Was great, by the way.
Wish I had time to write more about our weekend in Sibu, Alec’s adventures in Singapore, MY NEW IPOD MY NEW IPOD MY NEW IPOD THANK YOU ALEC, the joy that was White Chicks, and our plans for next week. But I don’t, unfortunately.
(So happy.)
Back home after lindy-hopping, we were watching the tape of Singapore Idol which my father recorded for me. Douglas Oliveiro was giving his comments on someone.
My mum: That’s Douglas O, he’s a local rock singer.
Alec: He looks like Colonel Gaddafi.
After a short WTF??!! silence from the rest of us, we realized how right he actually was.
(Off to Sibu tomorrow. Back on Sunday. So happy.)
Alec arrives today for 20 days.
Alec arrives today for 20 days.
Alec arrives today for 20 days.
Blog updates may possibly be infrequent, and unbearably sappy when they do appear. Consider yourself warned.
Two or three weeks ago, I explored Potong Pasir for the hell of it, with some of the very few people I know here who would do things like go exploring Potong Pasir for the hell of it. It was a fabulous day, and I’ve been meaning to do a writeup with photos for ages. (Coming soonish.)
When the usual “So, what have you been up to lately?” question gets asked in conversations, I’ve been telling other people about Potong Pasir Day. This is how the conversation goes in the vast majority of cases:
Me: Well, a couple of friends and me went exploring Potong Pasir one Sunday afternoon and had a fantastic time.
X, looking absolutely perplexed: Oh…okay…why?
Me: We wanted to see what an opposition constituency was like.
X, still looking confused: Oh…you mean Potong Pasir is an opposition constituency?
[There are only 2 constituencies in the whole of Singapore which are not in the hands of the ruling party. Potong Pasir has been an opposition constituency with opposition politician Mr Chiam See Tong as its MP for at least the past 15 years, if not longer. Chiam See Tong is Singapore’s most prominent, respected and successful opposition politician. All these facts are given ample press coverage at election time.]
Now, let’s continue with the conversation. With about a quarter of the people I have talked to, the second half of the conversation goes like this: (Please note that the people I talk to all have university degrees)
Me: Er, yes. Chiam See Tong is its MP.
X: Oh…you mean Chiam See Tong is an opposition MP?
Me: (speechless)
Music For Robots (which I really must add to my sidebar, because it has given me more great songs in the past few weeks than some other mp3 blogs have in their lifetimes) alerted me to this trippy version of Monkey Gone To Heaven, done by The Artist Currently Known As Frank Black Francis.
I should probably be able to form an opinion on how this version compares to the original, but I’m just too busy smiling and burbling and swaying rhythmically back and forth with my head rolling around on my neck like Stevie Wonder to put together anything coherent.
I do miss the “Then GAAAAWWWD is seven!” screeches in the Pixies version though.
If you thought my last post was contrarian, get a load of this one: via Daryl, I discovered that Axl Rose has had awful plastic surgery, and I am DEVASTATED.
There is a little less hotness in my world now. I need to see if I can find the videos for November Rain and Patience on bittorrent, just to relive old times.
On a related note, one of my recent guilty pleasure blog reads is Fugging It Up, which is like the “Don’ts” photopage in girly magazines, except with much more miaow.
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.
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.”
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.
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.