syntaxfree

A Rose By Any Other Name

An excerpt from a rather wide-ranging thread at ILE:

We say "intimate feminine area" these days, or at least the adverts for Vagilast Soothing Cream do.
-- Sarah, March 15th, 2004.

surely the name vagilast defeats that
-- strongo hulkington, March 15th, 2004.

though i'm not sure "vagisil" is any better
-- strongo hulkington, March 15th, 2004.

it does make me think of genitals with a place to store your books and knick knacks
-- strongo hulkington, March 15th, 2004.

Silks And Linens Of Yesterday's Gowns

Okay. I'm green like the Hulk. This year's All Tomorrow's Parties lineup has six curators and is held over two weekends. Out of the six curators, three are Sonic Youth, Stephen Malkmus and Mogwai. OMFG.

I'm always a little self-conscious using the word "dream" because it feels so Judy Garland but attending this festival has been my dream since it began in 1999. Under a deluded sense of priorities, I never managed to go while I was in England because it always managed to coincide with the freakout period in April where I realized I had four weeks to claw myself out of a year of complete academic neglect. Well, that and the fact that until my last year in England I didn't know anyone who a) shared my taste in music and b) had the funds to commit to a weekend residential festival as opposed to a gig in Shepherd's Bush and c) were good enough company for me to actually want to spend an entire weekend with. Benny only made the transition from ostensibly sane but potentially axe-murderer email buddy to real life friend in my Masters year.

I'm sure I'll finally get my chance some day, unless (God forbid) I lose this hunger for music and start thinking Dido CDs should actually be played rather than used as cool holographic coasters, but in the meantime, I am here and All Tomorrow's Parties is there, and all I can say is that this post was originally liberally dotted with obscenities but I edited them out because I've been thinking lately I swear too much.

Whore Fun

We went drinking on Keong Saik Road on Saturday. Across the road from our bar (37) was X-Zone Karaoke Pub. A few doors down was Streeters Pub. After my first drink I decided to go outside to have a look around. After all, it's not every day that I go drinking in a red light district.

I stood by the side of the road. I took a long look down one side of it. I turned and took a long look down the other side of it. For some reason, I was standing with one hand on my hip. I then realized I was behaving like a prostitute, and hurriedly retreated into the bar to order another of what they cheerfully referred to as a "big motherfucker" of a Hoegaarden.

Happy Birthday To Me, By The Way

There's a great line in David Sedaris's Barrel Fever - "If you're looking for sympathy you can find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary." I'm not looking for sympathy; at least, not here. It's just that I seem to be going through an odd mental blogging block, which I think will only clear once I've written something down about the strange phenomenon that afflicts me every year on March 17 and its surrounding days. Snarks will point out that such writing need only reside on my hard drive, but what would be the fun in that?

This week basically reeked of desperation. Moot research and team meetings were used as a smokescreen to justify why I wasn't spending any time celebrating. Social outings were eagerly pursued to avoid the loneliness of sitting at home alone the weekend of my birthday, even though none of them actually involved any celebration of it at all. A pair of Levi's 593s were purchased as a birthday present to myself, because there weren't any others to be had. (In my family's defence, a digital camera is planned. I just haven't had time to choose one yet.)

If this is looking like I have a major hangup about birthdays, it's because I do. For 364 days of the year I'm one of the most well-adjusted people I know. For this one, I probably confound even the people I normally play shrink to. So if you're thinking less of me while reading this, rest assured that you're not alone.

Having said all this, I must clarify that I haven't been completely submerged in the mulch of self-pity. Every year, there are always some people who manage to haul me out of it. Pei Ee dropped by on Monday with flowers and a big heart-shaped cookie. My moot teammates continue to be some of the very few reasons I will not dismiss this year in NUS as a complete waste of time. John remembered, as he always does (and I never do). Russ listened to over two hours of whining about a situation he had nothing to do with, and totally made my day by saying he thought I had a great ass for those low-slung Levi's jeans. (This last one doesn't really make sense without further explanation, but let's just say it's about what I needed to hear, and when I needed to hear it.) Other friends, who know who they are, called/emailed/textmessaged, all of which were appreciated by me far more than they know.

I'll be the first person to admit that I am far from a shining example when it comes to remembering people's birthdays, due to my general disorganization. I have no real defence, except to say that I beat myself up about it severely and try to make it up to them in other ways, and I completely understand why people would feel disappointed in me for forgetting. So it would be hypocritical to gripe about disappointed expectations here, although it would be a lie to say they didn't feature in my recent low spirits. (In case anyone's wondering, the expectations I'm talking about here aren't even particularly high, given that they're mostly held in relation to close friends, especially if they already know about this birthday hang-up. Actually remembering is the basic one. Bothering to communicate this to me in a way that suggests you give a shit is the next. Not acting like a jerk to me when you already know I'm not feeling on top of the world is the third.)

I know the problem I write about here is entirely my own. I know the solution to it must be entirely my own. Part of it is to stop forgetting people's birthdays myself, so that I can at least say I'm practising what I preach. But for the rest of it, the only way I can think of is to stop giving a shit about the day I was born, so it won't bother me when no one else does, even those close to me. And you know what? I don't see myself as a particularly self-absorbed or selfish person, but I find that conclusion pretty fucking depressing.

Non Sequitur

His hair was classic 60something/Chinese/male, Brylcreemed to the contours of his head like brittle plastic. He was walking with a little girl in school uniform, possibly his daughter but more probably his grand-daughter. Her pink vinyl Barbie schoolbag hung from his shoulder, and her Tare Panda waterbottle was slung across his torso. His T-shirt had raglan sleeves. It read "Funky Monkey".

Albert Finney Leads To Just Shoot Me Leads To Totally Unprovoked Rant

I went Googling for the cast of the painfully unfunny comedy series Just Shoot Me, because while watching (and absolutely loving) Big Fish a few weeks ago I was convinced that Albert Finney also played the boss in Just Shoot Me. Thankfully, I was wrong, but the results of the search were disturbing in other ways. For instance, there are actually people in this world that liked Just Shoot Me enough to make fan sites for it, and nominate it for Emmy awards.

I mean, I'm really not a comedy fascist. I never liked Seinfeld, but understood how other people could find it funny. I'm not into the diarrhoea gag that is apparently a mandatory feature of all screwball romantic comedies these days, but with some effort I can also understand why people start falling out of their chairs the minute the bubbly explosive noises start. What I do like is wisecracking and sarcasm, which Just Shoot Me attempted to specialize in but only ended up ass-raping.

Which is precisely why Just Shoot Me deserves to be peppered with rusty nails and left to die of tetanus, and why the Internet is truly a place for freaks to find each other.

Hello, freaks! :)

All My Pretty Ones

It is rare that I watch a Colin Firth movie for sources of eyecandy other than him, but Girl With A Pearl Earring is just that beautiful.

Other things that are beautiful, and which will not cost you $6.50 to enjoy on a weeknight, are this photograph out of many others at this exceptionally well-designed site (in Japanese, but you can't have everything), and these recent black and white photographs Scott (of erasing.org) took in an empty airport at night.

I want you all to have something beautiful to look at. I've been video-chatting with Alec a lot these past few days, and am feeling everyone else deserves visual treats too.

[Addendum: Random surfing just yielded an audio clip of Anne Sexton reading the poem this entry is named after. If you're a fan, treat yourself. If you're not, become one.]

Harry Potter Can Kiss Their Arses

The books of The Borrible Trilogy (Michael de Larrabeiti) are full of theft, swearing, treachery and murder. Decapitation, electrocution, catapult blow to the head, crushing, burning, and innumerable stabbings are only some of the ways in which various characters, both good and bad, meet their deaths. And they're among my favourite children's books ever.

The London of these books is bleak, ugly, and riddled with decay and brutality. Borribles live in derelict buildings in rough parts of the city like Tooting and Peckham, and live off what they can steal. On their adventure, they travel by night, paddling up discoloured, viscuous rivers, wading through dank sewers, and seeking refuge in vast rubbish sites and industrial wastelands. It's the London you glimpse through the window of the train half an hour before it pulls into King's Cross, before you shudder delicately and return to your book. It isn't the London I knew, but in my hopeless irrational love, even this London is intriguing.

Some points are perhaps made a little less subtly than some adults would like. As a child, I never picked up on the fact that the Rumbles of Rumbledom were a dark piss-take on the Wombles of Wimbledon Common, or that their arrogance, wealth and speech inflections (e.g. "I'm tewwibly sowwy, old bean") were meant to satirize a certain class of English society. I also didn't know enough about London to understand why the author chose to make the Borrible from Brick Lane a Bangladeshi, or the Borribles from Brixton black. (The German Borrible, for what it's worth, is called Adolf.) Perhaps my political correctness hackles are supposed to rise in response to this, but they don't, because none of these characters are ever confined to a stereotype, or a caricature.

There is no magic in these books. There is no train departing from platform 13 and a half at King's Cross. The stories are as riveting as any good action thriller I've ever seen, and I remember many late nights spent as a wild-eyed hostage to distrust, suspense and genuine concern for the welfare of the characters, who live or die solely by their wits, courage and indomitable spirit. If the most recent children's books you've read are the Harry Potter ones, step out of your comfort zone and meet the Borribles. Rated PG.

Two Firsts And An Umpteenth

On Wednesday, going to Zouk with Esther and Jeremy:

One, the first song I have ever heard about albinism - Forest Whitaker by Brother Ali, courtesy of Jeremy's car stereo. Fantastic, but since my normal album sources Django's and Amazon UK seem unaware of his existence, it looks like I'll have to go to inconvenient lengths to procure the album.

Two, the first time I've seen James Lavelle do a decent(ish) DJ set, since in London he was usually only ever a relaxing but dull break from the mad bonecrushing DnB room in Fabric. This must however be qualified by the fact that I'm a lot more starved for good clubbing over here than I was in London, and the fact that after two jugs of cocktails (Esther, bringing the drinks: "Like my jugs?" Well I thought it was funny) two more were ordered without realizing it was one-for-one hour, cue arrival of four jugs to make a total of six.

My absence at my 9 am lecture the next day, due to popping into Phuture on the way out of the club "just to see what was going on", realizing there amid mashups of Hey Ya with dancehall that I should just have abandoned James Lavelle hours before, and dancing happily there till half three, was somewhat less of a first though.

Something About Lost In Translation Got Lost In Translation

I detest almost every manifestation of urban Japan I've ever seen, but Lost In Translation made even me feel frustrated with how pathetic the characters were in their boredom there. Bill Murray's character (I can't remember any of their names despite seeing the film only a few weeks ago) seems incapable of interacting with a Japanese person without barely-disguised derision. Scarlett Johansson's character just stays in the hotel room the entire day, moping around in panties and looking ill-used.

In a number of scenes, she watches expressionlessly as her husband interacts with various floozy people, and I gather we are meant to feel sympathy for her, a philosophy grad surrounded by idiots. Strange then that in her own conversations with Bill, I never see any more depth in her than the average 16-year-old. Knowing Evelyn Waugh was a man doesn't make you intellectual, it merely makes you slightly better informed than Adrian Mole when he was 13 and 3/4. There's only so much enjoyment a film can give me when I feel no sympathy whatsoever for its characters. (And don't tell me I don't know what cultural disconnection is, every day in Singapore is pretty much a culturally disconnected day for me.)

Despite what I've written here, I don't actually hate the film. I think it looked and sounded great. The precious 30 seconds where My Bloody Valentine's Sometimes accompanied a jittery sweep of night and neon were quite possibly my most divine spent in a cinema since the doomed chicken sequence in the opening of City Of God, and okay, the bit near the end of Return Of The King when Legolas a.k.a. Vision Of Perfection appears in the doorway to greet the newly-awakened Frodo.

Er, where was I? Ah, Lost In Translation, and the reasons I don't hate it. It's got great cinematography, and I love the soundtrack because I am Kevin Shields's bitch for life. To their credit, Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson also do their best with the shallow characters they got stuck with. But none of that affects the basic point that the screenplay is far and away the weakest component of this film, which means the Oscars voters that just gave it Best Original Screenplay must have got something that I didn't.

I haven't seen all the films that it beat to this award, but to the writers of Dirty Pretty Things and even Finding freaking Nemo, I say this: you were robbed.

[By the way, if you feel like watching a better movie about lonely souls thrown together by circumstance and forging an unlikely bond, please watch Last Life In The Universe, which is just as beautiful if not more beautiful to watch, and manages to deliver much more likable characters despite both its characters barely being able to communicate with each other in the same language, but which of course wasn't nominated for any Oscars, given that its director is not Sofia Coppola.]