A movie script ending

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

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

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

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

Err. Just get me very drunk before that.

Too many farewells.

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

Now.

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

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

Starbucks, OB, Starbucks, OB.

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

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

But fads come. And they go.

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

And. Kurt Cobain's still dead.

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

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

Some things never change...

Nine Crimes

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

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

Uhuh. A weekend of doing nothing. How responsible.

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

*snorts*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then CT called and we met.

I shall attempt a happy entry after this.

you scare me