Play Dead

Nothing from them yet. I should call. What time is it in London?

5pm.

They're probably at the pub.

Yeah.

Wankers.

Power Out

I shall not talk about work anymore. If it’s good, which is always the case, I will zip it. I’m beginning to annoy my friends who have to deal with office politics and bitchy colleagues.

If I’m having a bad day, I shall stop whining at the risk of sounding like the rest of the 20-somethings who are so preoccupied with trying to make it in life and not having a life at the end of it and so decide to talk about work 24/7 to let people know they’ve been intently focusing on their career instead of focusing on relationships and friendships, which of course would have repercussions later on, and oh if only they’d take a step back and look at their shriveled up, hungover, desperate and lonely bosses.

At the end of the day, I’m glad I lost some money instead. Set backs are a great time for reflection. I have great friends. I have an amazing job. I have a healthy social life. And I won’t allow one (or other) bad days to affect me. At the rate I’m going, I could do a good job as a self help consultant so I better shut the hell up.

Time for that bottle of Veuve Cliquot to chill. I’m going to pop a Woody Allen DVD in and just lay back.

Alone. Finally.

Big Day Out

Come February, I will be striking out three of the top 10 acts I just have to watch. Have to have to have to!

It’s cheese now. But I grew up on them. I covet Zach De La Rocha. His political angst was just so sexy. I mean, the whole set up on Wall Street with the brokers jumping around was totally cool, like.

Do I need to go on?

A recent acquisition. Really amazing live (on youtube that is). It’s a love hate relationship between this band and the listeners. For example: Me – love. Stallion – hate. But the Stallion’s taste in music has always been…questionable. I mean, who listens to a band who needs some lamb to be sacrificed in order to get the concert going? We hump underage girls on stage now, not sheep.


So.

If you are reading this and would like to join the Stallion and me, please go to bigdayout.com (click on Perth!) and hopefully they’re still balloting the tickets. But I can understand if you need to save up for your degree next year, or if your dad lost his job and you can’t spare that couple of grand for Perth. I mean, I have a heart. I totally understand. But spare a thought while you’re busy saving and think about the even less fortunate. The Stallion doesn’t wish to break his 3 year celibacy, but being the desirable person that I am, I’m not sure I could hold him back anymore than I could. If you can’t get the hint of how much duress I’m going through, then I’m absolutely wasting my time. But I hope this cry for help message will reach one of you. Just one.

Oh and to Natasha if you're reading this, thanks for supplying us your Aus address!

###


Wake up – Feat David Bowie



My Body is Cage – BBC Session




Tunnels – Glastonbury 2007

:)

Crown of Love

Baby. Honey. Sweetie.

How she hated when he called her that, but she was unfailingly at his beck and call.

How did it happen? That she ended up nestled in a romantic cocoon of hyper-reality.

He was her first. The naivety, semen clotting the hymen of hyperspace. Floodgates of sex, desire and loneliness. Was that why there were there? In a hyperspace of lonely individuals, sex starved perverts and predatory wants. What wax lyrical. What bullshit. What an absolute charmer.

King Kong, was it? They sat in the dark, hidden underneath her shawl giggling at the insipid couple beside them, the man’s odour wafting unwanted, uninvited.

What was it? His blue eyes? That daredevil reckless roguish Hans Solo grin? The fact he had watched King Kong 1993, 1976 and now she had finally entered, although only as company, on his film rolodex of King Kong 2005? Was it the argument on Stanley Kubrick, or the fact he could reduce her to a mumbling mess every time he tried to argue his point? No, he’s not one to trumpet defeat. He goes on, amassing victory after victory – national flags and anthems galore.

No wait. The first date was dinner. Italian. She had left her cardigan, and no it was not accidental, in his bag. He had left, but not before they walked down the length of town with his hands delicately positioned near her ass.

What was it about him? The fact that he needed his cup of coffee of the day, topped up with two shots of expresso and a sachet of brown sugar before he could properly function? That baristas would take one look at his to go mug and know the order immediately? That he’d take the time to read out to her in French from a page out of Asterix and how he ended up cringing at her abysmal, horrendous oration, as she ambitiously and shamelessly ploughed through pages of Dumas’s Monte Cristo?

There was a night, them sharing a fag with the ashtray on his stomach, blowing circles in the dark, the pillow damp beneath them. The pack of Dunhill reds lay ready at the side table, beside his current reading thrash, one cigarette flipped on the other end, waiting to be smoked last. Jamiroquai was in the background and she was thinking how surreal everything is. Or that time he was heavy into Shakira shaking his hips, doing his pitch perfect Cartmen and Ali G imitation just to hear her loud boisterous laugh.

And then she left and he left pursuing digits and flags, remnants of their memoirs in film scripts and memorable one liners. She was left nursing a rotting scab but as with everything else topped with a wise adage not to be refuted goes, “time heals all wounds”. They’d meet up every now and then, that company and insider jokes never to be comprehended by anyone else.

It was fun, hurtful, hopeful but what’s all that to him? No, no definitely not bitter. At this moment, she’s just sedately calm and just…glad that things happen the way it did. His rejection of her beliefs, tradition, religion and ultimately her made her realise never to settle, not for anything.

Ah.

Well.

I found this written a year back. Completely nutcase, delusional and emo. But in light of new events that just happened, seems apt that I should complete the last paragraph and just post it up.

This entry goes out to you my dear. You’ve placed Montreal on brimming prominence in my lovers map. I hope you’ll do justice to the dames in Ireland.

Your #30 – something ;)

Dilate

The morning view from my room.. :)

In this virtual absence, I have finally graduated, been confirmed at work and struggling to eschew the banal entrée of every day life. I varied daily outings, I dedicated certain nights to working late, I attempted to be (erhem) "the embodiment of carpe diem" but some nagging thought keeps coming back – that all my eclecticism is just a routine. A tiresome one.

There was Womad – the world music of arts and dance. I had to attend. I’ve been their annual denizen for years. How campy. I womadised myself to the point I was embarrassingly enervated from all that dancing and Heinekens. I remembered the grass stains and at a point, was skimming the ground with my bare feet. Very boho, but not to the point of looking absolutely wasted like a Woodstock wash out.

Subsequently, in between those fits of hedonism, I made a good friend cry.

Afterwards another good friend made me cry.

It was quite a month.

It’s also Ramadhan now. Never fails to bring you a fresh wave of bourgeoning optimism – the idea of losing drastic weight and looking like a supermodel at the end of it. Hah.

____________________________________________________________________

I’m just about done with the dishes and deciding whether to clear the undrunk cup of coffee dad left behind. There was his mobile phone blinking furiously, with the pet kitten staring at me from the screen and me rushing to the lift only to catch that distant whiff of Egyptian oil and I ended up watching from the window, amused as hell, him heading away from me towards the spiritual twilight of his years, resolutely walking towards the direction of the mosque with his white jubar billowing forcefully behind him. My old man is getting pretty absent minded.

Earlier on in the day, emaciated from the lack of food and too much sleep, I dreamt. I dreamt I prayed, halting in between my Qur’anic verses. I woke up and tried to recite a once familiar comfort phrase, and I stopped. If it’s true, that spirits of the departed visit the beloved abode of their loved ones in this holy month, I would have six feet worth of disappointment from my grandparents.

If you ask me now, in between all this halting non-sequitors, what I’m feeling, I would have to say “I don’t know”. Maybe spiritually, every year this month, I feel more “Muslim” than most. Then again, what is being Muslim (other than murdering our own women), or Protestant (hey, I love horses) or Jew...(no.more.diatribe.stop!)

Anyway, took a trip down to JB for dinner with friends yesterday. We broke our fast by the side of the road, slurping lychee from the box, popping Hello Pandas and after the causeway jam had a feast consisting of black pepper tepanyakki, lemon chicken, tom yam, buttered squid, kalian, sambal kang kong, sweet and sour sea bass, banana split and good old ice kacang. Can’t remember much, but I know we headed down to City Square, tried to get the counter lady to recommend us a good old horror film and eventually we ended up speeding back to good old Golden Village in Choa Chu Kang to scare ourselves. But as all Japanese horror flick goes, everyone got spooked but lost the plot completely.

Two and a half more weeks to the end of Ramadhan. Of all months, I have to do more schmoozing and attend more free flow alcohol events. The trials and tribulations of a not quite Muslim girl. I’m craving for a pint of beer and a cigarette. Will I lose 10 pounds? No. Will I quit drinking? Doubt it. Cigarette? Hmm…

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to munch. Damn the cold turkey.

Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk

Been spending the past few weeks just flitting about. Not that I hate it, but it got to a point where I became extremely agitated with myself. Me time. I need me time.

So. To make up for it, I spent the weekend vegetating - watching Southpark, Alfie and Pride and Prejudice amongst many. Ok, no connection between Southpark and the other two I know.

I need another rambling weekend. That was three weeks ago and the last time we did, I ended up drunk in mid afternoon and stumbled home frantically trying to sober up because I had to finish the final Harry Potter installment. We had a very own brunch over at Princess B’s. Two hundred bucks worth of strawberries, bacon, sausages, beans, eggs, bread, baked mushrooms, crackers, two bottles of heavy duty sparkling wine, champagne, cheese and 100% French pretension. I think it's the cheese. Or the strawberries. Possibly both.

Karma Sutra was thrown in free of charge courtesy of Stallion’s gift to me. There was a vase of pretty flowers, cigarettes and free flow of (rolls eyes on reader's behalf) intimate girly conversations.

Another session due. My weekend respite girlfriends, is like SOOOO Over!

I'm tired all over again just by typing this out.

Come Pick Me Up

I had the most feeling feeling week ever. In The Minah’s dictionary, feeling feeling is akin, if not synonymous with delusion, self deception, hallucination…well, I can plonk the whole thesaurus section in here but I have work the next day. This time, I’ll persevere for this entry to end.

Last Saturday, Din din came over to my place for a nightcap and the usual movie when the folks are out of town. We watched Apocalypto, and ended up tussling in bed with no-can’t-I-hate-gore-no-thanks-is-he-gonna die-??!!-Let me sleep-!!!-but you forced me to watch this-oh-my-FUCK-they’re-all-gonna-die-BABE-WAKE-UP!-please-just-give-me-the-ending-SHUT-UP-AND-JUST-WATCH!!!!

And DD never completed the movie marathon. After half an hour of careful selection, she conveniently snoozed on my bed whilst I proceeded to watch Pretty Woman alone. The entire movie, no interruption, for the first bloody time. I have issues with movies like this. Together with fairytales and porn. But I’ll leave them for another entry when I’m on a 28^th day Venus come hither and enlarge my boobs rant.

Blimey, this week is full of Pretty Woman activities. Let’s see:

1. There was dinner with friends at the NUS Guild House with the bapoks while the Asian Cup was going on. Someone ordered escargos and I was struggling with the pincer-like-thong thingamajig. It almost flew…

I said almost.

2. There was that shopping spree. No, I wish someone could offer me his credit card and make the whole store suck up to me. But I went somewhere where I felt slightly more inclined to part with my money. No other fine, dignified, risk free and fashionable place other than Johore Bahru. That’s right folks. When you are broke, but you want to shop and at the same time pretend for that little while you have double the amount you own, Jusco at Terbau is where its at. They have brands that’ll blow your brains out. Think about it – TOPSHOP, WAREHOUSE, MANGO, ZARA. You’ll be the talk of the town. Maybe not.

So I’ll see you there. All you need is a pile of bribery money, car and yes, life insurance. Naturally.

3. Brooklyn boy suggested a night out, howaboutaplay? and I said sure, I trust your taste. Go book and surprise me.

The play became an Italian opera. Where's luck when you need it? I’ve been having few hours of sleep daily, nodding to sleep after lunch at work and he expected us to watch a 3hr bleeding opera with no dinner in my stomach! But say say say, it was pretty woman moment no? Only I wasn’t wearing a beautiful long dress, with satin elbow gloves and Charles and Keith shoes. (Thanks for the unglam idea BR) But well. The night was good. Hey Figaro was awesome, if you love corny lame stuff like moi.

We went to Wine bar afterwards. As usual, I have an issue to raise.

They call themselves the Wine Bar right? But when the house wine came, it tasted like it came straight off a scrapped sweaty armpit. You don’t call yourself Wine Bar when you serve armpit sweat and try to pass it off as wine! Even an uncouth, very un-class minah (from the ghetto) like me know its crap!

Urrgh. Friday nights are also called media nights there. It’s for the fancy, endless pretentious schmoozing and “oh my gawd, you look fantastic dahlin dahlin dahlin” moment. And I’m just one of them. Being fake is fun, sometimes. Entering another role can be quite a relief. You have no idea how much of a burden it is being me. All the world’s misery on my shoulders, the angst, the weight of centuries worth of philosophical woes and existential dilemma. You have NO idea.

4. For the benefit of...I can say it now (losers) out there who have not watched the movie, you will NOW know that the movie scenes revolved around the suite. I had a hotel room moment as well! The Bapoks were at Hyatt last Saturday. DD’s sis and beau got us a room to celebrate Butty Boy’s birthday. We were suppose to head out, but ended up rolling around in bed. And wait wait! We had a bar scene too at Mezzanine. Again, I wasn’t in a dress, there was no piano OR sex or anything like that. Bummer. At midnight, we threw ourselves at Butty Boy who was comfortably stripped and encased in a bathroom robe.

5. And yesterday, at the kind invitation of our client, my colleagues and I were at the Singapore Turf Club for upper crass class lunch, high tea and horse racing. Four girls all decked out in colorful dresses courtesy of Mango, Zara, Dorothy Perkins and the likes. The moment we entered, it was a much somber mood. Men in dark suits, women in prada and chanel, professor umbridge look-alikes – three of them in fact, decked out from head to toe in pink. But who cares, right? We were there for the food.

We decided to bet. Two dollar place forecast bets. The gentlemen at our table were frowning in concentration at their booklets, discussing horses and their breed, jockey weight, the weather, the turf before carefully making a selection. Our selections were based on 1) cute jockeys 2) cute horses with cute tails 3) cute horse names 4) the color of the horse’s socks (at least that’s what it looked like) 5) favorite numbers.

Bad choice. In the end, after copious amounts of food, tea (and alcohol for yours truly), we ended up chatting with the unassuming uncles who turned out to be multi-millionaires, horse owners, horse buyers, businessmen etc etc. While we betted 2 bucks for a race, they were going by the thousands per race. We even get to choose numbers for them – just for the hell of it and why not? It’s all luck.

I lost a grand total of 12 bucks. We had great food, good laugh from the uncles and an amazing view from the grandstand. The day turned out unexpectedly good. It wasn’t a day like the one in pretty woman, with plumey hats and picnic baskets. Besides we’d have looked ridiculous with the crazy weather, but it was close. The only thing missing is a Richard Gere character. And good sex. Perhaps I should do a hooker scene to round off the pretty woman week. And maybe, just maybe, a pick-me-up scene turn fairy tale will come true.

But who are we exactly kidding? We are imbued with this crap from young and grow up thinking a prince charming will sweep you off your feet. Men end up as chauvinist pigs OR a whimpering wuss. Fine balance is a joke, unless he’s gay. Women end up useless, wantonly desiring that crystalline tower scene that will never, ever come true.

Something tells me I just did a Venus rant.

And maybe, just maybe, it is about time I finally did.

Edit: Wha'eva!

A movie script ending

So if I had sucked it all up and said nay to the job, I would have been witnessing the following in the muddy fields of Glastonbury:

• Iggy and the stooges
• Damien Rice
• The Killers
• Arcade Fire
• James Morrison
• Kasabian
• Aqualung
• Rufus Wainwright
• Bjork
• The Who
• Kaiser Chiefs
• Lilly Allen
• Sandi Thom
• Bloc Party
• The Chemical Brothers
• Arctic Monkeys
• Manic Street Preachers

There’s mortification and a need to vilify myself. But it’s only a gig. Besides, I did get to fulfill the groupie side of me albeit in a very shy manner at CT’s farewell bash. Got the kinkiest heart shaped red thong and planted it at the top of his head mid-way through the second set. It was a good night, although the gin numbed me most of the way. Which is good, if you think about it.

I’ll get to Glastonbury someday. Even if I have to forfeit my knickers collection for that. So if you know someone who knows someone who knows someone or if you are that someone who can get me next year’s ticket to Glastonbury, I’ll do it. A phantasmagoria of lap dances, your nurse uniform, policewoman gear, crotchless panties, whips, voodoo child – you name it.

Err. Just get me very drunk before that.

Too many farewells.

Tonight, I’ll be heading down to the Starbucks over at Orchard Building. It’s going to be the last night of operation before they shut down for good. Some of you know I was there for a good two years, and I attribute who I am today to my working experiences there.

Now.

If you had known me waaaay before I was at Starbucks, you would know I was that bespectacled geek who hated and absolutely detested smokers, although I did technically start smoking at the age of 14. (Don’t get me started on that angst- ridden- I wanted- to- die- make- my- parents- regret- and- meet- Cobain- age!!)

I thought people who drink were in league with the devil. I was your anal (pun unintended) virgin who was in total denial. Relationships have a happily ever after ending complete with a voracious sex appetite quite like the protagonists in Mills and Boon (which I still deny was my growing up textbook series, even though they were mostly toilet literature, but still…the absolute rejection of truth just shows how much growing up I still have to do)

Starbucks, OB, Starbucks, OB.

If there’s one place that threw the covers off, that’ll be it. No sheltered life catching crabs after detention and hastening to color our muddied school shoes with chalk after that. Excitement was more than just your boyfriend touching your left tit for the next one hour or thinking that bulge was just the school shorts getting stuck with the zipper. Jolly Shandy with 0.5% alcohol was well, just Jolly Shandy with 0.5% alcohol. The irony of working in a coffee place.

Coffee was not just bitter. It was acidic, high bodied, fruity. Carrying out the thrash and skiving for a smoke afterwards was cool. Reading Kundera and Camus off duty, at the "partners only " table was absolutely necessary. We had to make sure people noticed the book cover. We were washing our shoes on top of the coffee mugs. Che Guevara was our king. Putting up cleaning signs just to stop people from utilizing our toilets became a constitution. Rage Against the Machine was our political anthem. Them versus us was the silent OB mandate.

But fads come. And they go.

Counterculture became so yesterday. Camus had to be reread because hell, there’s no way you can understand him when you’re so busy trying to look cool. Kundera, hailed as an existential beacon, just keeps mocking you now that you are finally reading. Che Guevara was an infantile idealist; he should’ve taken a leaf out of Castro’s book. But you still keep his poster because he’s cute and face it; all his political whims and flights of fancy reminded you of you. Or who you wanted to be.

And. Kurt Cobain's still dead.

So, to farewells, fond memories, and the subversive ethos of Starbucks 2000-2002.

Now, on to more important things. Like heading on down to OB and catching up with the fellas. Of course, with J.Keroac in hand.

Some things never change...

Winds of Change

Eventful was an understatement for May. There were dinners, brunch and drinks followed by me glowing and grinning like an overjoyed brat opening her presents at Christmas. Only brats don’t know the meaning of joy. Only it wasn’t Christmas.

How I wish birthdays come every month.

And there was that interview, the nerves that came along with it and the stories I had to come up with to sneak off for that.

There was the resignation and a bundle of lies that came when the boss kept asking too many questions and refused to let me go permanently.

And there was that new job. I had to cancel my UK trip for that(there were other reasons, but let's just leave it at that or I can very well make my own soap opera), but it was a good move and I can’t imagine myself letting it go. I can go on and on about it but I am only a week old; it can be too early to say so I sure hope everything turns out well. I just have to keep bringing the money in. *fingers crossed*

In between that, there were karaoke sessions, barbeque, that Midsummer Night’s dream picnic, clubbing, pubbing, joy-riding, flying. Well, the flying came a little belated after several postponements. Finally, after a beautiful Sunday afternoon, Miss Darcy and beau took me out to the Seletar air base for the 45 minutes flight of fancy. Abang D took us on a 30 degree dive, several touch and go landings and we were gallivanting above Macritchie, Upper Pierce and the whole of Portsdown before I felt sick and claustrophobic 30 minutes later. If only they’d allowed me to invite one other person to sit in the back with; the conditions would have been perfect to join the exclusive mile high club. Think about it. No annoying stewardesses strolling up and down the lane, toilet patrons hogging the cubicles – well, you get what I mean.

Uhm, I better clean up my wadrobe and catch up on my reading. I just keep buying and getting them, with little time to start on. Oh yes, and iron my clothes for work and the hot date after.

To the wonderful company, thank you for everything. It’s been a fabulous month. :)

Twillight

Found this in one of my many hidden folders. Written god two years ago. It's what I would call a poem, but what do I know right??? ;)

I have been morbid of late. Why, I have no idea. The whole denial of existence, what's the point of living and just the state of being is enough to drive to despair. Oh god, my entries here have been so whiny and whingey it'd put Elizabeth Wurtzel to shame. And, does she whine! A paperback on a narcissistic, self indulgent whim. Maybe I should write a novel and get Prozac or some pharmaceutical company working on a new depressant to sponsor me because I whine. And whiny books sell. I'm not depressed, but hell I sure seem to whine a hell lot. I whine so much I could get boned by a stag in heat. I...

See?! See what I mean?

Back to being the undeniable poser that I am. And the despondent scat I'd like to call a poem:


It's almost six in the day. Distant typing coupled with this one clattering up the prison air ducts.

Nobody wants to leave. I don't want to leave, not for love of nauseating sights and smells but

Feet's too tired to lift and trundle down the subway with a weight of a confused soul who

Fantasizes of free falling tall storeys, cracking her spine while the train passes her by and

Dropping dead in an inane twist of fate,

Fatalism man-made,

So she could say her life was her choice and death wasn't a matter of

God.

...I give up.

Double Trouble

I am supposed to be working. But cum weekends, I just fall flat. I just can't get to work. Other than raving about god-knows-what, reading, blogging, going out waving light sticks and gyrating on the dance pole in body packed clubs and basically not having a life, I spent the weekend watching these on cable:

The Family Stone (typical dysfunctional family cum christmas romance. blah)

Jarhead (jihad is the way of all Arab people. typical anti-war thrown in with the psychological garb you'd expect from a war movie. doubt it'll be as great as full metal jacket. excellent soundtrack. and lovingly captured shots of jake gyllenhaal)

that's Peter Saarsgard in the background. remember that lovable music geek in High Fidelity? no?

nvm..

A lot like Love (they butchered the Aqualung song in this one. and when you slaughter Aqualung, you destroy the climax of the film. ultimately you slaughter the film. well you get what I mean. go get the dvd.)

Batman Begins (best Batman film. e.v.a)

Collateral (it's alright. my fourth jamie foxx film for this year)

12 Monkeys (missed the first 45 mins of it and dropped out of the show after 30 mins)

Monster in Law (blah. typical blah. can die blah. I can lip sync the script, because I am well versed in Mills and Boon thrash. Get what I mean?)

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (third time. once you start you can't stop. both the book and the film. i heart douglas adams.)

and:

how can anyone not heart this? chocolates are sooo in vogue. i'll stop. i shall stop. stop!

I, Robot

Opening up Microsoft Word is a chore. Thinking is a chore.

Just want to add a quick note regarding my outing last Friday:I went for my first public political dissent over at the Sheraton hotel.

We don’t need no introduction to the minister pay hike. The conference seeks to address that with Singapore Democratic Party’s Chee Soon Juan leading the pack alongside Alliance of Liberals and Democrats for Europe (ALDE), which included members of the European parliament and the Council of Asian Liberal and Democrats (CALD) which included a Cambodian and a Congresswoman from the Philippines.

Stallion and me entered the hallway, looked at the poster sign and nope, no mention of “Democracy in Asia and Europe”. Nada. Just some computing sounding acronyms. The hotel staff had a blank look when I mentioned “democracy talk”.

Opal Ballroom? Yes mam, second floor. Up we trudged, turned right and there was a gaudy poster with CSJ at the forefront. The power of courage, or something like that. You would think it’ll be a motivational talk, or a pastor talk but that’s beside the point.

I wasn’t supposed to be surprised, but I was. The “entertainment license” applied by the SDP more than two weeks before for the European speakers were denied. They were not allowed to speak. So speak they did not and when one of the members of the floor questioned their views on the PAP’s decision disallowing them to speak, their answer sums it aptly:

“Our silence says all that we need to say.”

Apparently foreigners are not allowed to interfere in local politics. Singaporean politics are for Singaporeans only. Although of course, they failed to put bankruptcy and interference in a single sentence.

I was stunned the entire way, although I shouldn’t be. There were opinions expressed, some drawing chuckles from the full house crowd. The delegation of speakers kept to their vow when questions were hurled their way. Disgust was evident and at the end, everyone simultaneously struck a thumbs up sign before heading off.

Well, my silence and disbelief is all that I have to say. I could go on and on and on. But I'm tired of ranting. I'm too tired to even be witty. All I can add is thank you for coming down.

***

Jeez. Maybe I should be quit all this trying to make it on my own and be a government dog teacher after all.

Thrash Flavored Thrash

http://www.jerkcity.com/jerkcity516.html

I am *supposed* to write on something insanely positive on this post, but judging from the cranky weather, back stabbing individuals, bad cramps and a belligerent mood to go along with it…

I guess I could still be positive if I want to.

I took a hike along with Butty boy and his colleagues to J.B last Saturday. Woke up, remembered him mentioning J.B and mum came up to me, said her medication is running out and none of the shops there carry the product save a few. I decided to be a good daughter and took a trip down JB to find the medication. Glivec has been good for Mum; the last check up revealed no exponential growth in the deformed blood cells, but one of the (many) side effects have left her with a rather sensitive skin. Pull up her skirt and you can see blue black marks on her delicate thighs. Breaks my heart every time seeing them.

The mixture of traditional and western medication recommended by the doctor is helping to combat the bruises on her skin and well, make 'em look brand new.

Walked around the malls there, got myself a cheap lovely haircut (I have bangs now and apparently look positively younger. Hyuks!) and kept bugging shop owners for any interest to bring in the medicine. Got a number to call, left feeling slightly relieved and we proceeded to have a meal at the treetop restaurant there but not before getting pulled over by the local police, who obviously were looking for more trouble (and bribery money) with Singaporean owners and their cars. Apparently we were not supposed to turn right at the intersection.

Butty Boy: I’m sorry sir, I didn’t know.

Police Officer: You should’ve looked at the sign.

Butty Boy: There was no sign (Or even if that is, maybe your government should take steps into refreshing your many fading/dilapidating signs on the boards instead of using them to buy your way into your many future wives)

So on and on they went. And Butty Boy who was nervous couldn’t get the hint about them wanting to fine him. He went along with it and innocently asked for the address so he could pay the fine proper. In the end, exasperated that they couldn’t bribe our not so innocent Butty Boy, they warned him not to do it again. It was probably not worth it, we look too young and poor. Boohoo.

I guess you hear this countless times. Coffee money, corruption and the likes of it. I’m not even going to waste my time lamenting about the state of our neighbor because even my country is guilty of it – albeit in a pretty slick manner and sliming with political correct-ness.

I can go on. But I wouldn’t want to get myself into trouble. I have a mum to look after and isn’t filial piety one of the foremost Asian virtues propogated espoused by our founding father? I mean, we could use your increased pension money for the elderly in our community, but no, that means we’ll be just like the West who disregard their parents and have no proper Asian manners so I say screw welfare for the elderly, because hey we have filial piety! Just holler the term to our press, write a chapter about it and we have extra millions rolling in the banks for us.

Sigh. Can I holler NEPOTISM and get my money back please?

Disclaimer: This is not targeted towards any particular groups in general. The author had one too many scoops of sambal belachan, went into an epileptic fit and was met with a dystopian vision of a system which sucks ass. Really. The system I mean.

Nine Crimes

I feel bad for staying home and just staring at the ceiling shuffling in between Miles Davis and The Wallflowers. I needed that break after a whole week of four to five hour sleep before heading back to the mundane thing we are all stuck with – work and that after work, work out and yes, start up work.

Sometimes, in between all that engagements, I asked myself if I am doing all these just to prove my worth to people around me. That I am not your idle, in state of repressed limbo and as always, confused Minah.

Uhuh. A weekend of doing nothing. How responsible.

I am juggling between Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Emptiness, The Devils Finds Work and struggling to finish another Kundera. It pains me to continue that man because every line punched and filed yet another linear thought, and I’ll be “oh look, I’m on the MRT and I’ve got something so emotionally profound to canvass but whipping out the brush requires extreme effort when your mind is on an intellectual turbulence and nothing, should stop that train of thought, NO SU! You can write about it later, this is the moment!”

*snorts*

It was a very interesting thought. Maybe pseudo intellectual kind of way because hey, I’m your no.1 poser. Only by the time I get back, I lose all enthusiasm to (let's use a cheem term) immortalize them here. I can’t even remember now, but it was an interesting thought.

I feel like an utter failure right now because nothing is confirmed at the moment, I have no ideas how to fuel my publication, I haven’t finished any of the ten new books I have right now and my daytime job isn’t entirely satisfying although it pays the bills.

Oh god, what a load of insecurity and ultimate whinging. And there’s more:

I met CT last Monday. It must have been a pre red letter day. Shoved my way out of the train, hopped on the escalator and was affronted by pretty shoes, lovely lingeries, dresses and of course their vulture consumers in the middle of Plaza Singapura.

You know what, screw the likes of No Logo, anti-capitalists and what-nots. I wanted something pretty for myself and for once, I wished I could step into those stores and have a pick without worrying if I could be broke later on in the month. And I got into that pathetic phase where we feel all so sorry ourselves and start cursing the lucky ones who shop their lives away without a hoot or care in the world. Then I justified my vagabond and unbearably envious state of my mind by rationalizing on the savings I’ve diligently kept to fund my trip to UK in June and decided that it was a worthwhile sacrifice after all.

And then, moral reflexes kicked in. The whole humility moment ingrained ever since I learnt how to fast when I was a kid – every time you feel hungry or thirsty, understand and empathise the kids and the people of Africa who have nothing to keep them going at the end of the day.

Fasting is one of the best lessons ever disciplined by my parents and my religion. It humbles you.

So I digress.

As I was saying, moral reflexes kicked in. I thought of Mum immediately and felt so incredibly disgusted with my indulgent act of narcissism and selfishness. There I was feeling all poor, pathetic and worrying about not having enough fashionable clothes and looking forward to three crazy weeks in Glastonbury, Amsterdam, Swtizerland, Liverpool, London, Belfast – you get the idea – drinking, smoking and living a life of hedonism.

And there was Mum. Mum who worries about using up everyone’s money to pay for her medication, house bills, daily expenses etc. She came to my room the night before, fresh from her trip to Malacca and eager to share. It was late, I was tired and I know we were going end up discussing religion and I’ll just get mad at her. But she sat on my bed with her dentures removed, slitty eyes marred with age and her skin so translucent and devoid of any healthy pink patches and looked up at me.

It struck me then and at that moment floating aimlessly inside the shopping shaft; damn, mum is old. Mum looked very old.

So there she was on my bed and she looked so happy recounting her short weekend trip to Malacca. Other than the holy land, Malaysia has always been her vacation. No other room in the bank to get herself to any exotic destination.

And there I was with my 2007 goals to see the world, open my eyes and along with it, all other sophisticated travelers mantra imbued in my resolution.

She was happy being able to use the swimming pool, trying out the roller coaster rides, and shopping for cheap goods in the markets. My parents spent their lifetime struggling to make ends meet – bills, our school fees, transport - just so we’ll grow up with an education because uneducated as they are, they know that whatever-certificate we have is the ticket to a good life if you make the most out of it. There I was, paying off overblown bills and giving her the bare minimum just so I could save a significant amount into what? The traveling-soul-searching experience. That soul searching began not in some quaint cobbled streets in the middle of nowhere or elysian green fields amidst blue skies, but in that “Utopian arcade” we call Plaza Singapura.

Those barrage of unwanted thoughts had me doing that “blinking back tears” moment, bumping into chaotic happy people, rushing into the third storey ladies, banging the toilet seat shut and sitting there staring at the clinical white washed door. And what started out as a few teary drops launched into a torrent of self pity, helplessness, envy, confusion and I don’t know what else. Incoherent, horrible thoughts. I stopped only to launch into another sobbing fit for what seemed like half an hour.

And then CT called and we met.

I shall attempt a happy entry after this.

you scare me

Motorcycle Emptiness

For Real

This is sad. I have been spending the past few weeks exhausting myself silly. If there wasn’t these pitches I’ve been working on, it was mind numbing sessions at the gym. And when I felt I needed to take a break from the mental and physical workload, I take it out on a couple of pints with different companies of friends every week.

Went to catch The Lives of Others with a group of people I hardly knew. It was Stallion’s invitation I accepted. And there was his friend, JQ who invited her, and I quote “international posse”. The night became a networking session – us sitting at Sakae Sushi exchanging information, gossip and jokes. Which was grand, considering how anti social and clampy I can get when getting to know new folks. They were warm, friendly and this may seem the most trivial factor of all – they laughed at Stallion’s jokes. Stallion has always complained about how very few people could understand his jokes and I don’t understand either, because I am a huge fan of his deadpan self depreciating humor. The Stallion actually took time off to draw an itinerary and a post mortem email for everyone, which was hilarious considering, well it was just a movie outing.

Mr Cali and I have been emailing each other frequently and frankly speaking, all the initial euphoria is wearing off. Let’s face it: he doesn’t read, he knows nuts about music. Not that it is any regimental qualification for me, but there isn’t much we had in common except for his motivational quotes and sweet lovin’. Fine, I ensured he’s no Republican, but he ain’t no self professed fan of Noam Chomsky, Kundera, Camus and all other literary nobles lauded by intellectuals and pseudo intellectuals alike.

Ok. He has never heard of them. I did my homework on my first date.

Let’s take this back for those who are lost.

Mr Cali and I met at a pub on Mrs Darcy’s birthday. After clearing that initial misunderstanding, (he thought Mrs Darcy was into him and vice versa) we hooked up because well, I was in a roving mood and chocolates are in vogue. Sessions of fine dinners, drinks, shoe shopping and a nice romantic night at the Mandarin ensued.

He was a surprisingly gentle lover, perceptive and well, he had fine taste in (high) fashion. Here was a man who was willing to pamper me, knows I deserve the best and is all out to give me the best.

And it fits our lifestyle perfectly – I am always busy and he has to travel all the time for work and spends between four and six months in Singapore. But when we meet up, I’m all his, and (yes I'm flouting the grammar commandment by repeating this within two paragraphs) vice versa.

It was the perfect arrangement. It may not be the most normal of relationships and frankly speaking, what with the bourgeoning workload and after the fiasco(s) I’ve endured (ah, my poor desecrated heart!) the past few years, a normal relationship is the least on my mind. It gives me time to miss him and have a contractual relationship lasting between two weeks and a month at a time.

I get bored easily.

But of course, as the saying goes – out of sight, out of mind. I am Jack’s smirking revenge, Jill’s nipples and your nubile nymph out on a brainless fun, with no moral notions on fidelity and the likes. Hell, Mr Cali probably has a wife in every visiting port.

But you know, I know, we all know, I’ll never end up marrying him, having kids and living the high life in his Porsche, adorning expensive watches, decked out in Ferragamo, Gucci and Prada. I’m just not like that. As much as I love being all that, it’s just not how I was brought up. The things you own end up owning you.

That was a line from a movie. I’d love to give you the title but the first rule is, you do not talk about it. Go figure.

So.

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This is when MAP comes in.

Under neon loneliness, motorcycle emptiness.

What a lame ending.

Guuuud Vibrations

Tomorrow never knows

This is the first song for 2007 to make my heart palpitate so bad. Les Claypool, you just rock. And Victor Wooten. And all funk bassists in the world.

If there are purists reading this post and are probably scoffing at the redundancy between funk and bassist, think thrashy american school rock. The bass is meant for walking, not make people walk away.

Good Vibrations was madness. Not the musicians, on stage- but the crowd the Stallion and I bumped into when we mashed our way to the front. See one familiar face, and you get yourself a family. We were there early to collect the media passes, and spent the early part of the festival downing our Heineken quietly by the steps, fazed by the cacophony of colors that greeted us. Heavy rain, muddy ground, humidity + thick make up, heels, and stylized hair. Oh god, how do they do it? Already I felt stifled, wishing I had worn my berms, oversized tshirt and sandals.

There I was in an old ratty t-shirt, folded denim pants watching the fashion sycophants swell into a discordant visual all over the muddy field.

Thend. Don’t get me started on the UWC kids. Hey, I love the international flags represented on the field-the more, the diverse the merrier correct? But oh ma gawd.. I don’t speak for the whole international college population in Singapore of course, but we do have these kids with loaded parents, parents paying our local acts thousands of dollars to come perform for one of their children’s bashes in their pristine, paid-for properties spewing their mouth off with vulgarities and showing no manners whatsoever shoving and pushing others about in their frat-like group.

Crazed fan. What will the world be without fools?

Manners are manners, no matter where you go.

Brats. There’s nothing more I hate than rich spoilt brats.

Nothing much happened until Beastie Boys came along. I was pretty annoyed with 1) the repertoire and 2) the arrangement. You have good bands that got the crowd going early on in the day, Bushmen (with the reinstated Said on stage), Wicked Aura and then proceed to play spine numbing bands towards the later part of the show. Electrico was great, but they aren’t crowd pleasers. And so were the foreign imports: Cicada from the UK. The lead singer came out looking like your very worst idea of a getai* singer and the band then proceeded to play their uninspiring beats, which could very well have been synthesized and timed minus one. And then you are visually assaulted by the getai­-thing on stage prancing around with her cute blonde hair thinking she’s part of The Cardigans everytime she cocks her head to the side and does that beatific smile on stage.

*Getai singer: The female, for lack of a better term, “vocalist” you see around your neighborhood during the Chinese Hungry Ghost Festival. They are normally decked out to represent the following words: tacky, garish, loud, obnoxious etc.

I know it’s harsh. I just don’t dig eurothrash pop.

So we waited, and waited and waited. There was Jurassic Five lacing the track, locking the flow and all that jazz. It was good, but too monotonous for my liking. I can't say much because I don't and have never dig them but they had energy, and they heightened the mood for the next act.

Well that didn't work too well, because the crowd was kept waiting for half an hour. 2Phat was passed on, for reasons unknown (actually, I heard the prior bands overran their stipulated time and the license was until 1 a.m so 2Phat had to be given a miss for all that overrunning. Which pissed 400 of their fans who came from all parts of S.E Asia to see them perform. Note: They've not been performing for quite some time now and they're a noteworthy hip hop act worth seeing. Heck, I was pretty annoyed myself)

The Beastie Boys came onstage immaculate in their business suits and briefcases and launched into their old numbers from Ill communication. The rest, as the other reviews will say is a non-stop political anthem stretching generation(s). Baldie Brit was right when he expressed his disappointment with the Beastie Boys's political correct-ness. You would have thought they'd had a thing or two to say about the government here.

Daym.

Although I highly doubt many people understood the political significance behind their lyrics. Not being elitist. But the MTV generation is utterly devoid of any intellectual depth, swallowing marketing debris and other bullcrap coming their way. I was guilty of it. I listened to Beastie Boys ten years ago, thinking it was cool and nothing else came out of it until my dear brother grabbed my album, smacked my hands and asked, “do you even understand what you’re listening?”

He smirked and walked off.

Yes, despite differing mindsets which is spiraling inevitably into separate chasms, my brother taught me to question. Not surprising, considering he falls under the intelligent mat rawk category. But while both of us are ethnocentric malays, he abhors what we call the Western values, whereas I attempt to blend both belief systems in the sake of erhem self-betterment

Confucian me? Hell yes. As much as I love my bratwurst and aglio olio, I can’t do without my Nasi Ayam and Mee Soto. A very (effective) and fun belief system. For example, your dating options are unlimited and table conversations are spread out for more cultural exchange. Even if you know you’ll never end up marrying your date and have his kids on your first date, (yes, I'm a dramaqueen lah!) there’s always a good lesson stored up there, somewhere.

So I say: Open up, spread around and be merry.

:)