Archive for September, 2004

Sir Mix-A-Lot Would Weep

Someone stopped me along the street the other day and asked if I wanted to join a talent agency as a model. Halfway through her spiel (respected agency, no sleazy assignments etc.), I said I wasn’t interested and walked on, because much like Groucho Marx, I think any agency that would want me as a model must either be pretty crap or specialists in the “everywoman” look.

But the encounter started me thinking, and today I realized the awful truth - I have now completely lost my England curves, and am a stick insect like all the other girls in Singapore, though judging by the ubiquitious newpaper and television ads here for “Super Slimming! Guarantee Results!” you would think us a nation plagued by obesity.

England curves, for those wondering, are the few pounds of extra weight every Singaporean girl seems to put on when she’s at university in the UK, usually due to a combination of cold climate, first year hall food, and subsequent self-indulgence once cooking for herself. (Or for me, being spoiled rotten by butter-lovin’ boyfriend’s great cooking). Since returning to Singapore, despite my strenuous avoidance of exercise and complete lack of dietary restrictions, those pounds have fallen off. I used to come back for the summer, look at girls with pretty faces on the street and muse that they’d be so much more attractive if they weren’t so skinny. These days I look at myself and think the same thing.

I realize this question (and indeed, this whole post) may be incomprehensible to people who aren’t into curves, or people who like skinny Singapore girls just fine, but: how do I gain weight, in a (fairly) healthy way? I want my butt back.

Excerpts: Living To Tell The Tale (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

Interest in national politics was rather thin at school. In my grandparents’ house I had heard it said too often that the only difference between the two parties after the War of a Thousand Days was that the Liberals went to five o’clock Mass so that no one would see them and the Conservatives went to Mass at eight so that people would believe they were believers.

* * *

At that time Bogota was a remote, lugubrious city where an insomniac rain had been falling since the beginning of the sixteenth century. I noticed that on the street there were too many hurrying men, dressed like me when I arrived, in black wool and bowler hats. On the other hand, not a single consolatory woman could be seen, for they, like priests in cassocks and soldiers in uniform, were not permitted to enter the gloomy cafes in the business district. In the streetcars and public urinals there was a melancholy sign: “If you don’t fear God, fear syphilis.”

I May Like Hip-Hop But I’m Not A Ho

In every area except music (where Phuture holds its own), Coco Latte is my new hip-hop venue of choice. Compared to Phuture, Coco Latte has a lower cover charge, better decor, more seats, fewer people, and all-importantly, quality music - a good mix between lesser-known hip-hop and party favourites, and some dancehall at the end to reward those of us who were still gamely shaking boo-tay. The crowd was about the same - some inevitable SPGs,¹ some hip-hop heads, and us three girls, who as later events indicated, must have resembled China prostitutes.² Read on.

On the way home, our cab was pulled over at a police roadblock and we were asked to get out of the car. Given that there was no question of drunk driving, we were fairly insistent on being told what we were being pulled over for. The police seemed to think that saying “This is a roadblock” was adequate explanation. When Fay asked again, they said “You mean you’ve never seen a roadblock before?” Finally they said something vague about investigating crimes. Well, duh.

We gave them our identity cards as asked, and stood there waiting as our taxi meter ticked on and our midnight surcharge steadily increased. We were eventually allowed to continue on our way, and had some fun asking our taxi driver which of us looked the most like a China prostitute, but it occurred to me that if I’d gone clubbing the same way I used to in England, with nothing more than cash and keys, I might have run into problems. It amused me later on to wonder how I’d prove I wasn’t a China prostitute without any identification to back me up.

“I can hardly even speak the language!”

“I’m wearing minimal makeup!”

“My Levi’s are authentic!”

etc.etc.

¹ Sarong Party Girls, defined here.
² There is increasing concern here about women from the region who come to Singapore, sometimes on no more than a holiday visa, to work in the sex trade. Many, though not all, are from China.

Herbal Viagra For The Clubber’s Soul

If you haven’t heard of Pojmasta yet, bow down and worship anyway, because he’s in my DJ pantheon and this is my blog. Not content with rocking my subwoofer with his mixes of Toxic (glitchtastic!) and Milkshake (disco!) and Lucky Star (as uncategorizable as the original!), his recent 30 minute Scummer Mix is masterful and creative and groovy as fuck.

AND HE’S PLAYING AT HERBAL ON 8 OCTOBER.

Meanwhile, over here Zouk is on some sort of “Most Boring Fabric DJs Ever” trip with James Lavelle and Lee Burridge, the Heineken Green Room Sessions are continuing straight and unerringly down the middle of the road with Thievery Corporation, and from what I’ve heard so far the big hip-hop DJ at Zouk Out this year is Jazzy Jeff, who is good but I’ve already seen him twice.

No one can deny that a decent stream of big-name DJs come to Singapore, and if time and money permit I’m perfectly happy to go see them. It’s just that I feel that where the sort of clubbing music that fascinates me is concerned, London is charging ahead and I’m stuck here doggedly trying to get enthused about the famous but bland, imagining Russ doing his “bored dance”. (Props to Andrew Chow though. Phuture is my little oasis of joy when he spins.)

So, has this been yet another rant about missing London? Mostly, but not totally. There are a few things that help me cope with not being in London, and one of them will soon be here. Normally I’d be gnashing my teeth about not being able to see Pojmasta at Herbal on 8 October, but given that I will be lying on Sibu beach with Alec on that day, I wouldn’t be anywhere else for the world.

Gulp Friction

I usually have my nose in a book while I’m on the bus, but today on the number 12 I looked up in absolute boredom from Garden State (you know how some authors channel all their great writing into their first book and their following books are never as good? Well, Rick Moody isn’t one of those authors) somewhere just past Kallang MRT and noticed a classy establishment named “BJ Massage”.

Things That Make You Go Hmmm

“Ah, Natalie Portman. She was sexy. And then she grew up.”
- My boyfriend

A Wonderful Weekend In Singapore!

Experiences from the weekend:

  • Some Chinese people know nothing about any of the other cultures that live in Singapore. At a formal dinner on Friday, we (I and other law graduates) were served Malay food. When the gado-gado arrived, people were staring at it blankly and asking what it was. When some of us (I and the Indian guy next to me) read “potato cutlets” on the menu and concluded that it was probably bergadil (I have no idea how to spell it, because it never appears on the menus, but I’ve used the word my whole life), others looked blank and said they’d never heard of that either. Over the months I have been home, I have also met a first class honours NUS law grad who, when told the cuisine we were eating was from Kerala, said “What is Kerala?”, Chinese people who don’t know Muslims don’t drink alcohol, and Chinese people who know nothing whatsoever about Eurasians. So much for Singapore being a multi-cultural society. If you’re Chinese, apparently none of the others matter.
  • Multiple travel agents promised that I could take a direct ferry from Tanah Merah ferry terminal to Tioman, and offered to sell me tour packages on this basis, but the service stopped running in June.
  • Singaporeans are willing to queue up for hours to secure condominium bookings, Hello Kitty commemorative dolls, and Singapore Idol audition slots. They are also noted (derided?) for their compliance with rules and respect for authority. However, announcements in four languages and so many ground markings that the platform looks like the scene of a gruesome arrow massacre are not enough to persuade Singaporeans to let people off the train before shouldering them aside and charging in, before sitting comfortably in seats reserved for the elderly/pregnant, studiously ignoring the at least eight-month-pregnant woman teetering in front of them.

Excerpts: The Quiet American (Graham Greene)

I was briefly distracted from my ongoing affair with Graham Greene by other books, but I’m firmly back in the arms of my lover now with The Quiet American.

I always feel somewhat unworthy of commenting on Graham Greene’s books, because it is so blindingly obvious that he knows more than me, thinks more deeply than me and writes with an elegance and economy of words which no commentary of mine could ever have.

So all I will give you is a resounding recommendation, and three very short excerpts which don’t do justice to the book at all, but which can at least be quoted here out of context and still understood. They’re all observations by Fowler, the English journalist. He’s the detached world-weary cynic, and Pyle (referred to in the first excerpt) is the idealistic self-absorbed “quiet American” dipshit who fully deserves to have started off the book by being dead.

* * *

“Dear Thomas,” he wrote, “I can’t begin to tell you how swell you were the other night. I can tell you my heart was in my mouth when I walked into that room to find you.” (Where had it been on the long boat-ride down the river?) “There are not many men who would have taken the whole thing so calmly. You were great, and I don’t feel half as mean as I did, now that I’ve told you.” (Was he the only one that mattered? I wondered angrily, and yet I knew that he didn’t intend it that way. To him the whole affair would be happier as soon as he didn’t feel mean - I would be happier, Phuong would be happier, the whole world would be happier, even the Economic Attaché and the Minister. Spring had come to Indo-China now that Pyle was mean no longer.)

* * *

“It takes a long time before we cease to feel proud of being wanted. Though God knows why we should feel it, when we look around and see who is wanted too.”

* * *

“Who’s Joe?”
“You know him. The Economic Attaché.”
“Oh, of course, Joe.”

He was a man one always forgot. To this day I cannot describe him, except his fatness and his powdered clean-shaven cheeks and his big laugh; all his identity escapes me - except that he was called Joe. There are some men whose names are always shortened.

How Now Unibrow

I got my eyebrows threaded for the first time today, and I think I’ll never go back to plucking. For $5, I no longer have to squint into my bathroom mirror with tears of pain running down my face as I brandish small sharp tweezers dangerously near the windows to my soul.

Instead, I get to lie prone pulling my eyebrow skin taut with my fingers as a beautician rips entire lines of my eyebrow hairs out at a go. Then she mops my tears of pain up with tissue.

It’s a total upgrade.

With Fans Like This Who Needs Critics?

Selected quotes from a great thread at I Love Music: “Honestly criticize your favourite bands/artists”

  • Neil Young thinks the answer to everything is dippy environmentalism. Save the planet. Be the rain. Preserve natural beauty, oh Mother Earth.
  • Kool Keith has never been able to repeat anything as brilliant as Dr. Octagon because he’s become obsessed with booty (In reply to this, someone posted “And I suppose that’s a criticism?”)
  • Cezanne snored.
  • hey scott walker! sometimes, when you make music, its fun to release it!
  • Aesop Rock often has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about
  • there are no good jay-z albums.
  • Xiu Xiu — … nah, too easy.
  • Tom Waits should play more gigs. Who is he, the queen of Sheba?
  • Ohh, and in a lot of Bob Dylan songs, it sounds like he goes “Oh yeah, I’m Bob Dylan!” and then plays some harmonica.
  • Iggy Pop should wear at least one layer of upper body clothing at all times.
  • prince: sometimes funk is NOT its own reward.
  • The thematic range of Trina’s lyrics is a lot narrower than her butt.
  • R. Kelly is probably guilty.

[My contribution: “Kim Gordon sounds like when a homeless person comes onto public transport rambling to herself, and everyone else averts their eyes and hopes she doesn’t sit down next to them.” And then I put Sonic Nurse on and within the first 10 seconds of Pattern Recognition (track 1) I was sorry for what I’d said.]

[I have been meaning to get off my lazy music-writing arse and GO WILD about Sonic Nurse here for a very long time now, but every time I put the album on and try to write about it as I listen, its awesomeness takes over and qij;onvau su/ojcfaeuo aow93nksn;ru…]





Syntaxfree At Flickr

Monthly Archives