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.
14 June 2005
01 June 2005
27 May 2005
Reunited
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.
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.
25 May 2005
10 May 2005
Ode to the bohemian
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.
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.
24 April 2005
Blogtrotting
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?
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?
22 April 2005
What we wouldn't do for an idea.
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?
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?
04 April 2005
03 April 2005
The Death of Happy Endings
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.
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.
23 March 2005
18 March 2005
The Dress
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?
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?
15 March 2005
I am going to die alone.
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.
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.
07 March 2005
Memories of Comfort
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.
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.
04 March 2005
The enviable Camilla Parker Bowles
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 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.
20 February 2005
The Addict, Me
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.
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.
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