducks hang from hawker stands, glowing like the gauze lanterns that line the streets, outshined only by flames dancing below clay pots filled with golden rice and morsels of chicken, fish, and lap cheong sausages. Each stall and station is manned by a master of their craft. Plastic chairs become portholes to skewers laden with charcoal grilled meat and bowlfuls of fragrant asam laksa, wafting tangy notes of tamarind, the broth waiting to be swiftly slurped up.

Finding a memorable meal in KL’s Chinatown is as easy as promenading down its central streets. A hot jumble of thick hokkien mee noodles have been a staple at Kim Lian Lee for decades, the once-upon-a-time stall now a two-storey tall institution. Just across the street is Koon Kee, another neighbourhood stalwart serving up their popular wan tan mee, char siu pork-topped Cantonese noodles tossed in a sweet black sauce, served with pork and shrimp dumplings. And just down Madras Lane (the street’s name has officially been changed, but locals still use its original title) lies a long line for yong tau foo, tofu typically stuffed with minced pork and fish paste, which has had customers queuing up for over 60 years. The catch? In this hubbub, it is all too easy to miss some of the less central but equally important eateries.

This storied assortment of kopitiams (coffee shops), family restaurants, and outdoor stalls from the halcyon days of Chinese culinary influence in Kuala Lumpur are tucked away from the bustle, a few even mapped outside of the boundaries of Chinatown. So if your palate craves a bit of the past in the present, weave in and out of Chinatown and explore restaurants where the same dishes have been served up for decades, for very good reasons.

  1. Sang Kee

Est. 1970s

Address: 5A, Jalan Yap Ah Loy, City Centre

At dinner time Chinatown’s sidewalks (top) turn into a menagerie of meals. Chef Won San (bottom) gets to work on an order of freshwater prawn noodles. Photo by: Julian Manning

Sang har mee, or freshwater prawn noodles, are quite the treat in KL. The best sang har mee places are typically stalls, yet they do not come cheap, the most popular joints serving up the dish from anywhere between RM50-90/Rs835-1,500. Even though the portions are usually enough to fill two people, for those kind of prices you want to be sure you’re indulging in the best sang har mee in the neighbourhood.

Tucked in a discreet alleyway in the shade of pre-World War II buildings, on a little lane where late night courtesans would once congregate, lies Sang Kee. For over four decades this open air kitchen has been serving up some of the best freshwater prawn noodles in KL.

Those interested in a performance can inch up in front of the old man behind the wok and watch him work his wizardry, he doesn’t mind. Two beautifully big freshwater prawns are butterflied and cooked in prawn roe gravy, stirred in with egg, slivers of ginger, and leafy greens. Wong San, the chef, understands his wok like Skywalker understands the force—meaning, the wok hei (wok heat or temperature) is on point.

Once on your plate, plucking a plump piece of prawn out of the open shell is an easy feat. The fresh and supple meat is charged with the gravy, bite into it, and a flash flood of flavour courses out. In KL most versions of sang har mee sport crisp, uncooked yee mee noodles, which are then drenched in the prawn-imbued sauce. A lot of people love ’em this way, but I personally feel this gives the noodles the texture of a wet bird’s nest. Sang Kee’s noodles are cut thick, boiled, and then stir-fried, coated with oodles of scrambled egg, a style that lets the prawn’s flavours permeate every bit of the dish. At Sang Kee, for most folks a single p

ortion is enough for two at RM65/Rs1,085 a plate, but if that’s too steep a price, you can get the dish made with regular prawns for significantly less.

  2. Soong Kee Beef Noodles

Est. 1945

Address: 86, Jalan Tun H S Lee, City Centre

The fine people at Soong Kee have been serving up beef noodles since World War II, and the product speaks for itself. It’s always crowded at lunchtime, but don’t worry about waiting around too long. Usually a server will squeeze you in at one of the many large round tables with plenty of neighbours who don’t mind the company. I love this approach because it means you get a good look at what your table-mates are munching on. That being said, newcomers should inaugurate their Soong Kee experience with beef ball soup and beef mince noodles—simple but hearty dishes that will give you a good idea of why the place has stuck around (small bowl of noodles from RM7/Rs120).

  3. Sek Yuen

Est.1948

Address: 315, Jalan Pudu, Pudu

Mealtimes beckon travellers to dig into bowlfuls of beef ball soup (bottom left), pluck of piping hot scallop dumplings (middle left), and perhaps chow down on a myriad of meat skewers (top right). For dessert, munch on crunchy ham chim peng (bottom right), delicious doughnuts filled with red bean paste. If the flavour is too earthy for you, just pick up an entire bag of regular doughnuts (top left) or roasted chestnuts (middle right) from one of the city’s many street vendors. Photos by: Julian Manning

Sek Yuen is made up of three separate sections, spread out over adjacent lots a few feet from each other. One is being renovated, another is the original 1948 location, and the last is the crowded AC section built in the 1970s. I wanted to eat in the original section, but by the time I arrived the service was slowing down and everyone was dining in the AC section. When in doubt, follow the locals.

Two noteworthy staples of the restaurant, steam-tofu-and-fish-paste as well as the crab balls, were already sold out by the time I placed my order. So I happily went for the famous roast duck with some stir fried greens. The duck was delicious; the skin extra crispy from being air-dried, yet the meat was juicy with hints of star anise, which paired well with the house sour plum sauce. But what I enjoyed most was the people-watching. A Cantonese rendition of “Happy Birthday” played non-stop on the restaurant’s sound system for the entire 50 minutes I was there. The soundtrack lent extra character to the packed house of local Chinese diners, most of them regulars. To my right, a group of rosy-cheeked businessmen decimated a bottle of 12-year Glenlivet, and were perhaps the most jovial chaps I’ve ever seen. In front of me, a group of aunties were in party mode, laughing the night away with unbridled cackles. Perhaps the most entertaining guest was the worried mother who kept scurrying over to the front door, pulling the curtains aside to check if her sons were outside smoking. The sensory overload hit the spot. You could tell people were comfortable here, like it was a second home—letting loose in unison, reliving old memories while creating new ones.

I learned that when all sections of the restaurant are operational, Sek Yuen is said to employ around 100 people, many of whom have stuck with the restaurant for a very long time, just like the wood fire stoves that still burn in the kitchen (duck from RM30/Rs500).

  4. Ho Kow Hainan Kopitiam

Est.1956

Address: 1, Jalan Balai Polis, City Centre

Although it has shifted from Lorong Panggung to the quieter Jalan Balai Polis, Ho Kow Kopitiam remains outrageously popular. Customers are for the most part locals and Asian tourists, unwilling to leave the queue even when the wait extends past an hour. In fact, there is a machine that manages the number system of the queue, albeit with the help of a frazzled young man whose sole job is telling hungry people they’ll have to wait a long time before they get any food. It’s safe to say the gent needs a raise. If you haven’t guessed already, get there early, before they open at 7:30 a.m.—otherwise you’ll be peering through the entrance watching the best dishes get sold out.

Many tables had the champeng (an iced mix of coffee and tea), but I’m a sucker for the hot kopi (coffee) with a bit of kaya toast, airy white toast slathered with coconut egg jam and butter; treats good enough to take my mind off of waiting for an hour on my feet. I then dove into the dim sum, and became rather taken by the fungus and scallop dumplings. The curry mee, whether it is chicken or prawn, was a very popular option as well. When it comes to dessert, the dubiously-named black gluttonous rice soup sells out fast, which devastated the people I was sharing my table with.

They also serve an assortment of kuih for dessert, including my personal favourite, the kuih talam. It is a gelatinous square made up of two layers—one green, one white. They share the same base, a mixture of rice flour, green pea flower, and tapioca flour. The green layer is coloured and flavoured by the juice of pandan leaves, and the white one with coconut milk. For someone like myself, who doesn’t have a big sweet tooth, the savoury punch, balanced by a cool, refreshing finish make this dessert a quick favourite (kaya toast and coffee for RM5.9/Rs100).

  5. Kafe Old China

Est. 1920s

Address: 11, Jalan Balai Polis, City Centre

A relic from the 1920s, the Peranakan cuisine at Old China continues to draw in guests. The ambience seems trapped in another era, as is the food, in the best way possible. Post-modern, emerald green pendant lamps, feng shui facing windows, and old timey portraits make up the decor. A meal here is not complete without the beef rendang, hopefully with some blue peaflower rice. It is also one of the few places to get a decent glass of wine in Chinatown (mains from RM11/Rs190).

  6. Cafe Old Market Square

Est. 1928

Address: 2, Medan Pasar, City Centre

Kuala Lumpur skyline (top left) lies adjacent to the low-slung Chinatown neighbourhood (bottom right); A regular customer looks inside the original Sek Yuen restaurant (bottom left); Cooked on charcoal, the traditional clay pots brim with chunks of chicken, slivers of lap cheong (Chinese sausage), and morsels of salted fish (top right). Photos by: Julian Manning (food stall, woman), BusakornPongparnit/Moment/Getty Images (skyline), f11photo/shutterstock (market)

There is something incredibly satisfying about cracking a half boiled egg in two at this café, the sunny yolk framed by a cup of kopi, filled to the point the dark liquid decorates the mug with splash marks, and slabs of kaya toast. Despite a new lick of paint, I could feel the almost 100 years of history welling out of the antique, yellow window shutters lining the three storey facade of the building, the last floor operating as the café’s art gallery.

This place won me over as the perfect spot to read my morning paper, everything from the high-ceilings to the petit bistro tables allowed me to pretend I was in another era—a time when people still talked to each other instead of tapping at their smartphones like starved pigeons pecking at breadcrumbs. Yet, the best time to see this place in its full form is post noon, when the lunch crowd buzzes inside. Droves of locals cluster in front of the nasi lemak stand placed inside the café, hijabs jostling for the next plate assembled by an unsmiling woman with the unflinching demeanour of a person who has got several years of lunchtime rushes under her belt (lunch from RM6.5/Rs110, breakfast from RM1/Rs17).

  7. Capital Cafe

Est. 1956

Address: 21, Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman, City Centre

Beneath the now defunct City Hotel, Capital Cafe is your one-stop satay paradise. The cook coaxes up flames from a bed of charcoal with a bamboo hand fan, using his other hand to rotate fistfuls of beef and chicken skewers liberally brushed with a sticky glaze. The satay is a perfect paradox, so sweet, yet so savoury; the meat soft, but also blistered with a crisp char. This snack pairs wonderfully with hot kopi—perhaps because it cuts the sweetness—served by a couple of uncles brimming with cheeky smiles and good conversation (satay from RM4/Rs70). 

  8. Yut Kee

Est.1928

Address: 1, Jalan Kamunting, Chow Kit

Like many of KL’s golden era restaurants, Yut Kee moved just down the road from its original location. Serving Hainanese fare, like mee hoon and egg foo yoong, with a mix of English and Malay influences, YutKee has remained one of the most famous breakfast joints in all of KL for almost 100 years. At breakfast it features an almost even mix of locals and tourists, the former better at getting to the restaurant early to snag their regular tables.

During peak breakfast hours, waiters slap down face-sized slabs of chicken and pork chops, bread crumbed and fried golden brown, sitting in a pool of matching liquid gold gravy, speckled with peas, carrots, and potatoes. You can’t go wrong with either one. If your gut’s got the girth, follow up a chop with some hailam mee, fat noodles tossed with pork and tiny squid.

On weekends guests also get the opportunity to order two specials, the incredible pork roast and the marble cake. A glutton’s advice is to take an entire marble cake away with you. By not eating it there you save room for their seriously generous portions. The cake also lasts up to five days, which gives you about four more days than you’ll actually need. Plus it makes for a perfect souvenir, especially since the Yut Kee branded cake box is so iconic.

One of the many delighted people I gave a slice of cake to back home hit a homerun when they put into words what was so special about the marble cake: “It’s not super fancy, with extra bells and whistles, but it tastes like what cake is supposed to…like something your grandma would make at home.” As he said the last words he reached for another sliver of cake (chicken chop is for RM 10.5/Rs180, a slice of marble cake is for RM1.3/Rs20).

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[topfygad]

Kuala Lumpur’s Choice Chinese Cooking

Chomp your way through the Malaysian capital’s storied eateries.

  The city blocks are chock-full with heritage eateries and roadside stalls. On a single outing visitors will most likely see satay (top left) licked by flames, the vermillion skin of Peking duck (top right), chopsticks pull at a tangle of beef noodles (bottom left), and billows of hot air coursing out of behemoth bamboo steamers holding a trove of dim sum (bottom right). Photos by: Julian Manning

Plumes of cigarette smoke rise like white ribbons, coiling amidst the clamour of Kuala Lumpur’s Chinatown. What incense is to Tao temples, cigarettes are to these streets. Warm notes of roasted chestnuts are replaced by the beer-soaked breath of elderly men quarrelling in Cantonese as I walk down Petaling Road—the spine of a neighbourhood predominantly made up of Chinese immigrants new and old, and throngs of tourists eager to eat.

Some people insist that Chinatowns are the same everywhere. They are, simply, wrong. From haggling over sweet pork sausages in Bangkok to rolling dice over whisky shots in San Francisco, in my experience, Chinatowns are far from cookie cutter replicas of each other. And if I had to choose one in particular to challenge that ill-informed notion, it would be the wonderfully scruffy streets of KL’s Chinatown.

Cherry-red arches and faux Yeezys on ‘discount’ hardly define the area. Cooks are the core of the community, whether they don a sweat-stained ganji or a double-breasted chef’s jacket, and you will realise as much walking down the streets. The culinary roots of this Chinatown’s inhabitants spread out in a tangle, like that of a banyan tree. Baba-Nyona cuisine, also known as Peranakan cuisine, is a mix of influences from early Chinese immigrants who integrated themselves with the local Malays. They are represented by dishes like beef rendang and nasil emak, the latter a medley of coconut milk rice, sambal, fried anchovies, a boiled egg, with the typical addition of chicken. Later waves of immigrants brought along delicacies from their respective regions: char siu pork and dim sum of the Yue cuisine, porridges of Fujian or Hookien cuisine, and the much-coveted Hainanese or Hunan chicken rice, to name a few. In the bylanes of this bustling quarter, culinary traditions stick to these streets like the patina of a well-used wok.

Here, vermilion-hued ducks hang from hawker stands, glowing like the gauze lanterns that line the streets, outshined only by flames dancing below clay pots filled with golden rice and morsels of chicken, fish, and lap cheong sausages. Each stall and station is manned by a master of their craft. Plastic chairs become portholes to skewers laden with charcoal grilled meat and bowlfuls of fragrant asam laksa, wafting tangy notes of tamarind, the broth waiting to be swiftly slurped up.

Finding a memorable meal in KL’s Chinatown is as easy as promenading down its central streets. A hot jumble of thick hokkien mee noodles have been a staple at Kim Lian Lee for decades, the once-upon-a-time stall now a two-storey tall institution. Just across the street is Koon Kee, another neighbourhood stalwart serving up their popular wan tan mee, char siu pork-topped Cantonese noodles tossed in a sweet black sauce, served with pork and shrimp dumplings. And just down Madras Lane (the street’s name has officially been changed, but locals still use its original title) lies a long line for yong tau foo, tofu typically stuffed with minced pork and fish paste, which has had customers queuing up for over 60 years. The catch? In this hubbub, it is all too easy to miss some of the less central but equally important eateries.

This storied assortment of kopitiams (coffee shops), family restaurants, and outdoor stalls from the halcyon days of Chinese culinary influence in Kuala Lumpur are tucked away from the bustle, a few even mapped outside of the boundaries of Chinatown. So if your palate craves a bit of the past in the present, weave in and out of Chinatown and explore restaurants where the same dishes have been served up for decades, for very good reasons.

  1. Sang Kee

Est. 1970s

Address: 5A, Jalan Yap Ah Loy, City Centre

At dinner time Chinatown’s sidewalks (top) turn into a menagerie of meals. Chef Won San (bottom) gets to work on an order of freshwater prawn noodles. Photo by: Julian Manning

Sang har mee, or freshwater prawn noodles, are quite the treat in KL. The best sang har mee places are typically stalls, yet they do not come cheap, the most popular joints serving up the dish from anywhere between RM50-90/Rs835-1,500. Even though the portions are usually enough to fill two people, for those kind of prices you want to be sure you’re indulging in the best sang har mee in the neighbourhood.

Tucked in a discreet alleyway in the shade of pre-World War II buildings, on a little lane where late night courtesans would once congregate, lies Sang Kee. For over four decades this open air kitchen has been serving up some of the best freshwater prawn noodles in KL.

Those interested in a performance can inch up in front of the old man behind the wok and watch him work his wizardry, he doesn’t mind. Two beautifully big freshwater prawns are butterflied and cooked in prawn roe gravy, stirred in with egg, slivers of ginger, and leafy greens. Wong San, the chef, understands his wok like Skywalker understands the force—meaning, the wok hei (wok heat or temperature) is on point.

Once on your plate, plucking a plump piece of prawn out of the open shell is an easy feat. The fresh and supple meat is charged with the gravy, bite into it, and a flash flood of flavour courses out. In KL most versions of sang har mee sport crisp, uncooked yee mee noodles, which are then drenched in the prawn-imbued sauce. A lot of people love ’em this way, but I personally feel this gives the noodles the texture of a wet bird’s nest. Sang Kee’s noodles are cut thick, boiled, and then stir-fried, coated with oodles of scrambled egg, a style that lets the prawn’s flavours permeate every bit of the dish. At Sang Kee, for most folks a single p

ortion is enough for two at RM65/Rs1,085 a plate, but if that’s too steep a price, you can get the dish made with regular prawns for significantly less.

  2. Soong Kee Beef Noodles

Est. 1945

Address: 86, Jalan Tun H S Lee, City Centre

The fine people at Soong Kee have been serving up beef noodles since World War II, and the product speaks for itself. It’s always crowded at lunchtime, but don’t worry about waiting around too long. Usually a server will squeeze you in at one of the many large round tables with plenty of neighbours who don’t mind the company. I love this approach because it means you get a good look at what your table-mates are munching on. That being said, newcomers should inaugurate their Soong Kee experience with beef ball soup and beef mince noodles—simple but hearty dishes that will give you a good idea of why the place has stuck around (small bowl of noodles from RM7/Rs120).

  3. Sek Yuen

Est.1948

Address: 315, Jalan Pudu, Pudu

Mealtimes beckon travellers to dig into bowlfuls of beef ball soup (bottom left), pluck of piping hot scallop dumplings (middle left), and perhaps chow down on a myriad of meat skewers (top right). For dessert, munch on crunchy ham chim peng (bottom right), delicious doughnuts filled with red bean paste. If the flavour is too earthy for you, just pick up an entire bag of regular doughnuts (top left) or roasted chestnuts (middle right) from one of the city’s many street vendors. Photos by: Julian Manning

Sek Yuen is made up of three separate sections, spread out over adjacent lots a few feet from each other. One is being renovated, another is the original 1948 location, and the last is the crowded AC section built in the 1970s. I wanted to eat in the original section, but by the time I arrived the service was slowing down and everyone was dining in the AC section. When in doubt, follow the locals.

Two noteworthy staples of the restaurant, steam-tofu-and-fish-paste as well as the crab balls, were already sold out by the time I placed my order. So I happily went for the famous roast duck with some stir fried greens. The duck was delicious; the skin extra crispy from being air-dried, yet the meat was juicy with hints of star anise, which paired well with the house sour plum sauce. But what I enjoyed most was the people-watching. A Cantonese rendition of “Happy Birthday” played non-stop on the restaurant’s sound system for the entire 50 minutes I was there. The soundtrack lent extra character to the packed house of local Chinese diners, most of them regulars. To my right, a group of rosy-cheeked businessmen decimated a bottle of 12-year Glenlivet, and were perhaps the most jovial chaps I’ve ever seen. In front of me, a group of aunties were in party mode, laughing the night away with unbridled cackles. Perhaps the most entertaining guest was the worried mother who kept scurrying over to the front door, pulling the curtains aside to check if her sons were outside smoking. The sensory overload hit the spot. You could tell people were comfortable here, like it was a second home—letting loose in unison, reliving old memories while creating new ones.

I learned that when all sections of the restaurant are operational, Sek Yuen is said to employ around 100 people, many of whom have stuck with the restaurant for a very long time, just like the wood fire stoves that still burn in the kitchen (duck from RM30/Rs500).

  4. Ho Kow Hainan Kopitiam

Est.1956

Address: 1, Jalan Balai Polis, City Centre

Although it has shifted from Lorong Panggung to the quieter Jalan Balai Polis, Ho Kow Kopitiam remains outrageously popular. Customers are for the most part locals and Asian tourists, unwilling to leave the queue even when the wait extends past an hour. In fact, there is a machine that manages the number system of the queue, albeit with the help of a frazzled young man whose sole job is telling hungry people they’ll have to wait a long time before they get any food. It’s safe to say the gent needs a raise. If you haven’t guessed already, get there early, before they open at 7:30 a.m.—otherwise you’ll be peering through the entrance watching the best dishes get sold out.

Many tables had the champeng (an iced mix of coffee and tea), but I’m a sucker for the hot kopi (coffee) with a bit of kaya toast, airy white toast slathered with coconut egg jam and butter; treats good enough to take my mind off of waiting for an hour on my feet. I then dove into the dim sum, and became rather taken by the fungus and scallop dumplings. The curry mee, whether it is chicken or prawn, was a very popular option as well. When it comes to dessert, the dubiously-named black gluttonous rice soup sells out fast, which devastated the people I was sharing my table with.

They also serve an assortment of kuih for dessert, including my personal favourite, the kuih talam. It is a gelatinous square made up of two layers—one green, one white. They share the same base, a mixture of rice flour, green pea flower, and tapioca flour. The green layer is coloured and flavoured by the juice of pandan leaves, and the white one with coconut milk. For someone like myself, who doesn’t have a big sweet tooth, the savoury punch, balanced by a cool, refreshing finish make this dessert a quick favourite (kaya toast and coffee for RM5.9/Rs100).

  5. Kafe Old China

Est. 1920s

Address: 11, Jalan Balai Polis, City Centre

A relic from the 1920s, the Peranakan cuisine at Old China continues to draw in guests. The ambience seems trapped in another era, as is the food, in the best way possible. Post-modern, emerald green pendant lamps, feng shui facing windows, and old timey portraits make up the decor. A meal here is not complete without the beef rendang, hopefully with some blue peaflower rice. It is also one of the few places to get a decent glass of wine in Chinatown (mains from RM11/Rs190).

  6. Cafe Old Market Square

Est. 1928

Address: 2, Medan Pasar, City Centre

Kuala Lumpur skyline (top left) lies adjacent to the low-slung Chinatown neighbourhood (bottom right); A regular customer looks inside the original Sek Yuen restaurant (bottom left); Cooked on charcoal, the traditional clay pots brim with chunks of chicken, slivers of lap cheong (Chinese sausage), and morsels of salted fish (top right). Photos by: Julian Manning (food stall, woman), BusakornPongparnit/Moment/Getty Images (skyline), f11photo/shutterstock (market)

There is something incredibly satisfying about cracking a half boiled egg in two at this café, the sunny yolk framed by a cup of kopi, filled to the point the dark liquid decorates the mug with splash marks, and slabs of kaya toast. Despite a new lick of paint, I could feel the almost 100 years of history welling out of the antique, yellow window shutters lining the three storey facade of the building, the last floor operating as the café’s art gallery.

This place won me over as the perfect spot to read my morning paper, everything from the high-ceilings to the petit bistro tables allowed me to pretend I was in another era—a time when people still talked to each other instead of tapping at their smartphones like starved pigeons pecking at breadcrumbs. Yet, the best time to see this place in its full form is post noon, when the lunch crowd buzzes inside. Droves of locals cluster in front of the nasi lemak stand placed inside the café, hijabs jostling for the next plate assembled by an unsmiling woman with the unflinching demeanour of a person who has got several years of lunchtime rushes under her belt (lunch from RM6.5/Rs110, breakfast from RM1/Rs17).

  7. Capital Cafe

Est. 1956

Address: 21, Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman, City Centre

Beneath the now defunct City Hotel, Capital Cafe is your one-stop satay paradise. The cook coaxes up flames from a bed of charcoal with a bamboo hand fan, using his other hand to rotate fistfuls of beef and chicken skewers liberally brushed with a sticky glaze. The satay is a perfect paradox, so sweet, yet so savoury; the meat soft, but also blistered with a crisp char. This snack pairs wonderfully with hot kopi—perhaps because it cuts the sweetness—served by a couple of uncles brimming with cheeky smiles and good conversation (satay from RM4/Rs70). 

  8. Yut Kee

Est.1928

Address: 1, Jalan Kamunting, Chow Kit

Like many of KL’s golden era restaurants, Yut Kee moved just down the road from its original location. Serving Hainanese fare, like mee hoon and egg foo yoong, with a mix of English and Malay influences, YutKee has remained one of the most famous breakfast joints in all of KL for almost 100 years. At breakfast it features an almost even mix of locals and tourists, the former better at getting to the restaurant early to snag their regular tables.

During peak breakfast hours, waiters slap down face-sized slabs of chicken and pork chops, bread crumbed and fried golden brown, sitting in a pool of matching liquid gold gravy, speckled with peas, carrots, and potatoes. You can’t go wrong with either one. If your gut’s got the girth, follow up a chop with some hailam mee, fat noodles tossed with pork and tiny squid.

On weekends guests also get the opportunity to order two specials, the incredible pork roast and the marble cake. A glutton’s advice is to take an entire marble cake away with you. By not eating it there you save room for their seriously generous portions. The cake also lasts up to five days, which gives you about four more days than you’ll actually need. Plus it makes for a perfect souvenir, especially since the Yut Kee branded cake box is so iconic.

One of the many delighted people I gave a slice of cake to back home hit a homerun when they put into words what was so special about the marble cake: “It’s not super fancy, with extra bells and whistles, but it tastes like what cake is supposed to…like something your grandma would make at home.” As he said the last words he reached for another sliver of cake (chicken chop is for RM 10.5/Rs180, a slice of marble cake is for RM1.3/Rs20).

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