Work is stressful today, but even on bad days the law gives me little gifts. Like discovering that there exists a case called The Dong (citation: [1979] 1 MLJ 152).
(Apologies to any Edward Lear fans reeling in agony at the punniness of this entry’s title. I’m too tired to think of anything remotely witty.)
Cool: After being horrified at the huge crowds outside Zouk on Wednesday night, fleeing to Cocco Latte to find DJ Koflow at the turntables with a damn good set, and a dancefloor with space to actually dance on. As Ida yelled “This is so good!” for the umpteenth time, and even Alec hippety-hopped away happily, I pitied the foo’s suffocating at Zouk.
Uncool: Me. Espying Taufik or someone who really looked like him, and trying to pluck up the courage to go talk to him the whole night just to say “hey, really glad you won, voted for you lots, will support you in your career, keep it real, booyakasha” etc. and other embarrassingly inane things. At the end of the night when the lights had come on and everyone was on the way out, I approached him as he was chatting to Koflow and asked “Um, are you Taufik?” “No.”
…Rene, who wrote a really sweet sincere email about what this blog has given her over the years. I loved all the jokes everyone contributed, really I did, but in the end, being told that my blog actually meant something to somebody, and had done for several years, was what gave me the biggest and happiest smile. Sappy but true.
[Original post and competition rules]
So congratulations Rene, and thank you so much to everyone else who gave it a shot. I’m pretty happy with how this competition turned out, so I might try it again in the future if an appropriate giveaway object presents itself.
Till next time, let me leave you with a story:
This guy walks into a pub and half his head is a big orange. He asks for a pint of lager. The bartender says “Excuse me, I couldn’t help noticing, but half your head appears to be a big orange.”
“Yeah, had that for a while now,” the guy says.
So the bartender says “How did that happen, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I was in this old junk shop,” the guy explains, “and I found a lamp. I gave it a rub, and this genie appeared! He offered me the standard three wishes, so for my first wish, I asked for every woman I’d ever meet to fall madly in love with me. The genie waved his genie hands around and suddenly every woman was looking at me with sparkling eyes. For my second wish, I asked for a wallet with a million quid in it, which would never be lost or destroyed, and which would replenish itself whenever I spent any money. And my wish was granted.”
“And the third?” the bartender prompted, leaning forward eagerly.
“And for my third wish,” the guy said, “I said I wanted half my head to be a big orange.”
On Alec’s previous visits here, failing to take him to a performance at the Esplanade was my most glaring omission out of many, but I finally remedied that on Friday. The SSO was doing Beethoven’s 6th, Schubert’s 2nd, and Mendelssohn’s Fingal’s Cave from The Hebrides, and for the princely sum of $21.75 (that’s total, not each), we enjoyed sound so divine from the third circle that even a sub-par SSO sounded great.
[I don’t mean the SSO is generally a sub-par orchestra, I just mean they weren’t really on fire on Friday. There were little timing hiccups here and there; perhaps they didn’t gel with the guest conductor as well as they normally do with Lan Shui. Some harshness in the violins, and I think there was one clarinet screwup. Also the Allegro ma non troppo which starts the Beethoven felt a little too non troppo for my liking, but perhaps I was just too impatient to get to the rollicking third movement.]
My Esplanade bliss is nothing new, but being able to share the place that makes me happiest in Singapore with the person who makes me happiest in Singapore was rather lovely.
* * *
Chinese New Year reunion dinner on Sunday at Chef Kang’s Canton Wok confirmed the fact that not only my mother but my entire extended family seems determined to make my boyfriend fat by forcing multiple servings of everything on him.
I’m not convinced that Canton Wok is “the best cze char in Singapore” as the newspaper articles claim, because I don’t think I saw it at its best on Sunday night. I didn’t have a problem with the ambience – eating on a cramped walkway in the depths of a Hougang HDB estate (a public housing estate) is fine by me – but the service was pretty poor. We waited for more than half an hour to be seated despite having made a reservation far in advance. When the first dish arrived we had plates but no chopsticks or spoons to eat with, cue exaggerated pawing motions at red wine chicken until the staff got the hint. Neither moist towelettes nor lemon water accompanied the crab, so anyone who wanted the rest of their meal to be non-sticky had to venture inside in search of a rather grotty basin.
Food-wise, some dishes were great (red wine chicken, crab with glutinous rice, coffee pork ribs, abalone and spinach), and others were pleasant but forgettable (steamed motherfucking big cod, those brown noodles which I think are called yu fu noodles). I’d like to go back there again to try dishes which were featured in the food reviews and looked really interesting, but weren’t on the festive set menu. But anyway, Alec wasn’t complaining. His mouth was too full.
* * *
And now Saturday. Toxic Jungle Saturday.
The party started off quite normal. True, the birthday boy had chosen to interpret the theme (The Beast Within) by wearing a snake in his crotch, but apart from that everything was fairly civilized.
I hadn’t bothered to tell people other than East-dwellers about the party, but was pleasantly surprised when Kelly and Patrick decided it sounded like an interesting change from Zouk and came along. Karen, who I’d never met, turned up too, en route to Thumper with Ken. Then Ida and David. Then Mayee and Shao and Hwee Yee and Evan.
Since I’ve never been much of a “Circulate, darling!” type, this would have been more than enough people to keep me happily and drunkenly and uneventfully chatting the night away. But Jacob had other plans. Soon after twelve he unveiled karaoke hour, as well as the girls he’d hired to be back-up dancers for the karaokers.
I think the plan had been for karaokers to stand on the small stage in the middle of the bar while singing their songs, and for the girls to then do their thang around the singer. Unfortunately, a problem soon emerged – people were singing soppy ballads instead of songs conducive to girls shaking boo-tay in knee-high stiletto boots. I was equally complicit in this bloody waste, having put my name down earlier for Nothing Compares To You. The girls managed some lesbian slow-dance action to this, but it still wasn’t playing to their real strengths, and I felt guilty.
So when Jacob came round again saying they needed more songs to finish up the karaoke hour, I decided to revisit Toxic. I had expected to sing the song comfortably from my seat, while watching the girls shake boo-tay on stage. But the girls had other plans, and I didn’t feel like forcefully resisting two girls wearing little more than knee-high stiletto boots and little strips of cloth covering their naughty bits. Who knows what may have given way in the course of a struggle.
I certainly don’t think of myself as an exhibitionist (at least insofar as anyone who keeps a blog can be said to not be an exhibitionist), but I like to be a good sport. Frankly I’d do it again. The girls were great.
The party went on for a couple of hours more after that. I had fun comparing childhood objects of lust with Mayee and Shao. Got beaten at pool by Alec, fuck! Continued on to Jacob’s place after the bar closed for a prata and champagne supper. Then finally staggered home.
I like weekends.
It is not a good idea to find yourself crying with laughter at work as your pupil-master (for non-lawyers, that’s basically your Big Boss Man) walks towards you.
It is even less of a good idea, when you see your pupil-master walking towards you, to switch hurriedly in panic from the cause of your tears to the Merchant Shipping Act, the end result being that you have to think of some way of explaining to your bewildered pupil-master why you are crying with laughter at the Merchant Shipping Act.
I’ve taken a while to grasp Mayee’s baton, but never let it be said that I would turn down a rod when extended.
1. What’s the total size of music files on your computer?
11.75 GB. I try to keep things under control through a tedious and unbelievably anal routine of tagging, compiling, burning, tracklist printing, and finally cramming (into grievously overcrowded CD shelves). Please don’t ask me for the number of songs, the files are already kept in three different places on the hard drive and I had to do some mental arithmetic just to get that first figure.
2. What is the last cd you bought?
Minesweeper Suite (DJ /Rupture), but it hasn’t arrived in the mail yet.
3. What is the last song you listened to before you read this post?
Whaddit I Done (Animal Collective), which ended conveniently in time for Alec to get to sleep. I don’t think it’s very easy to sleep to Animal Collective, unless of course you’re one of the people I saw them with in April 2004 (they were opening for Múm), who whispered “This is awful!” within the first five minutes of their set and promptly fell asleep. His loss.
4. Name four songs that you listen to a lot or that mean a lot to you.
I only get four? You might as well ask Mozart to pick four notes, the Pope to pick four Amens, and Bai Ling to pick four fucks. This is oppressive. But here’s a list, if you insist. (I write my own rhymes, yo.) It’ll probably be completely different if you ask me tomorrow, except for the first song.
5. Which three people are you passing the baton on to and why?
“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:
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.
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: ???!!
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 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?
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