workawhorlic

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2010-01-05T22:22:00.001+08:00

Love Song For A Dracula

2009-02-19T00:13:00.002+08:00

"I took your hand, not because it was the only one outstretched to me. I took it because at that moment, it actually had a glowing pink hue, like it was going through its first blush after being singled out on camera. Which was how Pamela Anderson became famous, actually.
But now that I have it, what do I do with it?
Do I give it mini squeezes like an osim chair? Or do I play the bamboo torture game so you know the strength of my wrath and the dungeon of my mind?
Or should i swing your arm to show you the pendulum of time hasn't moved since I was three?
On second thoughts, may I have your credit card instead?"

Are you like spam?

2009-02-10T02:22:00.004+08:00

Of the MySpace variety. Dishing out the same message over and over again.
"I am a nuisance, and unlike how I suddenly came, I will not suddenly go away"
This is just like having to listen to the same 90s un-glam rock song over and over.......
And it makes me want to use the language of Jack de la Roca (sp?)
and his tone of voice too.
What can I do?
I'll keep closing that msn window, like the time I shut out the black cat burglar who stole way too much of my precious sleep.
Someone teach me to use my filter.

The Single File

2008-08-04T23:25:00.005+08:00

Here's a message for the singleton who refuses to be woebegone:
Although at night on your little bed, beside you lies no-one, no warmth, think about it this way:
It's just like the time when you lay in your cot, swaddled in diapers.
The only way to look was up, remember?
True, life stretches ahead, legions long, like the horizon from Footsteps On The Sand. (Only one pair of feet.)
If it's there you find yourself, bask in the love of the Bright Morning Son.
It's a bumpy road less travelled, but no-one will throw the first stone (but you).
You're not alone in bed (or should I say, on your cupboard shelf) because of the size of your nose, or the lesions on your skin, or because, in a freudian fit you shouted at the only person who ever loved them both.
This August, don't let all four weddings be a funeral for Hope. Because after your ex left, she's the only one who'll ever love you now.

Death & Taxes

2007-12-14T00:01:00.000+08:00

As i speak, the issue of cab fares has become truly trite. A 10 - 50 percent hike.
Up the steep hill of first-world glory.
Hiking sounds like a good idea too, actually. I'd best be losing some weight now, with the cost of living pushing me into the corner, an inch a day.
So let's make Subway part of our quest for skinny.
Now even more effective with their shrinking portion sizes.
Green bell peppers in paper-thin slivers.
Cucumber pieces so thin, any humanitarian worker would shake their head, then try to force feed each one.
Food is becoming as costly as oil as the warmth of Christmas approaches.
But instead of 'Joy To The World', I'm going to be singing 'Die To Yourself, Joy'.
Dying to yourself means, give up what you want, so you have money to buy something for your friend.
Usually something he doesn't want, but what you think he wants.
Like they say, you only get what you give.
You give him something he doesn't want and he gives you something you don't want.
Then, to top it all, like a star on a tree, you'd probably have to take a cab to give it to him.
Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!

I, teenager

2007-12-08T02:49:00.000+08:00

It's my school holidays, I tell everyone with affected cutesiness.
I hang out. Slack out. Bum around. (Wow. Haven't heard 'bum around' since the eighties.)
My bestest friend is buying new furniture for her second house second kid in tow.
My pals all shake their singleton heads and say they're old. (rhyme completely unintended)
And I am still in let's play pretend land.
School holidays! YaaaAAaaaay! hOooORaY!

I couchsurf all night, hang out at coffeeshops, watch gigs, read Seventeen magazine for fashion tips, wear minis with tights.
I'm not angsty. I am not ashamed of my immaturity. I don't feel old.

I do feel that this likeness is a little unnatural though.
Because I'm a little bit too rich to be a teen. And I don't have a curfew.
Plus, have you ever met a grateful teenager?
I'm probably the first.

Damn, I'm lucky!

New year. New in loo.

2007-11-22T02:06:00.000+08:00

Here's a quotable quote:
"With sagging comes the benefit of wisdom."
Here's another one.
"Only time will tell."
Now, the older-and-wiser individual who said this with a knowing nod and somewhat tired familiarity was right.
And right a little too often.
Yet even though time repeatedly gives us such advice of wise importance, we do not neccessarily heed.
Instead, we do the exact opposite. I am not merely bringing to mind the Israelites who, for 40 years, kept missing the promiseland beacause they were unable to follow directions and kept making the wrong turn. Or even my (many) recurrent vices and their colourful episodes.
I am here discussing the magnificent feeling of growing a year older. Which feels a bit like the bath I just took.
New to my loo is the new! Lynx body SCRUB (scrub spelt in caps as such). Its name is Snake Peel, and it glows like it's been lit by millions of tiny yellow bulbs, with the random spec of brilliant turquoise. I stare the sqeeze for at least 5 seconds before rubbing it on my skin. It's like like the miniature bulbs crack and their little broken bits rub against me, hurting me because I've gotten too close.
Snake Peel is a good metaphor for birthday-contemplation-and-resolution-setting.
Only time will tell what lies beneath the scrubbed-off cells.
Time says it's okay, the Snake Peel body SCRUB doesn't go against its wisdom, you will not sag.

A Chore

2007-08-06T23:25:00.000+08:00

Mom wants to know that she has bred a brood of toilet cleaners. She believes bleach brings you closer to the heavens — after all, cleanliness is next to godliness.
I scrub mean. Like on cellulite toward the heart. Quick circular motions as if I were Nancy Kerrigan, only 17, on the first sign of lakes freezing over. With boys watching faces ruddy from cold.
Round and round, like wheels of the early morning bus I manage to catch, instead of the six dollar cab.
I save much.
Mother's wrinkles, and my reputation as not-so-good-for-nothing.
Because, you see, toilet cleaning calls your character into question.
The highest tile unscrupulously cleaned is a testament to your unwavering determination. And the fact that you're scrubbing, instead of surfing, is evidence that procrastination was murdered single-handedly.
Although what actually died a bloody death, was a cockroach that couldn't brush dodge very well.
Die! Die! Die! What joy!
(Death too, is part of godliness you see.) Goodbye, scrambling dirtball. Your funeral has made my proud mommy smile.

The country I wish I could love.

2007-07-13T08:33:00.000+08:00

About this nation, I long to say these words without holding back a mite of affection:
Oh Singapore, I adore every grain of sand on your beauteous isle, each grain a genuine purchase from the shores of Indonesia and gleaming with bleached whiteness in the sun.
I pledge to defend you from shore to ever-expanding shore, oh milk-generous motherland. Upon your grade A breasts do our best, most educated minds suckle, so they mayst govern with enlightenment.
I dream of the day when I may free my now-trammelled soul to sing of my island home, with right hand over my heart, as a patriotic tear trickles down my right cheek, and fall upon the sacred ground (more precious than gold, and ever-appreciating in value per square foot, day by glorious day!)
To feel a wash of pride as I gaze upon the annual fireworks, each spark making a statement about our IRAS statements whilst flashing across costly national airspace.
But instead, I must abashedly admit, that when White Man whose ancestors once exploited this land for riches, scorn at your traditions, and mock your wisdom, I sometimes do nod in agreement.
Because banning chewing gum is stupid in anyone's books, even those branded EM3.

Kao San and Chinatown

2007-07-12T01:55:00.000+08:00

My best trip to Kao San Road, out of the 3 or 4 times I've been here. This pub/restaurant called 'Hippie Hi' was decorated like a house with walls removed, a bit like Dorothy's Kansas cottage.

Bro and I watched this happy harbinger while gorging on banana prata topped with chocolate and condensed milk. Talk about sense overload!

Another cool eatery/drinkery.

I met a man here. He reminded me of someone, only chattier. I was taking a picture of this quaint shop, then decided to eat green bean soup (partly out of guilt) next to this cute man with his hair slicked back. Who reminded me of Grandad.

Chinatown looks the same everywhere else in the world, they also sell the exact same things, the men and women look the same too.

Bangkok Hotel Hop

2007-07-12T01:11:00.001+08:00

The Shanghai Inn is as alluring as its girls...

...shamelessly loud but so beautiful you'd want her anyway.

At i-residence, Bangkok. Painting gave me dreamless sleep but the blinds let in the sun that woke me too early.

On the way to the rooftop restaurant and gym (yes, calorie in, calorie out, all on one rooftop.)

A precarious shelf loaded with alco, stretching 10m to the ceiling, at the Ascott's Hu'u Bar.

Why I want to live in Bangkok

2007-07-09T03:52:00.000+08:00

The new airport

Ana's Garden, Thong Lor

Thong Lor again.

It's got the coolest shops for sure.

Foreignworker Foibles

2007-07-02T16:03:00.000+08:00

I hopped into the lift. The doors were about to close — only to be hijacked by two very slow-moving and chatty foreign workers on the way to their embassy.
Imagine dealing with earlyrisers' fatigue AND two clueless foreigners who hit close when I hit open, and open when I hit close. It was the first time I experienced pre-constipation constipation.
And when it DID get to the level of their embassy, another guy going down insisted on riding up to the 12th floor with me, even though he was actually headed for the ground floor, and in spite of my warning: 'Going up, are you going up'?
To which he replied: 'Nevermind' and stepped into the lift as if it was a Sentosa monorail.
Maybe people like him have got it right and I've got it wrong — we should take time to enjoy the little pleasures in life. But as he was taking time to smell the roses, I had to smell the lift with him in it.

Dream Job

2007-06-27T23:35:00.001+08:00

My dream job is Steve Job's. But guess I'd settle for copywriter if my workplace looked like this. Whoops, guess I did settle after all. Then again, it WAS my dream job and years ago, this WAS my dream agency. You see, when dreams become reality, they stop becoming dreams and become.... reality.

Bling 182

2007-06-27T23:31:00.001+08:00

I want one. One karat bling things, stand aside! Seriously! Have you ever looked into the complexity of plastic's DNA? Now that’s a real beauty.
You say let a diamond say how you feel? I say, show love for how plastic it can be!
Come, let’s celebrate fake love. The type that comes with the intense, adoring blue eyes of a Hollywood A-lister. If they can fake it, so can you. (and so can I!)
But plastic never fakes it. It is what it is, take it or leave it. (I'm taking it.)
To me, plastic is forever.

Talk to the walls.

2007-06-26T23:07:00.000+08:00

I'll be by myself in a room like this in Bangkok. Conversation will be loud though. I love uninhibited colours.

Munch meditations.

2007-04-09T12:24:00.000+08:00

I am always hungry for a munch. Always. My mouth loves to be on the move.
That fibrous low calorie thing from taiwan, the producer's all fudge brownie with half-drowning nuts. They called to me with voices like the marshmellow man's. Round, soft, fat, and inviting.
Today I even half-sipped, half-sucked a bit of caramel gelato in my coffee after a calorie-count busting lunch.
But an hour later, I was still hungry, so i drank water and had a mint sitting in its harassed paper bag (which reminded me of my scribbled haphazard taglines).
When I finally finished section one of three of my work, it felt good. Then I realised, I wasn't hungry anymore.

Outward bound in 'Nam.

2007-03-16T01:12:00.000+08:00

You know this already.

2007-02-26T01:26:00.000+08:00

http://www2.oprah.com/spiritself/omag/ss_omag_200508_mbeck.jhtml

Read this girls. It doesnt tell you anything you don't know but it's good brain fodder for the moment before you forget it and do the exact opposite even though you know the opposite is the opposite of what you should be doing, not just because the article said so, but because you know so.
I shouldn't bother telling you, right? Because you heard it before, and a reminder will only be a mild jolt in your memory, that will trigger the sickening feeling that you know this anyway, but forgot, then guilt will kick in because you told yourself the last time that you should have remembered it the last time you forgot.
This sounds complicated but it makes sense, is perfectly sensible and every sane person would agree to its logic.
In other words, they know this already.

2007-02-17T22:21:00.000+08:00

Flee The House of Screaming Kids!

2007-02-17T22:13:00.000+08:00

Cell group.

I'm the only one of two people who's single, and without any immediate or pending prospect of marriage. The other singleton, more swinging than I (he's male) is blissfully away and unaware.

Everyone else was smugly engaged in chatter and of course the kids were there to make things merry, to liven things beyond what is humanly possible for adults to do with the following contraptions: fake electronic phones, race car video games and high pitched vocal chords.

I've never left cell so early.

Don't get me wrong, I love kids, I want to have some someday. 'Some' being somewhere within the range of 2 and 3. Then I hear a siren, and realise that hey, it's the screaming kid inside of me.

Ally McBeal (yes I know how passe she is, but she's part of the small amounts of TV I've watched in my lifetime) had a dancing baby.

Here may I propose something a little more apt to represent the woman's biological clock — the aforementioned screaming kid. Dancing babies are fun, self-entertaining, and generally lovable. Screaming kids on the other hand, are a liability to the sanity of you and everyone else within a 5m radius. Now imagine this cacophonous oddity existing inside you.

Ever met a spinster with an attitude problem? A teacher or an ageing PA for instance? Yep. She more often than not has that screaming kid inside of her. What else could explain her grouchy distractedness, sudden snappiness and generally frazzled, forlorn demeanor? (In fact, I conclude that it's not her lack of motherhood instincts, but the overabundance and overgrowth of this organic phenomenon which used to mean good things until homosexuality and women's lib took over her instincts and suppressed her leaving that screaming kid no choice but to grow inside her psyche and make its existence felt with its random, incessant alarm clock cries.)

There are all sorts of screaming kids, though, who are not the exclusive property of biology. Kids that need to be fed, put to bed, handed in, hung out to dry, calculated and paid to the government... you catch my drift.

Chores. Deadlines. Writing that needs your regular attention. So right now, one screaming kid with an awful name is slowly being lullabyed into lalaland. This bratty little kid called Workawhorlic.

Finally, some legit pain!

2007-02-12T23:36:00.000+08:00

I fell on the hill near the cable skiiers. Should've learnt how to brake, he said later. Yes, but the sun was in my eyes and i was aiming for the arms of familiar grass. I fall a lot.

As a reward for being an honest earnest skater who made it a point to skate every single sunday, there was some real damage done. So I could stop whining about all the girlie emo wounds and focus on some serious knee ouchie.

Much to the delight of my friends who could at least ease the pain on their ears (or eyes, if on msn) — I was finally whining about something different!

The sinseh seemed pretty delighted as well. He giggled when he realised he had the power to hit (or rub) where it hurt. On both knee and wallet. And tastebuds too later — I had to take the bitter medicine just 2 percentage points less awful than our darling Prime Minister's.

I have never felt more vulnerable in my life.

It hurts more now than it did last night.

I prefer girlie emo pain any day. :(

Runnin' on Faith

2007-01-16T02:28:00.001+08:00

It took faith, alright. To believe this man without an opening band, the one that just strolled up on stage without any fuss and just jammed, was Eric. He was so un-selfconscious, so nonplussed about the female attention, you'd think he had an inferiority complex. To the naked MTV-trained eye, this old man seemed to be nothing but strings and a wobbly turkey neck with grey whiskers.
Wobblier, though, were the arms of the backup singers — YES, you can be fat and be picked to play with LEGENDS!
I must admit, with a blush, that even with my cold cold heart that night, this turkey managed to squeeze a warm tear or two out of me. With 'Little Wing' — a song not about a sweet young girl, but a rawking music festival. "It's alright, she said, you can take anything you want from me, anything!
I got them smiles, although didn't or wouldn't get any from Eric, but he more than made up for that, mass producing them in his entralled fans —clouds of crowds spilling over into the aisles. Musin' at the blues-esque smiles, drip-n-dry teary smiles (like mine) and Layla's smug smile of pride at her slowhand begging darling please.
It was crazy how happy the blues was making me.

Pieces of me

2006-07-01T19:26:00.000+08:00

Ever marvelled at the wonders of the human body? Every inch is instrumental to our glorious existence, scientists say. Which to me, makes the mysterious growth of the common fibroid, even more of an oddity.

So yesterday I gladly let them take this pingpong-sized lump (so close to my heart) away.

"Would you like to see it now or later?" The sweet nurse said while anaesthetic still flowed merrily in my veins.

And there it was, chewed meat in brine, the ugliest part of me I've ever seen. (My mother said it doesn't matter how I look on the ouside if I'm beautiful on the inside. Hah. Wait till she sees this.)

Goodbye, chunk of flesh. Leaving pieces of myself here and there doesnt' hurt me because I do it all the time!

Maybe you have something of mine? Sitting on your sofa perhaps? Or on your CD rack? Bookshelf? Then again even if all I did was shake your hand, there I am in it.

And right now, I'm probably in a sewage pipe in Shanghai, running on TV or a billboard someplace, or sitting in a laundromat, but most definitely floating in brine in a biopsy lab.

Many Waters

2006-04-09T00:42:00.000+08:00

Oh, the tides. The olive branch I clung to found itself a place to nest. And now the rivers cry over me, inconsolate, every drop burning my starving lungs.

A kind stanger sings to me. She can't save me, she knows. But her voice steadies the rhythm of the waves. She sings like a mynah: of the weedy thorn tearing against my ankle, describing every prick as if it were that fateful day when she, a ten-year-old innocent, fingered her first needle.

The hostile waters holler an encore. The enemy, my loudest cheerleader.

Feet communing with sky, my thorny scar now a Mona Lisa smile. No-one has seen water ballet as strange or artful as mine.

They seem to say, with relish: Many waters cannot quench the fire of love; nor can rivers drown it.

HK.

2005-11-23T03:09:00.000+08:00

Therapy Talk

2005-11-23T03:00:00.000+08:00

Do you have a pill for my neurosis? Please say you do.

Would you psychoanalyse me and tell me what’s wrong? It should be easy enough. Bark a command, and it might ring a bell.

As you sit there filing your nails, tell me, do you think I’m normal? Please don’t say I am.

Normal people adopt cats off the street, even though they already have ten. Normal people use words they never learnt how to pronounce in casual conversations. Normal people switch the lights off and prance around in their hostel rooms as if it were a nightclub, to Jackson Five.

And as I sink deeper into your reclining couch, pray throw me a life vest.

Save me from the crybaby, the infantile solicitor, the incensed preacher, the dominant psychopath, the philistine critic, the anorexic glutton. Save me from myself.

All Aboard

2005-10-10T02:35:00.000+08:00

I told the pessimist in me to take a break. She keeps things real but wonderland is really where I always wanted to be. So I stepped, with a hop and a skip, aboard a train with unpredictable timetables and stops so long and dreary, even the most patient passenger gets fidgety.

Through the window, I waved goodbye, not knowing to what or who. Then I saw my heavy suitcases laying abandoned on the platform, and I shed no tears.

I caught a glimpse of Lost-&-Lonely Saturday afternoon. I waved goodbye.

I spotted Miss Vain Hope On A Date. And I blew her a flying kiss.

The train moved and my heart beat like a butterfly dying in the heat yet thrilled by the iridescent petal it rested on. Flap, flap, flutter it went.

Painful palpitation. I never want it to stop.

Club Grub

2005-08-18T02:16:00.000+08:00

Ah, Velvet Underground. Thank you for 11 years of sending crepulous men to bed with equally crepulous women (not neccesarily the same one). Today, I am one blissful post-clubber because i am going to lala land with some happy vibes. Thank you, thank you for tonight's cocktails mixed with love, the wine, and that last shot of tequila that trailed up to me, searching me out in my little corner where i was standing with my equally appreciative friend.

Thank you for being fertile ground for the free displays of utter unabashedness, of SPGs in tops that would surely send their poor mothers doing flips in their graves. The same tops that would give plastic surgeons a field day with must-do enhancement recommendations.

Not forgetting those balding men, champagne in hand, pretending to make tete-a-tete with similarly noncommital conversation partners, while their roving eyes roam around the room, defying the darkness with night vision goggle alertness.

Thank you for making me look so good, your dim lighting being the best concealer of eyebags and disguiser of flaws. For your exquisite choice of adorable DJs. For ruining my jealously-guarded diet with your zesty $3 hotdogs (mmMMMMmmm mMMMMmmmm!).

Though tonight, I did trip over a velvet chair in front of a group of too-cool clubber types. But the best part is that after seeing everybody's bad behaviour, nothing I ever did tonight, no matter how embarassing, could make me blush.

2005-08-09T03:51:00.000+08:00

Have you noticed how pretty you have become?

2005-08-09T03:38:00.000+08:00

Wrinkles give you character, and you know it...

2005-08-09T03:34:00.000+08:00

...but a nip here and a tuck there never did hurt anybody.

2005-08-09T02:52:00.000+08:00

Happy Birthday, old girl.

The more things change, the more things stay the same.

2005-08-02T01:33:00.000+08:00

Hmmm ... I wonder if I reproduced that from memory or is it another one of those processed paradoxes I write at work when I don't have something genius to say and I'm running out of time? I've been working so much that I don't know if these things in my head are my opinions or something i think up to save my job.

Anyways, back to today's topic. Does age spell good change or bad change?

I shall answer it with a parable.

My parents used to covet my company. But work got in the way of our together time. And now they have learnt to live without me, getting over over Joy withdrawal symptoms cold turkey. Now I come home, and they're in bed, without so much as a "home so early?"

Cats in the Cradle is the song for me. I'm Dad whose son got used to his workaholic ways and decided to be workaholic too when the time came for them to spend time together.

Does any of this make any sense?

2005-07-17T02:31:00.000+08:00

Wish I tried a sardine sandwich or two...

2005-07-17T02:25:00.000+08:00

Night romp

2005-07-17T02:24:00.000+08:00

On the hotel's notice board...

2005-07-17T02:05:00.000+08:00

Phnom Pehn street

2005-07-17T02:03:00.000+08:00

Groceries, anyone?

2005-07-17T01:59:00.000+08:00

Used in sleeping pills. Lotus pod.

2005-07-07T02:46:00.000+08:00

Central Market, Phnom Pehn

2005-07-07T02:38:00.000+08:00

50m from the Mekong

2005-07-07T02:31:00.000+08:00

CCOP, Gate

CableVision

2005-06-14T01:14:00.000+08:00

I've been telling myself (besides reminding myself to stop talking to myself), that I should Get Out More. So last week, I did. I stepped out of my bedroom, into the living room.

That's where I found Cable, awaiting.

Alicia Silverstone was newly single and getting picked up by sizzling men at pubs, and hooking them up with her friends. At the end of the show, she got back together with her ex. Wimp!

Then came Frasier. Dad, hobbling just fine with his walking stick, was busy dating two chicks at once. He was actually savvy enough to give each babe a different ring tone so he'd know immediately who was calling. Didn't work. He got dumped, on the double.

I was so tickled, it didn't matter how far-fetched this all was.

No, let met rephrase. TV is great precisely because it is utter_and_complete balderdash. If it were realistic, I'd be watching endless takes of a chubby asian girl hanging out in her room (and occasionally stepping out to watch cable).

Now, if you've read enough books on success, you'd have noticed that most of them say more or less the same thing: "To reach your ultimate goal, visualise it first."

I look into my mind's eye and see myself yellow and gray and cackling over a re-run of Friends. And feel successful already.

It's...

2005-06-01T19:52:00.000+08:00

Reunited

2005-05-27T01:40:00.000+08:00

Your white sports car is maybe the only thing different about you. That, and your hair which used to be long, blond, rebonded and reached halfway down the tattoo on your back. Groovy, but not the right do for corporate whores.

Time wanted to make a 3-year getaway. It knocked us out first. You still quote lyrics and lines from movies. You still keep that pinkie nail long. And you still dig Kurt and Red Hot Chilli Peppers — those prima donnas whose concert we waited 1.5 hours for in a humiliating queue. Also, when you flicked your zippo, it was deja vu.

You told me you cried watching Star Wars Return of the Sith. And when I told you about my favourite scene in Lord of The Rings where Merry the hobbit sang about the good old days while his friends died in battle, you remembered it just as vividly.

We both also remember the rude thing you said on my 20th birthday.

By the way, I forgive you. Because you're cool. And since we have so much in common, it means I'm cool too.

2005-05-25T01:33:00.000+08:00

Lights of Taipei 3

2005-05-25T01:24:00.000+08:00

Lights of Taipei 2

2005-05-25T01:22:00.000+08:00

Lights of Taipei 1

2005-05-25T00:52:00.000+08:00

Like the arms of a Shanghai girl

Ode to the bohemian

2005-05-10T00:09:00.000+08:00

I am deeply envious of the singing bohemian in Agnes Varda's "One Sings, the Other Doesn't". She travels into forgotten towns bringing her sweet voice and music. Man is bourgeois, and woman proletariat, she sings, telling of housewives who bring their men their breakfast and morning paper. With a swollen belly, she sings that the pregnant tummy is a balloon, a cocoon, or a cookie filled with fortune. Her face shining like a flourescent lamp, hair a tangled web of strawberry curls. I so longed to be her, barefoot, in loose blouses that billowed in the wind.

Her Iranian husband had a bordering-on-gay wardrobe, tan skin, unkempt hair and bell bottoms that went on forever. He fell headlong into her life, but she left him for a career on the road.

Now, unfortunately, there aren't anymore Romantics from the sixties. We are left with only peasant blouses, billowing in air conditioning.

Blogtrotting

2005-04-24T19:32:00.000+08:00

Blogs are my latest hobby. This might come as a surprise, judging from this far-from-prolific thing you are reading. What I mean is, I’ve been devouring these delicious bites of other people’s existence with a vengeance. Maybe I’m making up for all the months of blog starvation, being anorexic almost, oblivious to the joys of invading other people’s worlds.

Now, I’m part of a family. I might not be getting the love I deserve on my fellow bloggers’ blogrolls, but that’s okay because most families are dysfunctional these days, anyway.

Recently, I found this gem of a blog at girlsarepretty.com. A different story everyday! The joy! Morbid but hilarious stories that never fail to shock me. I wrote Pretty Girl (the writer) a very embarrassing fan mail, gushing about how she’s God’s gift to bored netizens everywhere, and how I would kill to write like that. She turned out to be a he. Only guys can be that funny, some say.

I do actually have one burning question to ask these great bloggers — if they spend so much time writing about their lives, how do they find time to actually have a life?

What we wouldn't do for an idea.

2005-04-22T02:03:00.000+08:00

Ideas sell us things we don't need. I am guilty of the crime (they made me do it because I work in advertising).

I once had the idea that I was in love. For one moment, my mental capacities were reduced to that of a teenager's and I was just lapping up the lies. I don't blame myself - some major media buying was going on, and my inner TiVo was powerless. That 'L' word managed to buy into almost every single film, book, and song on the planet. How do you buck the trend when your local galaxy has been singing sappy love songs at karaoke bars and quoting lines like "you complete me"?

Now, I am one dissatisfied customer.

So I've been thinking up some campaigns of my own to counter the battle for my mind. I shall slogan myself out of this! My tagline for my very first campaign should be long and bizarre enough for everyone to remember.

"All Men Are Bastards No Matter How Nice They Seem At First".

Would it make a good jingle, you think?

2005-04-04T00:31:00.000+08:00

View from the 8th floor

2005-04-04T00:28:00.000+08:00

Winter time

The Death of Happy Endings

2005-04-03T02:42:00.000+08:00

It now seems that poignant goodbyes between characters is a much-favoured movie finale. And you thought you could pull the rose-tinted-glasses over your tear-weary eyes, and let the magic of cinema soothe your romance-starved heart? Ha! Think again!

It was a Scarlett Johannson weekend for me. I caught In Good Company last night (not worth blogging about), and Lost in Translation (2nd viewing) this afternoon. Maybe it's just me, but the "love life" of the characters she plays always seems star-crossed.

Which isn't surprising in Lost in Translation, a flick that dwells more on failure than success, and is more about alienation than making a connection.

In Bob and Charlotte's idealistic youth, the future was a promise. As the years passed, they realised it was a contract, not a promise, and they didn't read the fine print. Bob’s stellar career must eventually decline, just as the thrill of Charlotte’s marriage loses its lustre. Despite Bob and Charlotte's difference in age, they both stumble upon disillusionment equally unprepared. And it is their sharing of this emptiness, not lust, that unites them. (Conditioned by Hollywood, I'm sure I wasn't the only one expecting something as they lay side by side.)

Instead, the hotel bed becomes the backdrop for a heart-to-heart talk into the wee hours of morning. Charlotte asks a question resonant for so many of us, "Does it get any easier?" and we prick our ears with vested interest. Bob is a tiny window into Charlotte's future, as she begins to experience the dull strain in her own marriage, slight but nonetheless troubling suspicions of her husband's possible infidelity, and a loneliness she thought she said goodbye to at the altar.

In spite of its sobering themes, Lost in Translation isn't a film you'd call depressing. Roll-over funny scenes punctuate its masterfully-captured, incessant drone of ennui. And Tokyo, although bizarre and lonely, fascinates with its sights, pleasures and quirks.

It is Charlotte's lone rambling in temples, Bob's goofy mishaps and the couple's casual banter that make this film so subtly charming. And in the true spirit of subtlety, the most hard-hitting conversation is the one we can’t hear.

And maybe saying goodbye is the happiest ending possible — all relationships would eventually degenerate, but theirs is sweetly immortalised by its unexplored potential.

2005-03-23T00:18:00.000+08:00

The light I like...

2005-03-23T00:16:00.000+08:00

Flame of the forest by night

The Dress

2005-03-18T20:53:00.000+08:00

Once I saw this dress in the window. I fell for it instantly. It was so me. Just the right size. I tried it on. I gasped, because, it was like it was made for me. It made me look so fetching, put a glow on my cheeks. And when I walked, the perfect skirt bounced in a strange and magical way. Then I saw the price tag. Exorbitant. I would never in my lifetime be able to afford it. Not even if I saved for twenty years. And it hurt, because it was mine to begin with, but because I’m not a rich girl, it will soon belong to someone else. I put it back on its rack, alongside the cheaper, more lacklustre numbers.

Should I feel happy that I had the fortitude to encounter the dress of my dreams? Or should I feel really upset, because something I wanted so bad has made a fool of me with its price, as if saying I’m not good enough, that I am only an ordinary girl, and pouring contempt on me with its beauty?

I am going to die alone.

2005-03-15T01:00:00.000+08:00

Bridget Jones went a step further to say she’d be eaten by dogs and the only way her remains would be discovered is if the stench became too unbearable to ignore. Sounds tempting, but guess I’ll settle for the dying alone part, without the dogs.

See, men these days are either fickle wimps like Jude Law, or shameless sex fiends like The Doctor (forgot his name) from that illuminating movie, Closer. They just don’t make ’em like they used to. Men like Rhett Butler have been discontinued. Sorry, girls, but your letters to the manufacturer will only end up lost in the mail room, because they are still trying to sort out their anthrax problem.

And maybe I am just too hard to live with. My bad temper and negativity do get to people, I’ve observed. I just take such perverse pleasure thinking awful thoughts, like the subject of this blog.

The following observations will explain my shortcomings. In the 21st century, no-one puts up with nobody’s shit anymore. Living together is such a pain. Sharing the same bed is a nightly trial. Everyone has become too complex, obsessed with a pseudo-romantic, devastating idea of love. They are so afraid of falling out of love. They are preoccupied with fears of finding THE ONE only after marriage. They whine about being single, but at the back of their heads they know no one will be good enough for them, and they’ll never be good enough for anyone. Numbed by crippling fears, like a patient etherised upon a table.

I used to think Sumiko Tan was a woman whose columns I could read and feel consoled, because she was 38 and single. Now she’s 40 and single, and she laments at all the wasted chances she’s had in her illustrious dating history. I have begun to empathise with her, and now I actually LIKE reading her whiney “single-woman solace” column.

Maybe if I were a Victorian maiden with a tight corset and chastity belt, my droves of children would be at my deathbed, wiping my sweat and pleading with God to let me live. A life of oppression would end in a non-lonely death.

Now I’m thinking: as I lie dying, will I be staring at my flowery wallpaper? Will I have a nurse? How will I go to the toilet? Who will change my sheets? Maybe I should check into a hotel and die there, so I’d at least get room service… Will I have the strength to walk through the hotel’s revolving doors? Maybe a nice old bellboy will help me then I’ll have no reason to die alone and the nice hotel room can be used for something else, something that will beat dying for sure.

Memories of Comfort

2005-03-07T15:09:00.000+08:00

Suddenly, the world isn’t a safe place anymore.

My bed, mobile and heart used to be blanketed in a thick sheet of certainty. Now they throb with unsettling possibility.

Saturdays used to be effortless. Now it needs a plan. Plans to walk down the twisted avenue of “don’t-go-theres” and “out-of-bound” signs.

Sundays used to be full of cuddles and TV. Now it’s just saturated with my desk in the office, my mind filled with endless “what-ifs” and attempts to drown each one with the torrent of Friday’s leftovers.

Pardon my whining. May I continue?

Once the uncertainty of the deep sea terrified me. I was taking my diving test at Pulau Tioman. I just finished a terrible first dive. Water flooded my nasal cavity and it stung with salt. But I couldn’t give up. I was so scared… It was nothing I’d ever done before.

He told me to practise my breathing. He told me there was nothing to be afraid of, silly. He prayed a simple prayer. He told me I could do it. His arms said the same thing. The sea winds ripped at his bone-rippled chest. And I was okay.

Eventually though, despite several brave attempts, I didn’t get my diving cert. But he passed — he sailed through the test of the deep.

But best of all, he got flying colours on my scorecard.

The enviable Camilla Parker Bowles

2005-03-04T02:36:00.000+08:00

Never mind her her nickname of imperial frump. Never mind her status as the royal slut. Heck, I’d do anything for those wrinkles deep as the meanders of a river, that awful, laughable dress sense and her sordid reputation.

The late Princess of Wales will turn in her grave. Please forgive me, Diana, I do respect you, I adore everything you stand for, but like every other woman, I shamelessly crave insanely devoted, puppy dog love more than anything else.

Camilla’s Prince is her handmaiden. Bless him, he is brave. He risks the wrath of country and Queen, her cold stares, her scorns laced with cockneyed British wit.

As it turns out, most ironically, he’s almost the 21st Century’s greatest lover. Imagine loving someone for 27 years, with the eagerness that not even marriage (his/hers) could dampen. Imagine rolling in moist mud, in full view of rumour-hungry paparazzi just to deliver a perfectly romantic tryst.

I’m a bright shade of green. The most photographed and beautiful woman in the world, with impeccable taste, flawless skin and golden hair, wasn’t even close to re-ascending the throne in his heart. Insane, the red blooded men of the world would declare. And due to what? Her impeccable wit. The fact that she makes him laugh. The fact that he enjoys every moment of her company despite deplorable clothes, wrinkles, and a crooked smile that would send shivers down the spine of the aforementioned red-blooded men.

Which reminds me of my Tim Sum chef who migrated to this country with his wife. He looks like a moviestar. She looks like a housewife. She tells him he treats her mean, in front of the customers. He tells the world he got her flowers on her birthday. She loses her temper. He loses business on Valentine’s day from closing his shop to take her out.

Love is the strangest animal I’ve ever come across. But heck, I’m going hunting with the horses and hounds, and I'm going to shoot Prince Charles.

The Addict, Me

2005-02-20T21:39:00.000+08:00

My addiction cares little for me. But when I use it, it doesn’t mind one bit.

It's an unequal relationship.

I think about it all the time. It thinks little of me and my pleas.

And yes, I try to quit. But the very fact I try to stop thinking about it means it has already won the battle for my head. And, unfortunately, my heart as well.

Even when I sleep, I feel it lingering over me. Like an evil spirit offended.

Sometimes I forget I am an addict and feel rehabilitated. Like when I laugh, or think about other milder addictions whose power I’ve yet to fall under. Then I tell myself, the weed is always stronger on the other side.

I have a support group at the office. We all want to be free. But we enjoy being under its influence. It makes us feel alive. Yet it abuses us, makes us feel so small, so foolish, so hurt. I want to have a serious chat with it, I want to ask it if it wants to go, or stay. I can’t handle the ambiguity. I can’t be the one always hanging on, when it’s being so indifferent.

It will have its way with me. I wanted to give up just a little of myself, and I ended up surrendering. It makes me want to relinquish. It makes me want to move to another country, despite the weather. It makes me say hello when I just wish I could say goodbye.

Dreams of flying

2005-02-02T01:09:00.000+08:00

Today I thought about becoming an air stewardess. Please don't laugh.

I've always poured scorn on a career so banal that "fish or beef?" becomes the highlight of the workday.

Of course, physically, I'll need a few amendments here and there, but that can be solved, with more rest and some minor plastic surgery.

It's much like the life of a sailor, if you think about it. Why should men have all the fun? Why should a job require that you use your brains? Why should "beef or fish?" be such a daunting prospect?

Today i watched The Sea Inside. There was a scene where Ramon the quadriplegic flew over mountains to the beach where he met his crush of the moment. Absolutely fab scene. I wished so much I could do the same. Maybe I'm a quadriplegic after all. Stuck on my little bed, dreaming about doing things that are physically beyond me.

So I decided, I'll work myself into this lean, mean, flying stewardess so I can be free from everything — my bed, my body, but of course, not from beef and fish and fake smiles, which is okay because I've mastered that quite well already.

Back to Ramon. Despite his state of being, nothing stopped him from being loved by gorgeous women. He couldn't go to them, but they came to him. They got horny just hearing his voice. Honest. So I said to myself, even if I can't fly away like Ramon, then please let me have some of that charm.

Confidence

2004-09-01T12:40:00.000+08:00

For all those of you, who like me, haven't been watching Singapore idol, here's a little update on the freakshow. Check out:

www.stevenlim.net

A prime example of entrepreneurship, tenacity and self confidence. Unbelievable. To all those people who've always dreamed of writing a book, this guy's beaten you to it. Having said that, it's definitely more original than Jacelyn Tay who basically compiled most banal information from outdated health magazines to top the local author list! Her book is based on a revolutionary formula for health — eat healthy and exercise. WOW! I'm so going to buy her book.

2004-08-21T03:01:00.000+08:00

Kuta Beach