Sign Language.

Ah.

I do so solemnly swear, the next car I see with that yellow, "Baby on Board" sign stuck at the back I will CRUSH KILL AND DESTROY. Seriously. Follow the herd of mindless idiots who think those yellow signs are cute, if you must. But for crying out loud, I've seen twenty thousand different phrases you can buy. Some of them are actually amusing. SO WHY...

No wait, I know: it's the only phrase my LEHLARLOR-English country can understand. HUR HUR BABY ON BOARD SO KEWT WE BUY LAR.

I know what you're thinking, two people and small yappy-type dog. Perhaps well-meaning, new parents just want to tell everyone to be a little more careful, please?

Since I've started seeing the signs, which works out to, say, four months, I have yet to see one fucking baby in the car. Not. One. And some of them are driven by I R SO GLAM young darlings - no prizes for guessing who the Baby is. Look carefully and you can see the planets orbiting their heads.

If you drive, do your part to make the world a better place. The next time you see a car sporting BABY ON BOARD, carefully pull up next to them, tap your horn to get their attention and smile. They can't hear you of course so it's all got to be sign language.

- Point to the back of their car.

- Air-draw a square.

- Do that universal baby-cradling motion: palms turned upwards and placed on top of each other, held slightly below the rib cage. Rock from side to side.

- Do another bit of universal signing. Hold hands up to roughly shoulder level. Keeping palms flat and digits together, point each hand away from yourself to each side. Raise eyebrows and have mouth slightly agape. As retarded as it sounds, people everywhere understand this to mean, "Where?" .

Likely reactions from the other driver at this point include waving, smiling and miming eating a steak. Proceed to last universal gesture.

- Hold fist up to face, with the back of your hand facing the driver. Slowly and deliberately, extend middle finger.



...Happy New Year. Pull your ear.

Must...have... .

It's interesting how our priorities change as we grew older.

When I was about say, nine, the one thing that mattered was Dragonball cards. There was no reason to it. The cards were being sold. All the other kids were getting them. You had to get them.

They served no purpose, either. You bought packs of them and hoped to see shiny holographic designs on a few, which made them Golden. And you could take those and tell all your friends you GOT A GOLD ONE OMFG NEH NEH NEE BOO BOO.

We just didn't understand why the stupid adults didn't see them as the precious artifacts they were.

That died out eventually. Then it was video game consoles. Little pastel eight-bit graphics were the coolest and days were spent at the houses of those who were fortunate enough to have consoles. The number of control-pad combination moves I had memorized, then. Ah.

Then an aunt quite kindly got me a computer. It was arcane stuff to everyone else, but somehow I got my hands on a copy of Ultima Underworld. Must have come with the package. It was my world for gods know, that little 8 x 6 cm of game window. Those were the days when gameplay sold games.

The damned things just never come with a balance player interest and plot length and complexity. RPG after RPG, I lost interest looking for TEH VITAL KEY OF INTAR DIMENSIONAL TRAVEL or the MAGIC ORB OF DOOM, hidden in the secret room of a secret dimension, that you HAD to have to progress in the game. So at about...14? I discovered Magic cards.

It's one of those things. Players are endlessly taunted for being geeks, but it's really an extremely fun game. Prohibitively costly though and after four years or so ripping open pack after pack to see what Uncommons and Rares I got that I could use, sell or trade, I put a lid on it. Yes, I would approach creepy-looking strangers with greasy hair, coke-bottle glasses and acne that looked like it was alive. And say, "Wanna see my cards?"

Let us put that behind us.

"But what of women? The sweet, sweet girlies?", I hear you ask ever so silently. Of course I appreciated a pretty face as well as the next man. But as far as I was concerned, women, like chicken pox, were something that happened to other people. I eventually got the chicken pox, though. And some clueless girls did take up with me. More, "Oh. I suppose so." than "Kiss me you fool." stuff, but we can't all be charmers.

Rightfully, I should be at the point where I've worked out what I want in life and am busy climbing the corporate ladder to get to it. But no, not really. The bills are being paid, with a little left over for the odd (alright, constant) fag and beer and that's about it.

Some people are very driven. Driven everywhere, they are. As above, they know what they want, and they'll stop at nothing to get it. I've got to the "fuck it and be content" stage. I've got a modest income, am not in debt and hey, it's not so bad. Oh sure I have the occasional pang for wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, whatever Avarice dreams about. But it ain't broke, yet.

Sorry, Izzard and Holt. T_T

In case I don't get back here before the 25th, have a merry Christmas. The proper sort, with the fireplace roaring and friends over with a chilled one. Not the crass commercial one, even though it's at a 40% discount.

Rawr.

We now interrupt your regular goatmission to bring you a badly drawn beast from our sponsors.



Though his appearance is fearsome in a comical way, Stuffyouandyourbetterpicturus has a gentle temperment and does not attack unless relentlessly taunted about his social life. As you can imagine, looking like that, he does not get many dates.


Thank you for your patronage. Your comments of "WTF is wrong with this Goat" are very much appreciated.

We now return you to your regular INTARNAT.

The Dark Side in the dark.

Ah, I kill me with my hilarious titles.

Intriguing isn't it, how the difference between day and night down here tends to work out to 72 hours. Would be inappropriate if I took till Christmas to put the rest of the pictures up. Different sort of colour theme altogether.

-wince-

But here we go. The event Vasantha Oli is in two segments. After the active active activities too early in the morning, you get to look at the exhibits and watch performances till about two in the afternoon. Then everybody goes home for a siesta, and come back in the evening for the other half of the party.

And this other half is where the party genes really show.

You know what happens at Chinese-themed events of this sort? About twenty people come to an area with seating for four hundred. Performances inevitably involve Chinese dialect songs from twenty years ago. Sung by people who were thirty, twenty years ago.

The crowd here? Ladies and germs, I present you:


And they weren't there for fifty-cent prizes in a lucky draw, either. Cheering, screaming, whistling and flinging of undergarments aplenty. Well maybe not the last one. I only saw two pair flung.

What I didn't get: A pretty girl comes on stage and the crowd erupts.


Fair enough. Famous singers come on stage to perform and the crowd erupts.


Fairly logical. They were pretty good, too. Even for the little ones performing, the crowd erupted.


I can understand that. They were adorable, and the dancing ones fairly good.

But when nothing happened:









...they also screamed and cheered like Britney Spears just dropped her top, lah.

These people really had fun. Without any sort of overtone, I note that most of the ones MAKING SOME NOISE seemed to be foreign workers, in the sea of people by the side. Sad, how apparent sophistication seems to put sticks up everyone's arses. Though, I don't know, perhaps they were helped along by generous doses of Black Cat or Baron's Strong Brew.

But to wrap up the night, you must meet the person I thought was just fan-fuckin'-tastic. Being a dancer of the epileptic monkey persuasion myself, I nonetheless appreciate good dancing when I see it. The Indian culture, at least to me, is known for dance. Their footwork and booty-shaking started long before Beyonce came onto the scene.

Pictures tend to be unable to do good dancers justice. But I tries.

The way he moved, you'd swear he was quadruple-jointed and smoking that shit. Needless to say, the crowd pulled all the stops out while he was dancing. People living on the twenty-fifth floor of nearby flats must have thought there was a riot.

And my pride and joy of the night:


And meh to you people who think photography is easy, alright?



An enjoyable event, it was. Would have been more so if I didn't have to toast a Sunday on it but if wishes were fishes the smell would be terrible.

I think it's to do with the bling bling. When they're about two years old, a lot of Indian children get their ears pierced for gold earrings? I mean, how could you not grow up happenin' happenin' like that eh? eH?

So now, I have my parents to blame.

The Dark Side has more fun.

Late, late. Always late.

Before anything though, I must insist you two people and small yappy-type dog view this one out of context with the previous entry. Um.

So, yes. Being in Singapore, you don't get many African Americans. Brothas, if you will. We have their Asian counterparts, the Indians. One thing I've found they share in common is the ability to have more fun. The other similarity I have no need to point out.

It's true. Even dismissing my reverse-racist prejudices, it's something out there for all to see. I cannot lie, and the other brothers can't deny. I was covering Vasantha Oli, an Indian celebration of Deepavali of sorts as far as I could tell. It's a community event, organized by grassroots people and Indian activity groups.

Most of the community events I've attended lean toward the constant-checking-of-watch type of event. Very few of the people attending seem to be having any fun. Polite applause aplenty, and all that sort of thing. Like Chinese weddings, really. No one actually knows each other, and it's all chatty aunts, drinking uncles and sullen kids. It's the free dinner that draws them, and the same works for these events.

I did say most. Some can be good fun - but this one had me blown. Away, that is. What were you thinking?

For one thing, the sheer number of people there was amazing. The event started in the morning with a Healthy Lifestyle theme that's oh-so-popular now. They had the whole tent full of people do an aerobics workout, Bhangra-style. You could get the VCD too, for just $2. I managed to restrain myself.


20,000 people doing the Chicken is a sight to behold. And try to wipe from your memory as fast as possible.


Then everyone sodded off to a mass Brisk Walk. I think too much of a deal is made out of it. EVERYONE LET'S ALL GET TOGETHER, WALK A RATHER SHORT DISTANCE AND THEN CONGRATULATE OURSELVES. All in the name of good health though, which I strongly support. With a cigarette and can of beer in hand.

For those who've never seen Chinese and Malay cultural displays, you'll have to take my word as to what they're like. Good luck to you. Chinese dances are graceful, fluttery things. Then you have Chinese Opera, which involves men in heavy makeup playing the part of women half their age. Accompanied by people banging on pots and pans with great enthusiasm.

In my opinion, Malay dances and songs are about the same, 'cept taken down a speed notch. Slower dances, more ballady ballads. Dangduts can be rather lively, though I'm hard pressed to describe them properly. Ok, ok, many Malays in colourful traditional dress sitting down cross-legged on the floor. Generally, the team is in rows of two or three. They play the Malay, bongo-like drums and sort of sing and chant and occasionally flail their arms. ...I messed that up, didn't I? Sorry.

But the point is, in none of them have I seen a Hoss!


Or peacocks!

...though you could say at Chinese celebrations there's pea-co... Nevermind.

Or flaming, angry gods!


Gods can always be appeased, of course. Our friend of the hellfire and brimstone was a lot more mellow after a Fillet O' Fish was sacrificed. Positively jaunty. And they say fast food is bad for you.


Seriously though, those were amazing costumes. And the dances were something else, too. A far cry from the forward-facing chicken dance that has tragically become iconic of Indian dances, our bloke upstairs kicked up a storm. The way he stomped about and the glare he had made you want to run to the nearest McDonald's to buy him another Fillet O' Fish.



Sri Lankan, I believe. Look and learn people. A well-designed outfit will take attention away from any belly and turn you majestic, majestic.



And of course, it's never complete without a pretty girl. Now sold in economical three-packs. I tried to chat them up, but they immediately assumed the SeeNoEvilHearNoEvilSpeakNoEvil pose. And then pretended they couldn't speak English.


On that forlorn note, I left the premises a sad goat. Alright, I lie. An angry god, sans Fillet O' Fish, threatened me with a fistful of curry powder. The event went on for a while yet though, with people milling about prodding the displays and such. Everyone then took a break until evening, where more stuff happened.

How do I know? Let's just say there is reason for my complaints about long hours and negotiable weekends. More is to come, yes. And no, the pictures I took at night didn't all turn out to be sheets of black.

-runs for it-

The Brown Stuff.

We've all done it as a kid. Pursed our lips tightly together and forced air through them. Just for fun, sometimes. And we'd find it killingly funny to do it and then point at other tots and accuse them of farting. Denial is futile.

Go ahead, do it. Sort of slowly at first, and then pick up the tempo to an explosive finish. Good. Keep that sound firmly in mind.

I don't think I've told you three people and small yappy-type dog, but this goat is lactose-intolerant. I've always found the term mildly amusingly. Cannot tolerate lactose. Won't stand for the vile stuff. Evil things, lactoses. Sort of like how the KKK is Black-intolerant.

There're different degrees of lactose intolerance, of course. Some people just get mild stomach discomfort after two pints of milk. Some have acute pains after downing a glass.

As with all things me, I have to be spectacular, spectacular.

I never used to be lactose intolerant. The missus, similarly afflicted, would turn down offers of ice cream. It was great, because I could magnanimously offer to share some top notch stuff and then eat it all myself, anyway.

Then it happened. The first bout of explosive diarrhoea. And we all like to think our shit don't stink, but this was something else altogether. I couldn't lie, and the other brothers could not deny.

Many a clueless...hour-long interval was spent, arms akimbo in what became a porcelain torture chamber. What, you think I took you through those motions at the start for fun? Times like those made being a smoker a blessing. Eventually, I made the connection. The rich, creamy friend I once had was now so much white, fluffy intestinal death.

But like aging men with bits that don't work quite so well anymore, we go into denial. Glass of milk? Well...alright.

Then things actually move in the stomach. I liken it to being four months along, and feeling the baby stir for the first time. Except instead of an "Oh! Oh! Oh my god!", it's more of "Oh. Fuck."

And for the love of all things cute and fluffy, you don't want to let rip a fart just then. I refuse to tell you how I know.


Yes. Had milk this morning.