Archive for January, 2005

Inaugural Syntaxfree Book Giveaway!

“At work Veronique made a point of not mentioning that she had killed Princess Diana at the weekend. She had practised not mentioning it as she took César for his morning walk, and all the way to the office - on the street and in the Métro. She decided that the best strategy would be to not say anything at all, in a case a confession were to slip out by mistake, like the time she had meant to discreetly clear her throat in a restaurant and ended up coughing an oyster into the middle of the cheese board.”
- The Little White Car, Danuta de Rhodes

After his third book Timoleon Vieta Come Home a few years ago, one of my favourite authors declared that he would never write another. I was unsurprisingly rather dismayed, but hoped that some miraculous change of heart might come some day.

As things turned out, I ended up getting a rather more miraculous change than I had hoped for. For even though Dan Rhodes has not published anything since Timoleon Vieta Come Home, a few months ago I came to hear about a new literary voice fast gaining attention for her debut work, The Little White Car. Her name was Danuta de Rhodes. She was apparently 24, French and female.

Highly amused, I emailed Dan to assure him that despite my conservative Catholic upbringing I would not be renouncing my fanhood, and would gladly support the creative efforts of himself and indeed all other transgendered individuals. I also mentioned, in passing, that I hadn’t actually read the new book yet as it was only available in hardcover in Singapore, and as a poor student I would have to wait for the paperback.

A few weeks ago, a package arrived. The Little White Car was in it. Inside was written:
“Pour Michelle,
Avec beaucoup d’amour,
Danuta”

I devoured it over that weekend. I loved it as much as I’ve loved all Dan’s other books, and at least this one didn’t make me feel like bursting into tears in the middle of a crowded train carriage. Also, there is really nothing cooler than reading a book containing an extended passage where the protagonist confesses her secret shameful love for The Roxette Collection: Don’t Bore Us - Get To The Chorus!, where the author of said book has previously made your mutual secret shameful love for said band public by blasting Fading Like A Flower at his book launch party in order to find you, because you’ve never met in real life before.

And so I decided that the time had come for the INAUGURAL SYNTAXFREE BOOK GIVEAWAY!

Here’s how it works:

  • Me, a grateful recipient of a gift from an author I love.
  • You, a resident of a country with a reliable online bookstore presence (Singapore, UK, US are all fine, but you’ll have to suggest a store to me if you live somewhere else), so that I don’t have to pay Amazon an obscene amount to ship the book to Easter Island.
  • Most of my friends no doubt already have a long list of reasons they wish they’d never met me, but here’s another: to participate in this giveaway, you have to be someone I’ve never met. Simply because I like the idea of buying a book for someone I don’t know in real life. Also, it’s pretty easy to buy books for my friends if I want to, but if I shove books into the hands of random strangers on the MRT they will probably think I’m an opposition politician and call the police. You don’t have to be a total stranger to me - if we’ve emailed before, or exchanged comments on a blog, that’s still fine. As long as we’ve never met in real life.
  • So if you qualify, post a comment (or email syntaxfree dot gmail dot com if you’d prefer) and make me smile. It’s pretty easy to make me smile, especially during the work week. Two of the best ways are to either kiss my ass or tell me an excruciatingly bad joke, but I’ll be happy with any effort which goes beyond “Pls give me the bk, k thx bye.”
  • If you elicit the toothiest smile from me, I’ll write back to you and ask where to send your book.
  • Deadline: Monday 7 February 2005.

Johnny Be Adulterous

While we’re still being frivolous and lusty (music posts which take themselves entirely too seriously are IMMINENT, be warned), this is from last night, out of nowhere.

Alec: I must say, if you ever meet Johnny Depp, full permission. Total green light. I admit he’s really hot.
Me: And you waited an entire 24 hours [the time elapsed since the combined sensuality of Johnny and a Scottish accent writ large in the Finding Neverland trailer reduced me to a babbling horny wreck even before the movie about sex research] to tell me this? I could be on a plane now!

Addendum: From earlier tonight -
Me: I did a blog entry about how you’ll let me cheat on you with Johnny Depp.
Alec: You do realize I’d cheat on you with Johnny Depp too, right?

One thing is leading to another. Next thing we’ll both be on a plane in hot pursuit of a threesome with Johnny Depp. Poor Johnny.

Faustian Pecs

Manhunt (Tuesdays 10 pm on Starworld) is America’s Next Top Model’s poor transgendered cousin. The first episode featured the guys skydiving in Calvins, because apparently this would test their ability to work as a team. It’s poorly produced, features a crop of guys with even less personality than your usual wannabe fameseeker, and gimmicks that have passed through the colon of every other reality show. The token “male supermodel” judge is pure vanilla next to Tyra Banks, who at least held a strange “How much more gaunt and ugly can this woman get over the course of the season?” fascination for me. Also, it’s hosted by Carmen Electra, who brings her own special brand of brainlessness and appalling incompetence to the show.

Needless to say, I’m planning to watch it every week.

Watching with my mum makes it even more of a head-trip. For example, this is from last night, when Ron got eliminated.
My mum: Pity, he has an interesting look.
Me: Yah, he does.
My mum: He looks like Mephistopheles.
Me: ???!!

Dream A Little Quiz With Me

Things are usually dire on any blog which has to substitute quizzes for content, but bear with me for now. Lots is planned, I just have to find 24 extra hours in the week to write it down properly.

Which Endless Are You? is totally predictable for anyone who’s read a decent amount of Sandman, so you can easily figure out the result even before you click the button to find out. But I swear I didn’t tailor my answers, I really just am that compatible with the sexiest two-dimensional being ever.

Dream, the third of The Endless, you are in charge of the Dreaming, all imagination and creativity, everyone knows your beautiful realm, but none truly understand it. You are dark and%2
Dream, the third of The Endless, you are in charge
of the Dreaming, all imagination and
creativity, everyone knows your beautiful
realm, but none truly understand it. You are
dark and brooding, creative, and spend a lot of
time by yourself, just thinking. You are almost
as serious as Destiny, but not quite. Everyone
is enchanted by you, but you keep them all at a
distance, even when you shouldn’t.

Which Endless are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Excerpts: Fugitive Pieces (Anne Michaels)

I finished Fugitive Pieces before the tsunami took over 250000 lives, but I’ve only managed to get round to typing out my bookmarked passages today. Reading some of them again in the wake of a natural disaster that literally changed how our world turns, I haven’t been able to help reading them in a slightly different light, with new victims on my mind rather than the old.

It is facile to liken a tsunami to the Holocaust, but thankfully that won’t be necessary. This book is much less about whys, and more about what nows, and in that sense at least, the agony of the survivor is universal. Michaels explores this beautifully for the first two thirds or so of the book, but doesn’t manage to sustain it once protagonist Jakob Beer dies and a new character abruptly takes over the narrative. Ben feels like an unnecessary coda to what would have been a complete and admirably compact work on its own, and the reader doesn’t really get enough time or incentive to care very much about him.

Despite its acclaim, Anne Michaels’ writing doesn’t always hit the mark for me - I find some of her pseudo-poetic abstractions a little overindulgent and frankly rather meaningless - but when it does, it is profoundly evocative.
Continue reading ‘Excerpts: Fugitive Pieces (Anne Michaels)’

Ya Think?

Me: I just don’t get how she keeps raving on and on about her boyfriend, but she never makes fun of him! What’s up with that?
Alec: I don’t know, maybe she loves and respects the guy?

The Tyranny Of Distance

So Alec arrived on Friday, and this is how we spent the weekend.

Friday: Dinner and drinks at the beach (Peperoni, then Beach Hut).

Saturday: Hainanese chicken rice for lunch, siesta, meandering frivolously through Far East Plaza, quick dinner in the fabulous Plaza Singapura food court before watching The Sea Inside.

Sunday: Wakeboarding (attempts) at Punggol, curry lunch at the Banana Leaf place on Ceylon Road, siesta, Mass, Eurasian dinner at Casa Bom Vento, Tiger Cup support (YAY!) over beer/stout/pork scratchings.

Perhaps you wonder - after a year and a half of long distance, they’re finally reunited for the foreseeable future, and that’s how they spend their first weekend together again? Sounds pretty much like how any couple in Singapore would spend any weekend, doesn’t it? Where be the lavish celebrations?

The thing is, the best thing about this weekend was precisely its total normality. The most unnatural thing about long distance relationships - where time differences, telecommunications costs, and fleeting holidays rigidly define your time together - is how difficult it can become sometimes to just enjoy the moment without feeling the pressure to make the most of it.

Normal couples enjoy luxuries, perhaps without even realizing it, that we haven’t really had for one and a half years. Wasting an afternoon away napping. Good night kisses. Being able to do things which are totally devoid of local cultural merit, instead of feeling guilty that Alec’s spending holiday time in the exotic Orient watching a European arthouse film in an air-conditioned mall cinema. Making whatever stupid remark we think of at the time we think of it rather than having to try and remember it for later. After a while of this I’m sure we’ll start missing our trendy London Shoreditch twatness again, but for now we’re just happy being heartlanders together in Katong. (Don’t worry, I won’t lose my edge. To prove it the title of this post is yet another indiegeeky music reference.)

And going back to stupid remarks, here are Alec and Michelle Reunited’s hard-hitting views on the profound issues encountered in our first weekend back together.

On Modesty
Me: I’m a bit doubtful about this bikini, what if it shifts when I fall in and I don’t realize it’s given way?
Alec: You’ll realize pretty soon.

On Acronyms
(Alec is considering volunteering at Riding For The Disabled)
Alec: What’s the web address again? RCA dot com dot sg?
Me: Um, I think that would be RDA. Given that it is called Riding for the Disabled and not Riding for the Cisabled.

On Fiscal Discipline
Me: Okay, so apart from wakeboarding tomorrow and swing camp in February, we’ll have a frugal lifestyle with no other extravagances. Right?
Alec: Except if something really good comes up.
Me: Exactly.

You Know I Got Soul

Mid-week clubbing bad for body. But good for soul.

DJ Krush exactly as expected. Successful evocation of nostalgia for first year uni bedroom. Unsuccessful motivation of ass. Spent most of time drinking alcohol I didn’t pay for. Felt like member of rap star’s entourage. Ghetto!

Original plan to leave at 2. But then Laces turns up. Transfer to Phuture. Phuture motivates ass. Take side trip to Zouk to get space and laugh at Mambo kids. Mambo kids disappointingly uncoordinated. Return to Phuture. End up leaving at 3 am.

At work now. Exhausted, but thank God not hungover. Still intent on lindy-hopping tonight.

And Alec arrives tomorrow! Rock!

One Hundred Fifty Thousand

I usually enjoy Bellow because almost no one (except maybe Little Yellow Different) can tell a funny story like her, but this is a really beautiful post mourning the tsunami victims, and I’m pretty sure you won’t read another one like it.

Thou Shalt Not Say Anything About Anything

The following unspoken rules characterise most of the conversations I have had with the law students who have surrounded me since my return to Singapore. (Though obviously there are exceptions, who should know who they are.)

  • If asked what you did over the weekend (which is rare) it is acceptable to state the title of the movie you watched, or the club you went to. But be so bold as to actually venture an opinion of the activity you participated that goes beyond “Yah, not bad lah, quite fun” and all of a sudden you’re the weird one, because no one actually gives a shit what you think, especially when you do weird things that they’ve never heard of or considered doing.
  • Personal information beyond the most mundane facts eg. “I have a cat” or the most trite statements “It’s important to try and still have a life even though we’re working” is unnecessarily revelatory and must be kept top secret. If someone is asking you about yourself, answer in monosyllables. Perhaps they have an ulterior motive. If they continue to try to draw you out (the flaming cheek!) answer in banalities to bore them into submission.
  • Never give in. These upstarts must learn.

I am getting more socially awkward among these people by the day, because I don’t know how to behave. In England I behaved as confidently and talkatively as I felt like being on a given day. I met my best friend within freshers’ week, and within a month he told me things about himself he had never dared to confide in any other friend. In my public debating debut at the UCL Debating Society, I argued for the legalization of hardcore pornography, accused the other side of wanking under the table instead of listening to my team’s case, and rejected one guy’s incessant points of information by telling him he’d ejaculated quite enough. The club embraced me. In the pub, I let on that I was a practising Catholic. The club still embraced me. Throughout my time there I was an oddity, Chinese and female and Catholic in a club that was predominantly white and male and degenerate, but I never felt it.

But what worked so well for me in England seems to be anathema here, in my “homeland” where I should feel anything but an oddity. Confidence is overconfidence. Chattiness is met by reticence and suspicion. Before I went to England, I knew all this. I dealt with it by acting shyer than I really was, which seemed to make other people more comfortable with me. Since returning to Singapore, I’ve reverted to that old strategy, and I try to follow the rules when I actually know what they are, but it terrifies me. I don’t want to wake up one day and realize that I have become my disguise.

I really want to believe that all these people have great personalities which they just choose to keep hidden. Perhaps they have Personality Parties on the weekend, where they let it all hang out, and then button their stuffed shirts up for the week ahead, and I just haven’t been invited to these parties. Perhaps every dull statement made is actually code for “On the weekend I had a threesome and one of us was a goat.” But if so, why stay locked in this vicious cycle of conversational nothingness, where I say nothing because I think they’re boring and they say nothing because they think I’m boring?

Some days I wish I just had Tourette’s syndrome. That’d be a great excuse to break the fucking ice.





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