Minah gone to heaven

Please do not let me go

2009-01-01T07:17:00.000-08:00

Gee, how original. Sunset shot for 2008's reflection.

Hey,

Sweetie. I didn't forget you. Remember I told you I think of you for the most banal everyday things? It's the same still. Like Tin Tin in this French restaurant I went to. Ephesus and Asterix. Team America. Coffee of the Day. The Economist. :) You are in my life, no matter how short our romance was or attached I am. So like it or not, swee'heart. Suck it.

Remember my journal entries that I told you about? I went through that. It's too long winded. And emotional bordering on hysterics. I'm not gonna let you go through aaaaal that torture. You know some of it. I'll expand some of it later. But here's the brief:

If somebody were to ask me what’s THE moment in 2008, I have no answer to that.

The only word that sums up my first part of the year was hedonism. And as the rule of economics points out, what goes up must eventually come down. I am not bitter over any of it – the sub prime mortgage crisis, the cancellation of advertising plans, the heartbreak. In fact it was a welcome because I was wondering when any of this fun will come to an end. When I need to review my actions and wonder what a brat I’ve become. Champagne brunches have been relegated to home-made stuff. Concerts are carefully reviewed and selected. Family needs before self interest. That kind of thing. So keeping in tradition my control organized freak style, I’ve bulleted this entry.

Money

I learnt my lesson well. Save more. No more short holidays here and there. I guess it's easy to forget yourself when you start earning more than you've ever earned. Like I'm supposed to save for my education.

Entertainment

Broken social scene was a winner. I’ve not heard much about them but owing to no (1) above, it was another one of my impulse splurge on the ticket. I’ve blogged about it. Lover’s spit was a tear jerker.

Of course Bjork and Bachelorette in Perth. “The sky is so prrrety,” she said. It was a beautiful sunset. Russet and purple streaks across the blue sky. Her marching band, her outlandish costume and her heartbreaking vocals.

Nightlife

Birthday club hop with Q and D. Three geeks out on a geek night. We were channeling MJ on the retro dance floor. You should have seen us.

Suprise

Super belated 2007 Xmas gift from Gilbert. Almost Famous DVD which took ages to come from Amazon. I appreciated the trouble he took to get this, when they don’t sell any copies here. And the fact that he knew that I will love it. So thank you my Mr G. :)

Literature

Lolita. 100 years of Solitude. Rumi’s poetry. I was on my way to his tomb in Konya when I first heard it. The valleys, the sky – everything about the setting was perfect. It was a perfect homage to his words. There was so much love and tolerance. I was humbled.

Music

Portishead and Radiohead’s latest album. The head heads.

Love/Dating

Most were forgettable. I’ve amassed national flags but it was meaningless. The memorable one being B. We had an hour long kiss at Wine Company. Nobody around. The staff left tea lights around us. It was quiet. He carried me around the square and sat me gently on the table before kissing me again. There was the night picnic he cooked dishes from his homeland and picked me up from work. My lips were swollen from all the kissing. He was full of surprises, incredibly funny and treated me well the time we were together. I laughed, and I cried because I know there’ll come a day when I’ll say, it was good while it lasted. And I was right.

Friendship

I am blessed with like minded individuals. What more can I ask for?

Regret(s)

Not being able to catch Radiohead. Not sending my parents off on a holiday but going on 6 holidays in a year. I am such a selfish girl..

Not being able to extend my flight when I was in Istanbul therefore missing an extra week of its beauty. Missing snow by 6 hours in Istanbul.

Yes Miss Tropical Sunshine has never experienced snow and I was so excited about it. :(

Holiday

Koh Phangan with Jo. Our Harold and Kumar rendition. Watching the full moon casting its reflection on the black sea from our verandah. My holiday romance. You have to understand that I was empty from all the dating and courtship. He was different. But it’ll never work and we know that. I was reduced to tears all the way from the pick up, to the ferry, airplane. So much so I had to take urgent leave the next day to continue crying my heart out. A bit silly now when I think about it. Heh. .

Turkey

There are some places that calls out to you without having been there. So much beauty, history, sorrow and passion. It was unbelievable. You've been there, I'm not sure if you feel the same. Maybe its the azan. But we'll go through that later.

Coming from a clinical white (pardon the pun) washed background, with complete disregard and shame to our forefather’s roots, I was losing more respect than I could for my birth country. I was ashamed when Singaporeans cited the reasons for visiting:

“It’s cheaper than Europe.”

“It’s more value for money.”

We are talking about the country who has seen the rise and fall of distinct civilizations – the Hellenites, the Byzantines and the Ottomans who, at the height of its power spanned three continents. I can rant on and on about their military might, architecture, tolerance. (yes, etc etc).

I was at Domalbahce palace and saw a 150 year old piano with no significance comparatively whatsoever to its surrounding. Can’t help but remark, gee this dusty piano at the corner of the room is older than my country. Well, we were not taught to be from Temasek in schools now. Everything begins from good old Stamford Raffles. But we know better. We were older than that. You know, its OK to have a humble, maybe less glamorized past. You can teach history, but you can’t force pride down our throats. I mean, look at Malaysia. Look at Thailand. Look at how divided and united they can be. Where is the passion? Everything here is soulless. Sex, Art appreciation, politics - where is it?

And I've ranted unconsciously again. I rest my case, but those who know me will know how fucking pissed off I can get with these sort of statements. How can you say its value for money? I feel so ashamed of my countrymen.

Anyway.

I fell in love with this country and I’m glad I chose this destination instead. I’ve learnt so much here than the rest of the year totaled. And I was glad the best friend was there with me. For understanding when I cried for no reason whatsoever during our trip, and for sharing the tears and laughter with me. Melodramatic as this may sound, I ushered in 2009 without my heart. I left it behind.

There's more to go on but I'll spare you the agony. For now. :P

So what is your 2008's story? I want to hear all about it.

xxxxxxxxx

Don't Panic

2008-10-09T01:10:00.000-07:00

I was going through the daillies with the boss earlier and we are getting quite annoyed with the way the media is portraying the economic gloom. Especially the local papers.

The way we see it is simple. If you keep posting depressing pictures of traders in despair and declining spending forecast for 2009, you are just asking for it. Readers will get nervous and they will not spend. And that is the last thing we need. A stagnated economy. It's a vicious cycle. Basic economics - demand & supply.

If the media is to be a watchdog/cheerleader (whichever rocks your boat), for the govt and the people, then we should encourage one another to pull ourselves out of this gloom. I know its easy saying, but we need something to jumpstart the morale first and the media is the way to go.

Now please Santa. All I want for Christmas is a big fat advertising budget for 2009.

All I need

2008-10-05T06:03:00.000-07:00

I am in love. It was pure, simple and unadulterated. It was love at first sight. There's something about grace, style, character and a touch of vintage that appeals to me every single time. Even though I have a tendency to fall in love every 5 minutes, nailing the one at first glance comes rare and so when Yas recommended that I should go check him out, I did. And I trust Yas, because the dude is more experienced than I can ever wish for and he has good taste.

I present you, my current obsession:

Isn't it gorgeous? I had no idea Leica released a digital series, and the only camera that holds their lens would be the Panasonic. Simple yet classy. Sinfully Leica. I just can't get enough of the feel of this one.

And then of course there were initial mpulsive moments to purchase the following:

Canon being the first option had the Leica not come into the picture. I've been maintaining the Olympus SLR and seriously, the amount of money I've wasted could have been used to get a decent digicam and a dlsr respectively. Stubborn bastard. He's at Adelphi now and I swear that's the last investment. Although I have to admit, Oli is gorgeous with a touch of old school that is so lacking in cameras now.

So yeah. I'm never one to spend on electronics but since I've been travelling quite a bit it'd be great to invest in a good camera. I know I'll be paying twice as much for the red logo, but erm... I'm a woman if that means anything. Aesthetics gotta come first. It is the rolls royce of cameras after all and this girl deserves the best. :)

Now with all the Hari Raya angpows, brother's wedding, trips, birthdays, new wadrobe, christmas shopping I can safely say I am getting broke. I better close some more new deals pretty soon. It was a blessing Radiohead was sold out. Maybe not. I could have been in Tokyo watching them. Today. Arrgh, yucks! How my heart bleeds! Now if only I could. 2008 would have been complete.

Ah well.

Flight of the Conchords

2008-09-02T05:28:00.000-07:00

You know, I could never reach the kind of fame the Indianstallion has come to achieve. After years of blogging, he has finally arrived.

Anyway, it was nice when Text100/HBO invited the stallion to the preview of Flight of the Conchords. I was the plus one, and yes the invite wasn’t for the fact that I am a music lover like him. He was rubbing it in. This is the kind of life I could have had if I had not been rejecting his advances for the past six years. Getting invites. (As if my job isn’t full of that.)

What was great about this whole outing was the warm soiree. From the tour of the HBO offices, to the food which was specially catered from a NZ restaurant, to a special round of introductions on the staff and PR people who made everyone feel right at home. Oh yes, they have free flow of coke in the fridge. You can’t go wrong with the Minah on that.

So. Err, yeah I was talking about the TV Series which will be aired by HBO on Sept 3rd. To put it in gist, two Kiwi musicians (Bret and Jermaine on guitars and vocals) trying to survive and make it big in New York. A bit cliché, a bit heard off. What made it refreshing was it the filming style adopted – it’s so inexpensively and simply done. None of the fancy schmancy production shtick that lends a well produced air to it. It gels well with the duo – who are struggling, broke and poor.

Of course, the main thing about Flight of the Conchords is the music. Like the stallion, I thought this was going to be another Tenacious D, but Flight of the Conchords not only spoofed a particular genre, they simply paid homage to music and that is the beauty of it. From Marvin Gaye, to Pet Shop boys and Bowie, every particular episode will get music fans scrambling to catch the pop culture references. Oh and the fact that everyone just takes the piss out of them being Kiwis. From the Aussie-NZ rivalry to the accents. But I can’t say much cos I’ve only seen three episodes.

And.

I am not writing this because HBO has bribed me with the bottles of wonderful NZ wine, or the free CD enclosed in the media pack (thanks guys!) but because I genuinely love the show. I generally don’t watch TV; I know only few off hand that I really appreciate. So far we’ve got Weeds, Southpark and SATC. Come on, every chick digs that shit. Rarely have I seen an episode that made me tear from so much laughing. (yes, episode 3 is waaay better than 2). So if you ask me to describe the show in short, I have two words and that is bo-liao. (or is that one word?!)

Yes, if you are bo-liao, you love bo-liao people and you make the most bo-liaoness of jokes, this is one show you have to catch.

I'm a fan!

EDIT: THIS IS WAY FUNNIER!

Gabriel

2008-08-27T20:51:00.000-07:00

On the first night in Bintan, the princess and I decided to bring in that bottle of whiskey and box of ciggarettes into our room. The nightcap turned out to be a full blown drinking and smoking session which ended only at 5 when we realised the bottle was nearly gone. (Spent the whole of next mornig playing with our breakfast and sipping our coffee before crashing by the poolside at another resort nearby)

We dragged the iPod and her speakers in, and alternated between a quietness so somber to deranged hysterics when we heard the likes of Rick Astley, Bananarama and whats his name who sang Smoke Gets In Your Eyes. Talk about losing the plot.

It was in between those magical hours that her iPod shuffled this song, and I think it was the mood and feel of the occassion that I finally appreciated the beauty of it.

You should listen to it at night. You should smoke up. You should have a glass of Mccallan on the rocks. You should get real high before you can fly to this one.

This is my new entry into my late night incendiary music. Lamb meets Live, Buckley, Portishead, Bjork and many more.

Enjoy. :)

Love Reign O'er Me

2008-08-26T09:13:00.000-07:00

Heaven, big up da manna.

Now bring me back down slowly.

:)

High and dry

2008-08-23T03:33:00.000-07:00

I am on a...err work retreat. We spent days arguing and deciding between the Banyan Tree or this one, and since I'm not a particular fan of nice romantic couply places we decided to head somewhere else.

There's not much difference between Indra Maya or Banyan Tree. Just that the former looks more like a high class chalet with the ticky tacky paintjob and silly paintings of fishes. We've got a private pool, outdoor jacuzzi, hall big enough to engage in a badminton game & frisbee with the boss and a kitchen where we cooked and dined the lovely night away.

But I have other designs. Getting banged on the kitchen counter top, missionary on the living room couch, spread eagled on the dining table, porn star living on the sun deck by the pool, innocently facing the seafront while getting boned from the back. Doggy on the outdoor jacuzzi and skinny dipping in the pool.

And of course pristine clean bedsheets to stain. I'm not a morning person, but if I could wake up to getting spooned every morning while facing the south china sea hey I am not complaining.

All I can ever ever think about is sex sex sex. I wish they can come up with a diet pill equivalent to curb my sexual appetite. Or wait, is there such a thing already?

I am too horny to do pretty much anything else here. Maybe I should go back to my book, but Jane Austen is wrong literature. Just wrong.

Pitter Patter Goes My Heart

2008-08-20T08:19:00.001-07:00

One full cycle later. You rang.

Climbing up the walls

2008-06-29T09:57:00.000-07:00

I have a million things going on in my head and it feels like bubbling over with froth and mee rebus sauce and I told this to Captain Crunch who told me to put this in writing. Just drivel-ling pages and pages of nothing, minus the speed, cough syrup, weed and obviously the beat-"intelligence".

But I can never get there. Because I do not have the free time to drivel 25 pages before coming up with something remotely benign and porous with loaded semi-groundbreaking hypothesis. I have a job. I have no time for pot. I am the accursed working class. The only things I read are visually assaulting ads from the MRT, to cabs to newspapers. I have limited myself to chick lit because they’re your modern Jane Austen except there IS sex, and the sex is mindblowingly good from what I read and I don’t have to envision disgusting toilets and the torture it must havae taken to rip off Benett’s corsage once the character has gone off stage. But I don’t read it only because its modern Jane Austen. I read it because there’re your quirky off central low brow individuals who exists, and I would like to think of me as just one of them. Opportunists in our own seedy world, chancing a Mr Darcy in every crook and nanny of Boat Quay, Pasir Ris HDB while denouncing courtship and wordly romance in our eloquent hiccuping fashion above the din of raucous bars, clubs and bus stops to girlfriends who have no idea what they’re agreeing to in the first place. And I only write when I feel the need to be cloyingly nauseatingly emo and sad, which is good because it has been two months since I feel any urge to dispense my guttural whinge.

I'm going to stick to bullet points after two paragraphs. I lost my way.

I do not understand why women can’t clean up after themselves in the ladies. You would think only men would have a problem with aiming, and they shouldn’t have reason in the first place Don’t even talk about the pubic hair lying on the seats. Why why why?!

The irony of installing graffiti walls for our artistes to bomb in some unknown corner of town. And you would expect these talented pool to know better than to subject themselves to obeisance and ridicule

I’m falling even more and more in love with my currently empty room. I had Thom Yorke bouncing off the walls

Weird dreams

I cried while on my train ride home. No idea why

My ever increasing dislike for sms

Wearing braces, although I’d still like to maintain my fangs. Rrrr

World of warcraft

Why bullshit gets published. (my blog not included)

People who can never be contented with what they have. They bother me, and I avoid them like the plague

Cebu was ok. Company was great

Can’t wait to spoof the raving eurothrash in Phangan next month

Finding a snap-whore buddy to take pictures with during weekends

I want a holga, fisheye and action sampler lomo for myself

I lost a bit of money this month. Actually it’s quite a bit

But I’ll make it up

Brother’s building me a bigger shoe closet. I had no idea I have that much, until I laid it all down........He’s building me a bigger bookshelf, because the books have taken to hanging out in the toilet, the sofa, dining table, kitchen. And a walk in style closet because I have more hats, bags, dresses, accessories, tops… Who needs a Mr Big when you have a brother, seriously

I should really remove that Sex Pistols, Rage and Sepultura poster behind my door. Really, it’s about time...

My current fascination with Jewish men. Thou shall not fraternise with thy enemy.

Microsoft word has destroyed my spelling skills. I used to write in diaries, and I get frustrated because I have to keep ~~cancelling~~ canceling words. See?

My friends are amazing company with a wacky brain to set me off

I ought to change my guitar strings. And not chip my nails. First, to quit strumming lazily and to quit pretending that a decent chord is actually coming out of it…

I want a Gibson Goddess. Maybe I’ll be a better player...........

I wish people would call. Especially for birthdays, anniversaries, well wishes, condolences etc. So much emphasis has been placed on emails, facebook msgs and sms that we are disassociated with our surroundings. It’s sad

I have started to shove my way out of a crowded train to brace another bout of shoving for the impatient incoming passengers. Gahmen, forget the courtesy campaign. It has to come from within. Something a little parenting technique could do....

I think they should bring back the cane in schools

I insist that capital punishment be abolished. Well, except for paedophiles and rapists

All that list in the previous post about tennis, half marathon et al? It’s been scrapped

I’m excited about that hen trip with the best friend end year

J got into Warwick, and our grades are similar so hmmmm...NYU?

I have been keeping my weekends free

I know this is bad, but I enjoy working late in the office

Maybe a Jew will save my life. And I don’t mean the dude we call Christ

I can’t bring myself to “work things out” with K. It’s always too late

I managed to finish a bottle of wine all to myself. Which is a feat considering what a cheap drunk I am. But that was a cheap bottle of wine anyway, so...

Everyone’s telling me I need to get laid. I don’t need to get laid. But I’ve lost my libido and that is actually very worrying..

The best has to settle for only the best eh? Besides, I am in no hurry.

And I’m perfectly fine being with my cat every weekend, reading Jane Austen, counting my calories and ciggy sticks…

Don’t live yourself vicariously through me. Go out and get it lah

I think the ending to Lolita is one of the best love notes ever written. It’s so eloquently sincere without a thought for the other reality...i is lazy to go on. One of the best books ever read

I went to the flea market yesterday and got:

30 comics at 20cents each (conan – so vintage porn! Green lantern, X-Factor, Xmen, Iron Man, Batman, Nam)

Two tops (blue Bysi boatneck top, green Esprit blouse) at 15 bucks

A vintage green clutch at 20 bucks

Five cds – mellencamp, pearl jam, platinum 80s – WOOT!, juryman, tupac - at a dollar each

Three dresses at 28 bucks

A skull-printed black and white scarf at three bucks

A Nike hoodie zip-up jacket at eight dollars

Two(khaki brown and checked-yarn-printed) page-boy hats at 2.50 each

Vintage leather brown bow waist belt at 1.50

They’ve all been sanitized by a bottle of Dettol

Afterwards we went for the P Ramlee open door cinema the national museum. We loaded up on wine only to be greeted by the malay muslim legion. There were loads of old Chinese couples – no doubt Malay cinema reigned favorite during their time, bless the pothead actors and crew

Spent the rest of the night elegantly wasted on the deserted plain. There was good music from the pub nearby. There was also the Pixies, Ryan Adams, Damien Rice and Hendrix on my phone. We went through a lot of best-ofs and the legendary gig that brought everyone together. Din din was the ticket seller everyone was flirting with, I was the assistant stage manager who ended up drunk 30 mins into the first set, D was the beer guzzling rock star…nuff said

Before that we went for an absurdist play. I really thought they were monkeys and not microcosms of the Malay-Male-Muslim society...

I am not deep

Why do people use “basically”?

I look forward to work tomorrow

I need to purge purge purge purge purge.

Lover's Spit

2008-03-10T04:19:00.000-07:00

All these people drinking lover's spit
They sit around and clean their face with it
And they listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met

You know it's time
that we grow old and do some shit
I like it all that way

All these people drinking lover's spit
Swallowing words while giving head
They listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met

You know it's time
that we grow old and do some shit
I like it all that way

The concert hall acoustics, elongated vocals, haunting melody, well timed arrangement, and acerbic romance in the lyrics just gnawed at me. Out of the sheer beauty of it all, and also because I paid mainly to hear how this song will turn out.

I had no idea my phone made a damn good recording and failed to record it in its entirety. The climax at the end - with the saxaphone ~~and trumpet~~ winging it for all its worth - was worth every single penny. I'd watch them again and again, but only at a concert hall.

Just watching the music video, although it's never as good live, is already making me thirst for a bloody electrified snog.

No more ngiap ngiaps for me.

Wonderwall

2008-03-08T00:29:00.000-08:00

Q: I'll live my life vicariously through you...

Now, no more panic attacks.

Hello Tomorrow

2008-03-02T06:21:00.000-08:00

The new year. You didn’t hear half of it, nor do you wish to. I completed my degree, I got a great job, I’ve annoyed many people with different renditions of how much I’m loving my life, end Jan I closed a bit of sales and that *warranted* a quick trip just to you know, err, refocus, re-strategise and err, re-energise myself. February has come and gone, and I’m still in limbo not focusing, not here, I’m not sure where I’ve been. And then it’s already March, and I gave myself a good bollocking.

The first quarter is closing shop, I have 9 mths to finish up what’s to be done. No more mucking about. The minah spirit has got to stop…now!

So here goes. My belated resolutions for 2008, year of the something something animal:

1) Stop crying – done

2) Get more sales – aye aye captain!

3) Perfect my Thriller dance moves – work in progress

4) Car license. I’ve procrastinated too long already – March

5) Watch more concerts/plays/films and every other arty farty shows/events so I can be more knowledgeable and cheem and piss my friends off for being a pretentious git *

6) Finish up the current 9 books before getting a new one – getting there. 7 more to go

7) Tennis lessons – mid march/April

8) Plan more trips, but first to get more $$$ in **

9) Pick up a new language – mid year, preferably July

10) Buy more hats – doing well

11) Save and invest more. I can smell the recession – no shit Greenspan. I wouldn't know. Anyway. Mid march

12) Quit daydreaming about being in a band. I ain’t got no soul, and ‘sides being in a band is so passé now – Uhuh, but I can still flirt with the band members

13) Stop lurking around in Borders, Kino discreetly checking out cute single, well read men – can’t help it. Give me till Aug to work on this one

14) Move on to the half marathon now that 10km is like sooo over – Stan Chart in Nov. PLENTY of time lah

15) Quit smoking – by Dec ok?

16) Drink more – the bottle is looking half empty these days

17) Buy more tissue paper from the elderly and the handicapped – nods fervently

18) Date more. If I were to believe my horoscope, this year is the luckiest in terms of romance for me. Apparently I’ll meet (jeng jeng jeng), THE ONE. Which renders all past declarations of love for previous men a faux. – no shit, what a fucking waste of time

Which brings me to my next point:

19) Stop falling in love every five minutes – give me till May. I can wake up when I’m 25.

And last but not least:

20) Find a mate for me cat. Just because I’m not getting some means my cat has to go through the same fate - right on. The cats in the neighborhood are just not good enough for you. Besides, you are from a good Muslim background and I won’t have you screwing an ugly wastrel of an infidel (inserts more insults) banging you senseless on my doorstep. No? You heathen bitch!

That done. Time to make it work. Amen.

Some of you know I'm an anal lister. And I'm just putting this down, because months later I'm gonna re-read this entry. My memory has been sieving of late. Gee.
* To date I have watched and will be watching the following:

Bjork, The Police, Rage Against the Machine, Silverchair, Arcade Fire

Broken Social Scene, The Roots, The Pillowman, We Will Rock You, SIFF, more rah rah plays and possibly Incubus although although…I don’t think I’ll be able to appreciate them as I used to

** The following trips have been made and are in order:

Perth
Pulau Sibu, JOHORE
Cebu, PHILIPPINES – I’ve sowed too much phonetic confusion during my previous trip. Besides, that planned trip to Krabi is unreasonably and comparatively costly.
New York - yippie!!
Somewhere with the babi before she gets married :)

Message in a bottle

2008-02-01T18:15:00.000-08:00

So the Stallion and I were starving and we decided to take a walk down Northbridge to scour for some good food. There's also the part when he was trying to make his signature Stallion move in the hopes I'll wantonly come into his arms, so i decided that we need to take some time out from being together too much. It's only the first night after all.

Anyway. Guess what greeted our ears when we stepped out of the hostel?

Roxanne.

The streets were so quiet I can hear them live from the stadium nearby. Yes baby. Sting's in town and we are gonna catch him tonight. I hope he's still the same sexy ol bastard. (not that I've known him a long long time..but yeah) Can't wait!

Big Day Out tomorrow! Not before getting thrown into the pool by the bunch of Kiwis who'll be hosting us for the weekend.

This keeps getting better. :)

Fly

2008-01-20T05:50:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of Merlin. Post, one week overdue.

The day began with a typical Sunday weather befitting for those doing their champagne brunch thingy with lovely dresses, Jimmy Choos or perhaps if you are in my ~~unpretentious~~ circle, flip flops, tank tops and jeans. Then it started raining. At 1900 hours, the rain still hasn’t receded, the last ray permeating the pregnant clouds and in turn casting an unhealthy yellow sheen around. Bad enough this country is plagued by jaundice and now this.

Oh no. No more I’m a progeny of a mixed parentage and can’t seem to find my footing in what is otherwise classified under political correctness a very benevolent, harmonized society when it is, in actual fact an antithesis of that and please, racial politics died along with Martin Luther King, is still prevalent but who cares when eco-activism along with its celebrity compadres is the new vogue.

Let’s start again.

Got up at 12, read 100 pages of Satanic Verses. Oh joy. Dozed off and rolled around.

No wait.

Got up thinking about the weird dreams I’ve been having. Was bowling and ended up frustrated with every throw because the ball kept spinning into the gutter. There was the threesome with another woman, both of us clad in black lingerie. She told me to strip her so I ripped her panties off only to notice blood on her panty liner and got disgusted. The scene never got to the ménage tois, or you would have a sneak preview on first paragraph. Lots of Freudian analysis that can be deduced here, I know. But I’m a legend when it comes to odd dreams. Maybe have been wanting to have a threesome but the thought of eating pussy is still a primary revulsion. Oh yes, dreamt of headless bodies, and getting to touch Viggo Mortenson’s naked bod, and no, he’s not part of the headless troop. That has somehow got to do with Eastern Promises over the weekend. Or maybe I just need a bleeding therapist.

Had lunch, which left me nauseous. Watched Annie Hall (again) whilst doing work stuff-stuff too mundane to waste precious office hours over but still had to do it. It was an ok Sunday. Got enough time to myself, played with the cat who, until now has to deal with some sort of identity crises with five different names and is finally off her hormonal rage and yeah, where was I? Yes, the kind of normal me time Sunday.

Today is also the one week anniversary. Last week, S’s mum passed away and I got up to a similar Sunday of today’s type only to read the sms and I can just see S crying and texting it out. S’s mum is the kind of mum I’ve always wanted to be. S’s family is the kind of family I wanted my family to be made of. Pious, god fearing, jubah wearing, turban spirals, kohl lined eyes, not forgetting the nicely trimmed 3inch beard but with an open mindset to globalization, OC, premarital sex. Etcetera. S’s dad sat her down when she was 11 and went through the bloody menstruation business with her. At the age of 12, he was openly discussing sex. Imagine a bin laden doing that. No? Ok, let’s move on.

S’s ma was also the one to gently rebuke my mum who was openly criticizing me to everyone who’d listen (and that, is one long list) for taking off the hijab. “It’s not time yet for her. Let her have her fun sister,” she’d say while gently patting my mum on her back. She was the first to visit and console my mum, and you can imagine my rage when mum refused to visit her in hospital because the chemo she had to go through is not good for my mum and that is doctor’s orders. But that woman is dying, I said. And even on her deathbed, she asked for you and sends her regards and she was the first to visit and comfort you when you were sentenced with the same kind of disease. And then I argued with Dad who refused too, and the rage just turned to 40 minutes of awkward silence for my father, who, never used to such blatant display of emotion had to endure heart wrenching sobs from his daughter who was already mourning for her.

S’s mum died with 20 cents-sized cancer lining the perimeter of her lungs leaving behind a family who’s never smoked, is bursting with gaiety, love and filled with a sunny sunny disposition.

Last Sunday, last Sunday, last Sunday. Din din came over and I opened my drawers to reveal my hijab collection for her. We laughed a little, and went into a giggling fit possibly to repress the mounting sadness while I struggled to pin the tudong up for her, I mean after all both of us loved playing the swing outside their place and have S’s mum serving us iced milo and fried fritters after school back then. And it was always her place – our meeting point, our central perk. Her house was the first port of visit when I had my hijab on the first time round. I was clad all in black, in her tudong and she came out of the house, all pearly whites and radiant and happy. “You look so beautiful,” she said.

The house was packed, Din din turned the engine off, we got out of the car, prayer chants in the distance, my sweat plastering the black kurta to my body. Got into the house, went through the kitchen and pushed our way to the front to pay our final respect and a word for God to take this lovely, kind and gentle woman to his paradise. I can’t imagine just a couple of weeks ago she was grimacing and crying, asking for my forgiveness, before rewarding me with a look that owes its credence from all angelic metaphors. She lay on the ground beatific, smiling even. I uttered the Al Fateha and, despite having grandparents I loved with all my heart, dead before this and going to countless funerals owing to a large extended family ever since I was young, I cried for the first time at her funeral. Maybe there is a reason, but I can’t think up of why and I won’t. But I was glad the tears that came as a sudden shock to me came rolling, and it never cease when I knelt down beside her to kiss her on the forehead - all decked out in a black hijab, just for her: final prayer and final goodbye to the mum I’ve looked up to and will try to be.

I’ve had ménage tois, naked bod, religion and death all rolled up in a choppy, almost lackadaisical entry. Sort of stuff I have to ramble-before-getting-to-that-point-because-it’s tough. Real tough. And not worry about editing because that’ll be another tragedy upon itself. A sort of insult to the memory.

So let this be my first attempt at an eulogy, and leave it at that.

You have a good week now folks. I pray for sunny days.

Don't think twice, it's all right

2008-01-06T08:08:00.000-08:00

I'm walkin' down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
But goodbye's too good a word, babe
So I'll just say fare thee well
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right

I was at J’s last night – we had a rather intimate gathering, counting down till New Year’s and was it me or was everyone tense at the count of 10? Where did all the wine bottles go? My lips were prune from glass after glass of red red wine, and just once, I prayed for a hangover to tide me over the new day. The chimes woke me up to snuggly weather. The cat peered and yawned mockingly at me, and started thrashing about in heat. I had Buckley’s New Year’s Prayer ringing in my head, read a little thrash, ate some, threw up more, watched Talledega nights on HBO, laughed mirthlessly and sat in front of the laptop wanting to write something insanely smart and honorably witty to 2008’s aplomb but from the looks of things it’s going to be an overwrought juvenile scrawl.

I can go on in this watershed vein and most probably look back on this years, maybe months later and go berating myself from the lack of emotional censorship. And I do this all the time. Entries written back are packaged under the metal section:2001, or indie 2003, only to be unearthed and gagged upon, for similar reasons. Maybe the writing has improved, maybe I use bigger words, but the bad grammar is still there and once emo, always will be.

Someone once brought to my attention to one of Becket’s plays : Krapp’s Last Tape and how the protagonist (I know, I know.. It’s a bleeding monologue!) was an allegory of me.

The play began and centered around Krapp’s sixty-ninth birthday and, as customary, he would record and recapitulate events that has happened the past 12 mths. After doing so, he’d go back to previous tapes made and would woe and betide the (for lack of better word, since I’ve not read it yet) idealistic notions of youth, and the other criticisms in later years of that fallen self in all other recordings. In the end, all he had to call for memories were self flagellations and nothing else.

That struck me. I have been looking back and berating myself over foolhardy choices, (and composing cliché poems that leave a bad aftertaste) while not knowing that I’ve been canvassing a realistic caricature of myself: a fool.

So. Hence the question. Will I just back off and allow myself to just be? Will my philosophical decision on Self be polarized this 2008? Kant or Satre – intention or action?

This is where I come in after smoking a pack of cigarettes and say: fuck it. Back to where we left off: my self martyrdom and how I want the entire voyeuristic world to feel my pain. I’ve been tiring myself out every day –going out, drinking, and then back. Couldn’t sleep, so I read what chick lits I have left, get online, youtube, gawk at amateur porn stars giving nasty blowjobs and getting cum all over their pretty faces (make pretty good late night facial ads– would you take the, pun unintended again, load of that flawless skin?!) and jaunt on other people’s public domain because I was terrified of sleep. And when the lights are off, the sleep won’t come. I kept seeing that white room, with retro porn outfitting, me reading Murakami and turning to see him sleeping peacefully on those pristine white sheets. So peaceful I placed my book down, snuggled next to him and slept, hoping I’ll never wake up. It broke me, because for that infinitesimal of a second, I could bask in that perfect scene and kid myself that it was all real and not some botched attempt at make belief. And then, right back in my room on the other plane without my Sputnik, I’d curl up, gnash my teeth and force the tears so I can cry at the non sense and absurdity of it all and hope that’ll reduce me to a blubbering but tired self finally surrendering to sleep.

It’s not a good start when you just spend the first day of the year just bursting into tears at every point. It wasn’t a good start last year too. If you ask me to get right back up on my feet, I can’t. Strangely enough, miss-very-together can’t get a grip on herself. At this point, it just feels so much better to lie down and cry.

Anyway.

There’s not much else to say – there’s only so many times you can say crap, cry, tears in a single entry without it making look too whiney than it already is. To that someone who introduced me to Krapp, thank you. It’s so much cathartic writing all this down, knowing that in the next few months, I’ll reread this entry and forgive myself for being an emotional, idealistic twat.

Happy New Year. Here’s to better writing, Dylan, Satre and of course, Krapp. Your 69 years did filter sense, and it was not for naught.

Play Dead

2007-11-16T07:59:00.000-08:00

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

5pm.

They're probably at the pub.

Yeah.

Wankers.

Power Out

2007-11-07T07:22:00.000-08:00

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

2007-10-16T01:20:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-07T07:46:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-22T07:07:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-06T07:39:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-31T10:23:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-24T02:59:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-10T08:52:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-06T23:27:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-15T06:58:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-15T05:53:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-07T06:03:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-25T08:06:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-11T09:35:00.000-07:00

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.

...

This is when MAP comes in.

Under neon loneliness, motorcycle emptiness.

What a lame ending.

Guuuud Vibrations

2007-02-24T03:05:00.000-08:00

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 euro~~thrash~~ 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.

Oink

2007-02-19T11:35:00.000-08:00

Introducing Cartman's pig: Fluffy

Yes, this is indeed my year. If I were to go by the horoscope brouhaha, the year of the pig and all fellow piggies worldwide will be coupled with every sort of turmoil there ever will. I wanted to kick off this blog with a big bang the Occident way, only to stumble into an emotional cesspit of sorts.

Of sorts.

Understatement of the year.

So, sod the mind riddling travesty horoscopes have in store. I mean at the end of the day, it’s all a self fulfilling prophecy if you allow yourself to gag at the bullshit fengshui masters, astrologers and priests have regurgitated over the millennia. (whilst laughing on their way to their rolling bank, may I add.)

It’s been a long time since I blogged and while I find myself giggling at made-up anecdotes on the way to work, peeing in not-so-sterile pub toilets, and policing the atrocities people wear at Raffles Place, I am at a bloody lost on what exactly to talk about on my virgin post. I’ve switched blogs countless times now, either to avoid the vindictive pro-Islamic-fans, non-friendly blog applications and hacker(s) alike. So now, I’ve gone public. Be nice, because if you know me, I really am. :)

Back to my Oinky year. But before this blog continues to pay homage to a year of drama-mamaness, let’s recapitulate the big, eventful events in my life for the past year:

Thailand, Tioman, India

I profess. I’m not a frequent flier. I’ve hardly traveled when I was younger; my idea of the world consists of Malaysia, Malaysia and Malaysia. So I made it a point come 2006, I have to take small baby steps, while stringing my budget and see what’s the big fuss all about out there. Conclusion: I still don’t see the fuss. Maybe I’ll eventually understand what the hell these life-turning enlightening trips are all about.

Birthday

Celebrated my birthday in 2006 for a whole week. I had three birthday cakes, two hide and seek surprise dinners, loadsa gifts and enjoyable dinner/drinking sessions. Being single has its many perks – the company of too-good-too-many-friends. :)

Work

Wonderful colleagues. Bitchy lovable drunkards. Only downside? Boss and pay. I’ve plans for both of them, which of course I shall not discuss publicly here. Ah, sweets!

The-Start-Up

Fingers crossed. I’m not going to discuss this any more publicly. And despite my sardonic snorts when it comes to fengshui and superstition, I honestly can’t afford to jinx this one up. All in good time.

School

Took up a part time B.A while busting my ass at work. That’s probably because I was busy writing my paper, dozing off at my desk and doing all sorts of research when I’m supposed to be working. All in all, I’ve been chalking up decent grades. So I got to pat myself on the back, no?

We, (the whole family) were expecting it. But when the news came, it hit me hard. You know they say how news could be so bad it seems to hit you right in the gut? I never thought that was possible, partly because I’ve always seen mum as my superhero and another, I’ve never faced the possibility of her bowing down to the illness. And I’m dead afraid of death, fully knowing it’s inevitable and it’s the only confirmation for every single soul out here.

The good old manager had to drag me in the meeting room at work upon which I immediately burst in tears, sobbing and hyperventilating. He was kind enough to offer me his cigarettes, buy me coffee and suggested I go home and take the day off tomorrow. I stayed on at work, walked around Far East Sq in a daze, talked to mum who was sobbing like a little girl over the phone, started wailing in public (Thank god that place’s practically a ghost town in the evening) in between answering phone calls from concerned friends who insisted on knowing where I was so they could be there for me.

I’m still struggling to cope with this whole debacle and I know it’ll never end. Either this thing which shall not be named takes my mum, or she’ll overtake the thing via her mortality. Which is pretty redundant, I say. We all die.

The past few months consists of doctor appointments, financial appeals, and trying to live life normally. She’s getting paler, her skin’s thinning from all that Glivac and I’m trying to keep myself as busy as possible to just not to think about it.

Love

A girlfriend once told me that my life will consist of many many whirlwind romances before culminating into The One. It’s a jinx I swear. (yes yes, didn’t I just pledge myself as a horoscope atheist?)

Whirlwind romances are great, fun, flighty. Girlfriends have told me not to get attached because they live vicariously through me. But four years of the same old shit? Pfft. This is what I’ve deduced so far on my “love” life:

“Love” has been reduced to equate the great clash of civilizations. (That's drama-queen for you) Filial piety, Islam, East, West, Orientalism, Muslim, Muslim Muslim and possibly Islamophobia. Oh, don’t we just hate bloody binaries? I’ve dated a good number to know me being Muslim will pose a huge problem for the long term. I don’t wish to insert any theological arguments here. There were splendid moments, great chemistry – in and out of bed, but the jinx shall prevail. To more whirlwind romances and *yawn* The One.

Friends

- The joyrides, singing at the top of our lungs in the middle of the night along our many three-letter-acronym expressways

- The giddy pubbing sessions listening to live bands and dancing ourselves silly

- The serious one-on-one catch ups over coffee *blink*

- Eye candy watching and fashion policing along Raffles Place. And ye can’t say I can’t multi-task

- The late nights banging out our presentation, ordering Macdonalds take out and moonwalking down the library shelves

- The crazy club-hopping marathon we had

- The after-work drinking sessions or staying back in the office just talking. :)

- Supper sessions. Prata, Teh O Halia, Nasi Pattaya, Milo Dinosaur, Nasi Padprik. Al Ameen, Baghdad Street, Jalan Kayu, Tampines, Changi Village, Simpang Bedok, Gardens. No, we hardly do Newton or other tourist traps posing themselves as authentic hawker centers. Although I do concede, the food at Newton rocks.

List is endless. And the events above were a shallow summary of it. It’s been a tiring day, and will be even more so when I get back from The Good Vibrations music festival. To all the babis, piggies and boars out there: this is our year and may no ideological bullshit get in our way of **great success. Heh.

** To be enunciated and pronounced Borat-style.