Once, as I sauntered across the road on the way to the office, I came smack against a tour bus.
Not a proper crossing, you see. Just one of those, "Ok cars, cars, cars, cars, NO CARS GO FOR IT" things. There's a little grassy divider in the middle you can walk along while waiting to repeat the same routine for the other side, and that's where I was.
Full of white tourists, it was, mostly staring glassily ahead. The hell the bus was doing there in the first place, I don't know.
But, yes. One white woman, in her fifties or so, was observing me with interest. I looked up and waved and, charmed, she waved back with a smile.
Only later did it occur to me that what must have been on her mind was, "What a cute little native."
Familarity breeds contempt, 'tis true. The wonderful person you marry now is an abrasive piece of shit who leaves the cap off the toothpaste, ten years later. Applies to where you live too, I guess. It's all the same drear thing, and you have no idea how someone else could be enchanted by it.
Though, could be, and prolly is me being me.
Increasingly, people I know are going places, doing things. The missus is in Australia. Getting laid, I can only imagine. Someone else has gone to climb Everest, hopefully retaining all her limbs in the process. Have just met a 19-year-old New Yorker who, contrary to popular (my) belief, does not go around swearing at people and is sort of travelling the world on a working holiday during his summer break. Other people are on a six-month, 'round the world holiday.
An honourable mention here is my thirteen-year-old trapped in thirty-year-old body friend. Delightful little thing, and regularly flies all over the place to compulsively fall in love at large festivals.
Because it is hard to tell in text, especially while drunk, and extraspecially with my personality in general, that was not derogatory.
And I will finally meet the Techgeist, who is coming from California to hump the local women here, after he's done with the women in Japan.
Charming rogue that he is, one can only hope that his humpee is not the missus. While I'm in the room. After I've gone to get them drinks. In my house. On my bed. While watching my porn.
Sorry, little carried away with the fanta...um...imagination, there.
So yes, here I am, have been to fuck-all, and having a beer after doing fuck-all at work today, slowly getting fatter and broker. Hmmm.
I'd like to travel the world. Meet interesting people, see interesting things, eat interesting food. Before death or impotence, I'd like to meet Eddie Izzard, Hard Gay (Not what you think I swear!), and the lovely ladies Brittany Murphy and Jennifer Love Hewitt. Preferrably both at once, in a...
Sorry, carried away again. Though, being Chinese and an exceptionally inept one, that's atwo minute fantasy, tops.
Yeah, I'd like to.
Ok, wistful-wistful moment over. More beer, HOO!.
Cheers.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Dionysus Minor.
I did say I was back, and in shape. Explain hence, lack of writing?
As with most things, better explained with illustrated examples. In this case, of the current situation.
You know you should start considering you have a problem, when you're at work early and half smashed off your face. For no better reason than than breakfast was coffee and a fresh beer, left over from last night.
And it was left over because you had two, but only finished one and fell asleep at seven in the evening. Because you'd only slept two hours the night before, too busy being drunk (surprise!) while playing computer games.
I do suspect I am well on my way to being a proper social reject.
On an entirely unrelated note, it's interesting how virginity is regarded completely differently, by gender. If a woman's a virgin at twenty-four, working with the assumption she does not look like a dyslexic cow, she is lauded and applauded. Perhaps, dare I say, all the more attractive for it.
If you're male and haven't been laid by then, however, everyone's aghast.
"Is it a...personal thing? Are you saving it for something?"
Really, what do they expect to hear?
"No, no. It's nothing quite as boring as that. You see, I was born with a genetic mutation. My penis is so huge I have to keep it coiled around my waist at all times. It's not much use for anything except proper inpregnation. And even then I'd have to do it from across the room."
No one believes me, though. It's the sleeping at four in the morning, on average, getting wasted and playing computer games. You lead a life like that, people just know you have a sad, unfufilled existence getting off on underaged porn.
Little do they know that after that, I have to hang my penis out the window for air.
Excuse us. We are drunk.
As with most things, better explained with illustrated examples. In this case, of the current situation.
You know you should start considering you have a problem, when you're at work early and half smashed off your face. For no better reason than than breakfast was coffee and a fresh beer, left over from last night.
And it was left over because you had two, but only finished one and fell asleep at seven in the evening. Because you'd only slept two hours the night before, too busy being drunk (surprise!) while playing computer games.
I do suspect I am well on my way to being a proper social reject.
On an entirely unrelated note, it's interesting how virginity is regarded completely differently, by gender. If a woman's a virgin at twenty-four, working with the assumption she does not look like a dyslexic cow, she is lauded and applauded. Perhaps, dare I say, all the more attractive for it.
If you're male and haven't been laid by then, however, everyone's aghast.
"Is it a...personal thing? Are you saving it for something?"
Really, what do they expect to hear?
"No, no. It's nothing quite as boring as that. You see, I was born with a genetic mutation. My penis is so huge I have to keep it coiled around my waist at all times. It's not much use for anything except proper inpregnation. And even then I'd have to do it from across the room."
No one believes me, though. It's the sleeping at four in the morning, on average, getting wasted and playing computer games. You lead a life like that, people just know you have a sad, unfufilled existence getting off on underaged porn.
Little do they know that after that, I have to hang my penis out the window for air.
Excuse us. We are drunk.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Resuscitation.
Yes, we are alive and well. We thank you very much for your concern.
It's been a lovely day. Surrealistically lovely. Hardly any agony, but a smattering of pseudo-work, a decent game of DotA and a charming movie in tinkly company. Follow immediately after, a brief walk in a lilting breeze and rustly rain.
Lovely.
We will attend to you shortly, now that we are able. The present moment is more Guinness, DotA, the sound of perfect, not-so-light rain and the wonders of the internet.
...don't say it like the Americans. IN-ter-Net. There's a fucking Tee in it. You want Innernet, look within yourself. And discover the horrors that be.
Sorry, Guinness talking. Regular transmission may resume shortly. May, because she's a terribly attractive girl. And because it's all...
Whimsical.
It's been a lovely day. Surrealistically lovely. Hardly any agony, but a smattering of pseudo-work, a decent game of DotA and a charming movie in tinkly company. Follow immediately after, a brief walk in a lilting breeze and rustly rain.
Lovely.
We will attend to you shortly, now that we are able. The present moment is more Guinness, DotA, the sound of perfect, not-so-light rain and the wonders of the internet.
...don't say it like the Americans. IN-ter-Net. There's a fucking Tee in it. You want Innernet, look within yourself. And discover the horrors that be.
Sorry, Guinness talking. Regular transmission may resume shortly. May, because she's a terribly attractive girl. And because it's all...
Whimsical.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Moments of Whoa.
Reality bites, they say. But compared to surreality, it but nibbles. Gums, even. Like an old dog sans teeth, gnawing bone.
Does anyone else get these, I wonder. What I've come to call Surreality Attacks.
They really are just moments of Whoa. Nothing in particular triggers it. Or, if you insist on the two-facedness of it all, everything triggers it.
You could just be walking, walking, walking and...
Whoa.
Everything becomes a little out of focus, a little less tangible. As the term suggests, it's an odd, dreamlike state. You're just a...consciousness. Sure, you're moving. And you're still in control. Think raise arm, and arm raises. Keep walking, and you do.
If only that applied to penises. But I suppose that's another matter altogether.
But, yes. There you are. Nothing around you has changed, yet at the same time, it all has. You're all drifty and floaty and there's a little part of you screaming that running into the path of speeding car to see what happens is not a good idea. Really.
People you pass and passing you become much more interesting. Instead of only focusing on the ones with cute buttox, you start to wonder, in wonder, about them. These are all...also minds. Which are the wolves and which, the sheep? What would it feel like to touch a mind? Reach...
Then you stop yourself inches from a pretty girl's bosom. Because the male mind has...well, a mind of its own.
It's at the same time rapture, yet profound melancholy. A contemplative state hard to describe to someone who hasn't experienced it.
It shares qualities with anal sex like that, I suppose.
That's going to earn me a few hits. One is amused at the visitors garnered off the title of last entry alone.
You've got to wonder WTF they're thinking. All sorts of keywords out there to get them what they want: girl, hot, pussy, cock, teen, orgy, gangbang, cunt, fuck, threesome, asian, latina, whore...
Um. Purely an academic proposal, that is.
But yes, any of those into Google, or the insta-porn that Google Image Search is. Done.
What do they do instead? Go on some weird search engine and type, "intercourse". Then they get confronted by Matrix Goat. What sia.
Hey, I suppose if they can get off on that, it's a moment of Whoa in itself.
Does anyone else get these, I wonder. What I've come to call Surreality Attacks.
They really are just moments of Whoa. Nothing in particular triggers it. Or, if you insist on the two-facedness of it all, everything triggers it.
You could just be walking, walking, walking and...
Whoa.
Everything becomes a little out of focus, a little less tangible. As the term suggests, it's an odd, dreamlike state. You're just a...consciousness. Sure, you're moving. And you're still in control. Think raise arm, and arm raises. Keep walking, and you do.
If only that applied to penises. But I suppose that's another matter altogether.
But, yes. There you are. Nothing around you has changed, yet at the same time, it all has. You're all drifty and floaty and there's a little part of you screaming that running into the path of speeding car to see what happens is not a good idea. Really.
People you pass and passing you become much more interesting. Instead of only focusing on the ones with cute buttox, you start to wonder, in wonder, about them. These are all...also minds. Which are the wolves and which, the sheep? What would it feel like to touch a mind? Reach...
Then you stop yourself inches from a pretty girl's bosom. Because the male mind has...well, a mind of its own.
It's at the same time rapture, yet profound melancholy. A contemplative state hard to describe to someone who hasn't experienced it.
It shares qualities with anal sex like that, I suppose.
That's going to earn me a few hits. One is amused at the visitors garnered off the title of last entry alone.
You've got to wonder WTF they're thinking. All sorts of keywords out there to get them what they want: girl, hot, pussy, cock, teen, orgy, gangbang, cunt, fuck, threesome, asian, latina, whore...
Um. Purely an academic proposal, that is.
But yes, any of those into Google, or the insta-porn that Google Image Search is. Done.
What do they do instead? Go on some weird search engine and type, "intercourse". Then they get confronted by Matrix Goat. What sia.
Hey, I suppose if they can get off on that, it's a moment of Whoa in itself.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Casual intercourse.
Nothing like what you're thinking, you salacious creature, you.
I think I've figured out what's wrong. In wanting each entry to be a full fledged article on its own, I turn it into work. And no one likes work. It's being drilled and drilled into me that good copy is read and re-read, written and re-written, at work.
But it's slowly dawning upon me that it needs to be done only when one has criteria to satisfy. It's great being an Editor, no matter where you are. You get to tell everyone to piss off, with their writing and your own writing has automatic sanction.
It's not really the reason why I started this thing, though. Sure, I want to become a better writer, but by my own standards. Which are strange and lurid and obscure and Mostly Harmless.
Besides, no one reads the shit, anyway. Not you, ma'am. I appreciate every bit of you. Well, except the bits I am by default exempted from appreciating. But we have an understanding, I believe.
Those of you who love your job and enjoy every bit of it, don't tell me about it. Contrary to popular belief, I am a violent person. So fuck you, Jason Han.
In a good way. You lucky bastard, you.
But, yes. Music.
Smooth change of subjects there, I know.
I have some appreciation of music. Not in the way that tends to be, these days. People tend to latch on to some imaginary classification of music and declare all other people to be baby-eating, grandma-raping neo-nazis.
Three hypenated word in quick succession. Deal with that, weak mortal brain.
Sorry, bit drunk.
You have an inkling of what I'm talking about, though. Personally, I've got a colleague who's -into- Placebo, and that sort of music. Where, you know, the lead singer puts on make-up and shit and sings in octaves higher than the norm and it's all so cool.
Bit revealing, when the person didn't know what the word Placebo meant in the first place.
"Something to do with drugs, right?"
Because we all know drugs are so cool.
I'm more, eclectic, shall we say. Hip-hop, rock, trance, opera - it's all the same to me. If I like, I like. Have got a better appreciation of trance lately, walking to work with music. Trance is the sort of thing you can lose yourself in, no matter what state you're in. And it's got a nasty beat to keep pace with.
No, really nasty. Try it sometime. Dancing to it is great, but walking. Woo.
Not that it's improved my dancing. Still dance like epileptic monkey.
This entry was brought to your courtesy of Sarah Brightman playing while I was taking a dump. She is painfully brilliant, vocally. The notes she can hit, gods.
Inevitably, as a warm blooded male, the thought comes to mind as to what she sounds like in bed.
"Oh yes...yes...
YEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!"
"...Sarah darling, don't get me wrong. I love you. But that's the seventh set of really expensive crystalware disintegrated, this week. I think we need to talk."
Take that, ye demons of professional standards.
I think I've figured out what's wrong. In wanting each entry to be a full fledged article on its own, I turn it into work. And no one likes work. It's being drilled and drilled into me that good copy is read and re-read, written and re-written, at work.
But it's slowly dawning upon me that it needs to be done only when one has criteria to satisfy. It's great being an Editor, no matter where you are. You get to tell everyone to piss off, with their writing and your own writing has automatic sanction.
It's not really the reason why I started this thing, though. Sure, I want to become a better writer, but by my own standards. Which are strange and lurid and obscure and Mostly Harmless.
Besides, no one reads the shit, anyway. Not you, ma'am. I appreciate every bit of you. Well, except the bits I am by default exempted from appreciating. But we have an understanding, I believe.
Those of you who love your job and enjoy every bit of it, don't tell me about it. Contrary to popular belief, I am a violent person. So fuck you, Jason Han.
In a good way. You lucky bastard, you.
But, yes. Music.
Smooth change of subjects there, I know.
I have some appreciation of music. Not in the way that tends to be, these days. People tend to latch on to some imaginary classification of music and declare all other people to be baby-eating, grandma-raping neo-nazis.
Three hypenated word in quick succession. Deal with that, weak mortal brain.
Sorry, bit drunk.
You have an inkling of what I'm talking about, though. Personally, I've got a colleague who's -into- Placebo, and that sort of music. Where, you know, the lead singer puts on make-up and shit and sings in octaves higher than the norm and it's all so cool.
Bit revealing, when the person didn't know what the word Placebo meant in the first place.
"Something to do with drugs, right?"
Because we all know drugs are so cool.
I'm more, eclectic, shall we say. Hip-hop, rock, trance, opera - it's all the same to me. If I like, I like. Have got a better appreciation of trance lately, walking to work with music. Trance is the sort of thing you can lose yourself in, no matter what state you're in. And it's got a nasty beat to keep pace with.
No, really nasty. Try it sometime. Dancing to it is great, but walking. Woo.
Not that it's improved my dancing. Still dance like epileptic monkey.
This entry was brought to your courtesy of Sarah Brightman playing while I was taking a dump. She is painfully brilliant, vocally. The notes she can hit, gods.
Inevitably, as a warm blooded male, the thought comes to mind as to what she sounds like in bed.
"Oh yes...yes...
YEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!"
"...Sarah darling, don't get me wrong. I love you. But that's the seventh set of really expensive crystalware disintegrated, this week. I think we need to talk."
Take that, ye demons of professional standards.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Remember, remember.
No, no, nothing to do with what has become the catchphrase of highbrow art.
Besides, it's nowhere near November. And while we could work on something for the month, it just wouldn't be the same, would it?
"Hey, hey, look it's May."
Nothing else really lends itself to that sort of WAH SO PRO feeling, hmmm?
"Keep in tune, it's bloody June"
"What's up girl, it's twenty-fifth April."
Hmmm. This might work.
"Unfurl your member, for sexual September."
No? Artless cretins.
But yes, where did the time go. Do excuse me, two people and small yappy-type dog. Been busy and looks like will be for a while yet. Do not, however, confuse it with a terribly exciting life. Some people look forward to planned exotic destinations and beautiful women. And there's me going, "Come on, gotta get home and play Chrono Trigger".
As far as highlights go, we met a primary school classmate, unseen for a little over ten years, a couple weeks back. She's doing well, her teeth are clean, eyes bright and her coat has a nice glossy shine.
Something seems amiss. Ah yes, species.
She really is doing well, though. And one begins to understand the allure in meeting people, once dismissably familiar and now something halfway between old friend and new acquaintance that one has to rediscover.
The instrumental voice with its unique lilt. The same contours of the face, subtly different. I get there and prove that I am retarded with directions before sitting down with her, getting the beer she'd ordered for me and talking about dead people.
...hey, if you think that was sudden, you need to hear how she did it.
Out of nowhere it cometh. "You do know Mrs Lim killed herself?"
I explain carefully to her that, having just met for the first time in over ten years, she was supposed to start with the little details and build up to things like those. And I thought I was whacked.
People die. Have been doing it, last time I checked. I've been fortunate up to this stage of my rent-a-life to not have to deal with people I care for, offing it. Mrs Lim, brought to sudden sharp focus in over a decade, was our primary school form teacher. If I recall, she also taught us English and Science. I've always got along with the English teachers and was in the Science Club of yore. She was part of my little world.
"You do know Mrs Lim killed herself?"
I couldn't feel a sense of loss, as much as I wanted to. It'd just been too long. She was a lovely teacher, with a nasal, scratchy voice that was unique in being not at all annoying. Those were different times. Very different.
Times of grass and grasshoppers and catching fish in the drains
Times of one-dollar bowls of food, in a place still called a tuckshop
Times when the ground was so much closer and you smelled the earth when it rained
And just so much, so much more, because everything was new and wonderful and you didn't have to pretend to be anyone else other than a small fat kid. If you didn't like someone, you could just not friend them. The world was just yay big and anything else beyond that was for'in lands. You could wear a two-dollar Ninja Turtle T-shirt and be the envy of your friends.
Life's different when you grow. And I'm not sure all, or any of it is better.
We got to how Mrs Lim had killed herself just before another old mate arrived. She was mentally distressed, having been assigned just about the worst class around. Then she got a form of cancer and was wheelchair-bound. At this time, my own teenage delinquentism didn't help. She had to write an appraisal of me, in all likelihood the feather that tipped the scales in my favour. Shortly after, she flung herself off a balcony.
I was...affected. Little fragments of a long-forgotten, knee-high world came to mind over the night. Even the ex-classmate's cute boyfriend was no great distraction.
Once again, I can't pretend to be morose about it. The distance is just too great. But I do wish I could have spoken to her before that happened. Claiming absolute reverence and relevance, my question was how she'd flung herself off of anything, in a wheelchair.
Such a fragile thing, consciousness. Good bye, Mrs Lim.
I remember you now and I think I will continue to.
Besides, it's nowhere near November. And while we could work on something for the month, it just wouldn't be the same, would it?
"Hey, hey, look it's May."
Nothing else really lends itself to that sort of WAH SO PRO feeling, hmmm?
"Keep in tune, it's bloody June"
"What's up girl, it's twenty-fifth April."
Hmmm. This might work.
"Unfurl your member, for sexual September."
No? Artless cretins.
But yes, where did the time go. Do excuse me, two people and small yappy-type dog. Been busy and looks like will be for a while yet. Do not, however, confuse it with a terribly exciting life. Some people look forward to planned exotic destinations and beautiful women. And there's me going, "Come on, gotta get home and play Chrono Trigger".
As far as highlights go, we met a primary school classmate, unseen for a little over ten years, a couple weeks back. She's doing well, her teeth are clean, eyes bright and her coat has a nice glossy shine.
Something seems amiss. Ah yes, species.
She really is doing well, though. And one begins to understand the allure in meeting people, once dismissably familiar and now something halfway between old friend and new acquaintance that one has to rediscover.
The instrumental voice with its unique lilt. The same contours of the face, subtly different. I get there and prove that I am retarded with directions before sitting down with her, getting the beer she'd ordered for me and talking about dead people.
...hey, if you think that was sudden, you need to hear how she did it.
Out of nowhere it cometh. "You do know Mrs Lim killed herself?"
I explain carefully to her that, having just met for the first time in over ten years, she was supposed to start with the little details and build up to things like those. And I thought I was whacked.
People die. Have been doing it, last time I checked. I've been fortunate up to this stage of my rent-a-life to not have to deal with people I care for, offing it. Mrs Lim, brought to sudden sharp focus in over a decade, was our primary school form teacher. If I recall, she also taught us English and Science. I've always got along with the English teachers and was in the Science Club of yore. She was part of my little world.
"You do know Mrs Lim killed herself?"
I couldn't feel a sense of loss, as much as I wanted to. It'd just been too long. She was a lovely teacher, with a nasal, scratchy voice that was unique in being not at all annoying. Those were different times. Very different.
Times of grass and grasshoppers and catching fish in the drains
Times of one-dollar bowls of food, in a place still called a tuckshop
Times when the ground was so much closer and you smelled the earth when it rained
And just so much, so much more, because everything was new and wonderful and you didn't have to pretend to be anyone else other than a small fat kid. If you didn't like someone, you could just not friend them. The world was just yay big and anything else beyond that was for'in lands. You could wear a two-dollar Ninja Turtle T-shirt and be the envy of your friends.
Life's different when you grow. And I'm not sure all, or any of it is better.
We got to how Mrs Lim had killed herself just before another old mate arrived. She was mentally distressed, having been assigned just about the worst class around. Then she got a form of cancer and was wheelchair-bound. At this time, my own teenage delinquentism didn't help. She had to write an appraisal of me, in all likelihood the feather that tipped the scales in my favour. Shortly after, she flung herself off a balcony.
I was...affected. Little fragments of a long-forgotten, knee-high world came to mind over the night. Even the ex-classmate's cute boyfriend was no great distraction.
Once again, I can't pretend to be morose about it. The distance is just too great. But I do wish I could have spoken to her before that happened. Claiming absolute reverence and relevance, my question was how she'd flung herself off of anything, in a wheelchair.
Such a fragile thing, consciousness. Good bye, Mrs Lim.
I remember you now and I think I will continue to.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Happy belated Bleat.
So there we have it. The event I've been meaning to mark for the longest time and I clean forgot it.
It's been just over a year since we've been making whining noises on the internet. Has there been a difference? I think it's fairly telling, how it's gone from, "Jesus H. Dissatisfied with life. Mope mope snivel oh whatever shall I do," to "It's 1am. Somebody tell me where the fuck the time went."
I scare myself with how different I've become. Not necessarily better. Just different. And it's interesting how the old self fights it, re-asserts control when facing drop-dead familarity. Bordering bloody schizo, that's what it is.
Though I must say, not neccessarily a bad thing. It's the day and age where having some sort of mental disorder makes you sexier. Got to have most of it set up first, though. Dark, broody, furrowed brow, stubble and everything. Then it's got to be the right sort of disorder. Schizophrenia's quite up there. The whole cannotcontrolangerMUSTKILLNOW gig also applicable. Nothing sexy about fat, bald forty-somethings who spend the day thinking they're chickens.
But yes, I think I'll only hit sexy if I'm dead and presented in front of necrophilic coroner. I do cute pretty well, but we all know that doesn't get you laid.
Here we go, then:
Happy anniversary to me
I've grown a little less creepy
And hopefully 'fore I'm deeeeeeeaaaad
I'll be able to get...
Yes, well. Here's to me not getting fat in seven years.
...two-person joke, that one. Gotta work on that repertoire.
Cheers.
It's been just over a year since we've been making whining noises on the internet. Has there been a difference? I think it's fairly telling, how it's gone from, "Jesus H. Dissatisfied with life. Mope mope snivel oh whatever shall I do," to "It's 1am. Somebody tell me where the fuck the time went."
I scare myself with how different I've become. Not necessarily better. Just different. And it's interesting how the old self fights it, re-asserts control when facing drop-dead familarity. Bordering bloody schizo, that's what it is.
Though I must say, not neccessarily a bad thing. It's the day and age where having some sort of mental disorder makes you sexier. Got to have most of it set up first, though. Dark, broody, furrowed brow, stubble and everything. Then it's got to be the right sort of disorder. Schizophrenia's quite up there. The whole cannotcontrolangerMUSTKILLNOW gig also applicable. Nothing sexy about fat, bald forty-somethings who spend the day thinking they're chickens.
But yes, I think I'll only hit sexy if I'm dead and presented in front of necrophilic coroner. I do cute pretty well, but we all know that doesn't get you laid.
Here we go, then:
Happy anniversary to me
I've grown a little less creepy
And hopefully 'fore I'm deeeeeeeaaaad
I'll be able to get...
Yes, well. Here's to me not getting fat in seven years.
...two-person joke, that one. Gotta work on that repertoire.
Cheers.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Inking the illusion.
See, not so long.
So, yes. I'll have you know, I'm extremely talented at drawing.
Don't look at me like that. If they can stick a paintbrush on an elephant and sell the canvas as highbrow art, then I have talent, alright?
I take the sheet and familiar click-action plastic black Pilot pen Charles fishes from behind the desk. Feeling a little amused at what I'd got myself into, I lean over the desk, waving away the chair he begins to wheel over. "Mind if I watch?" he asks. Artistic courtesy or something, I vaguely understand.
You'd expect him to go get a drink, put things away or, I don't know, beat off in the loo after a while. But no, for the fifteen or so minutes it took, he was as good as his word. Stood and watched quietly. Surprisingly, it wasn't at all like having someone watch you write. Must be the artist in me. Or lack of, thereof.
The deed duly done, I straighten apprehensively. It was the sort of feeling you get, standing next to an African-American at the urinals. You kinda knew you wouldn't measure up, but you really wanted to know.
This was it, in full photoshopped glory:
...there goes that bit of internet anonymity. Anyway, the thing was black on white, originally.
"Hmmm. Done," quoth I. He studies it. I tense.
Then he looks up from that classic Thinker pose. "I think...you have art in your soul. I like it."
I simpered like a schoolgirl. A little over the top, the art in soul business, but hey, Charles was an artist. They get away with selling little tins of their own excrement. It was a positively mundane statement, in that light.
Either that or he was a really good salesman, I suppose. He then asks why I wanted to get that done and I say quite simply that it was the name I wrote with. At some unknown point, the whole decision process had been quietly disposed of. We discuss where it was to go. Blazed across chest? Arm? Left buttock?
I decided on the less obtrusive lower-back option. It was just for me, after all. Charles smiles as I say this and there was a little feeling of having passed some sort of test. Enigmatically, he tells me not to worry about the price. Trustingly, I...uh, trust him. Come on then, he says, ducking into the doorway. With everything seeming a little surreal, I trot after.
He opens one of the two doors inside and holds it for me. It was...something else. A low black leather...bed thing, a similarly low red metal stool and a mobile steel shelf of sorts occupied the middle of the room. Neatly arranged on the shelf were all sorts of bottles and sharp pointy things I immediately put out of my mind. The far side was the one-way glass, looking out onto the street. The length of the left wall was all mirror and the middle of the right wall led to the next room. On the left of the door, more shelves and on the right, a little basin.
Decor was consistent, the only difference being the lighting was a series of fluorescent tubes instead of wall-mounted lamps. Easier to see with and better for matching colour, you see. I will not lie and say I figured that out all by myself.
What I will say at this point is that the degree of weirdness involved in having another man say to you, "So, you want to take that off?" is something else, altogether.
What goes next is the preview, in two stages. From the side of the shelves, Charles wheels out one of those dressing mirrors and angles it so I can see my back in the mirrored wall. He holds up what I drew against my back, adjusting till I nod. Then he brings the stool over, with some sort of special marker. He deftly copies what I drew onto the spot and presents it for inspection. The talented little bastard gets it in one, on what he calls the rough sketch. Bah.
He confirms that I wanted it done in just black. Then, of course, is the point of no return. With a little huff of finality, he asks if I wanted to lie down on the black...bondage bed thing. Seeing as it was that or spreadeagled against the wall, I confirmed that I did.
I began to understand what Charles was talking about with the back-tattooing. Ok, maybe not. Because while he was talking about surrender, what with the weird clicks and scrapings I could hear BUT NOT SEE coming from behind me, my own emotion more closely approximated sheer terror.
He tells me, as he wipes my back down with a sterilizing swab, that it would hurt a lot at first and get better along the way. Something about endorphins, but like a broken record, the mind replaying "HURT A LOT" drowned out the rest of what he said. Well, at least he was honest about it. He flicks something on and a sewing-machine noise begins.
Besides the psycho ones who cut themselves, most people who get want to get tattoos worry about the pain. What's it like, then? Put it this way, if Pain was a course of study, after you get a tattoo, you graduate with a Bachelor's. Or maybe I'm just a wimp, like that. Professorship reserved for women who go for natural childbirths, because I've had some horrible shits in my life and still cannot imagine passing a football.
And what happens during the thing is, the tattoo gun drives a hollow needle into you and releases a small amount of ink each time. It pierces the upper few layers of skin and deposits the colour right above the fat. There usually aren't any blood vessels in the area, so you don't bleed much. You still, however, get all the other benefits of having a needle driven into you twenty thousand times. With a wipe of alcohol every few minutes to disinfect the area. Also, to refresh the pain.
Charles was right, though. The initial shock does wear off and goes from sharp-stabby to dull-achy in ten minutes or so. Depends on your level of tolerance, he tells me. I'm reckoning mine is about 4cm, the indent I left in the leather after I managed to unhook my fingers.
And after only twenty repetitions of "almost done", it was done. After a swipe of more alcohol as a gentle reminder that, yes, I could feel that much pain, I got off the bed and inspected myself in the mirror. There it was, amidst a throbbing sea of angry red welts. The sad part was, besides the swelling, I couldn't tell much difference between this and the marker-penned one.
Perhaps having seen the look on my face, Charles assured me it would look much better once the swelling subsided. As he handed me a bottle of alcohol and some cotton wool in a bag, I asked him how much I owed him. Cue mental arithmetic face. Then impish grin. "Got fifty?" he asked. "That'll cover the ink. Fuck the rest, it's on me."
Considering I was counting out the hundreds in my mind, it came as a huge, pleasant surprise. Yes, he was definitely sure. He liked me. And no, he didn't do this for everybody. Sure he didn't need the money, but it was a nice thing to have.
He friendlily snapped the note out of my hand and walked me to the door. I didn't have to, but it would be great if I would come back once the swelling was down, so he could see it. And anytime I wanted to hang out, really. Dianne would be back next week and I could meet her then, he said, handing me a business card.
Thanking him again, I told Charles I would love to come back soon and meet her.
But I couldn't. Not soon, not ever.
Because he doesn't exist, you see. And neither does Dianne, or the little shop in Geylang.
Thank you for reading my first work of fiction.
So, yes. I'll have you know, I'm extremely talented at drawing.
Don't look at me like that. If they can stick a paintbrush on an elephant and sell the canvas as highbrow art, then I have talent, alright?
I take the sheet and familiar click-action plastic black Pilot pen Charles fishes from behind the desk. Feeling a little amused at what I'd got myself into, I lean over the desk, waving away the chair he begins to wheel over. "Mind if I watch?" he asks. Artistic courtesy or something, I vaguely understand.
You'd expect him to go get a drink, put things away or, I don't know, beat off in the loo after a while. But no, for the fifteen or so minutes it took, he was as good as his word. Stood and watched quietly. Surprisingly, it wasn't at all like having someone watch you write. Must be the artist in me. Or lack of, thereof.
The deed duly done, I straighten apprehensively. It was the sort of feeling you get, standing next to an African-American at the urinals. You kinda knew you wouldn't measure up, but you really wanted to know.
This was it, in full photoshopped glory:
...there goes that bit of internet anonymity. Anyway, the thing was black on white, originally.
"Hmmm. Done," quoth I. He studies it. I tense.
Then he looks up from that classic Thinker pose. "I think...you have art in your soul. I like it."
I simpered like a schoolgirl. A little over the top, the art in soul business, but hey, Charles was an artist. They get away with selling little tins of their own excrement. It was a positively mundane statement, in that light.
Either that or he was a really good salesman, I suppose. He then asks why I wanted to get that done and I say quite simply that it was the name I wrote with. At some unknown point, the whole decision process had been quietly disposed of. We discuss where it was to go. Blazed across chest? Arm? Left buttock?
I decided on the less obtrusive lower-back option. It was just for me, after all. Charles smiles as I say this and there was a little feeling of having passed some sort of test. Enigmatically, he tells me not to worry about the price. Trustingly, I...uh, trust him. Come on then, he says, ducking into the doorway. With everything seeming a little surreal, I trot after.
He opens one of the two doors inside and holds it for me. It was...something else. A low black leather...bed thing, a similarly low red metal stool and a mobile steel shelf of sorts occupied the middle of the room. Neatly arranged on the shelf were all sorts of bottles and sharp pointy things I immediately put out of my mind. The far side was the one-way glass, looking out onto the street. The length of the left wall was all mirror and the middle of the right wall led to the next room. On the left of the door, more shelves and on the right, a little basin.
Decor was consistent, the only difference being the lighting was a series of fluorescent tubes instead of wall-mounted lamps. Easier to see with and better for matching colour, you see. I will not lie and say I figured that out all by myself.
What I will say at this point is that the degree of weirdness involved in having another man say to you, "So, you want to take that off?" is something else, altogether.
What goes next is the preview, in two stages. From the side of the shelves, Charles wheels out one of those dressing mirrors and angles it so I can see my back in the mirrored wall. He holds up what I drew against my back, adjusting till I nod. Then he brings the stool over, with some sort of special marker. He deftly copies what I drew onto the spot and presents it for inspection. The talented little bastard gets it in one, on what he calls the rough sketch. Bah.
He confirms that I wanted it done in just black. Then, of course, is the point of no return. With a little huff of finality, he asks if I wanted to lie down on the black...bondage bed thing. Seeing as it was that or spreadeagled against the wall, I confirmed that I did.
I began to understand what Charles was talking about with the back-tattooing. Ok, maybe not. Because while he was talking about surrender, what with the weird clicks and scrapings I could hear BUT NOT SEE coming from behind me, my own emotion more closely approximated sheer terror.
He tells me, as he wipes my back down with a sterilizing swab, that it would hurt a lot at first and get better along the way. Something about endorphins, but like a broken record, the mind replaying "HURT A LOT" drowned out the rest of what he said. Well, at least he was honest about it. He flicks something on and a sewing-machine noise begins.
Besides the psycho ones who cut themselves, most people who get want to get tattoos worry about the pain. What's it like, then? Put it this way, if Pain was a course of study, after you get a tattoo, you graduate with a Bachelor's. Or maybe I'm just a wimp, like that. Professorship reserved for women who go for natural childbirths, because I've had some horrible shits in my life and still cannot imagine passing a football.
And what happens during the thing is, the tattoo gun drives a hollow needle into you and releases a small amount of ink each time. It pierces the upper few layers of skin and deposits the colour right above the fat. There usually aren't any blood vessels in the area, so you don't bleed much. You still, however, get all the other benefits of having a needle driven into you twenty thousand times. With a wipe of alcohol every few minutes to disinfect the area. Also, to refresh the pain.
Charles was right, though. The initial shock does wear off and goes from sharp-stabby to dull-achy in ten minutes or so. Depends on your level of tolerance, he tells me. I'm reckoning mine is about 4cm, the indent I left in the leather after I managed to unhook my fingers.
And after only twenty repetitions of "almost done", it was done. After a swipe of more alcohol as a gentle reminder that, yes, I could feel that much pain, I got off the bed and inspected myself in the mirror. There it was, amidst a throbbing sea of angry red welts. The sad part was, besides the swelling, I couldn't tell much difference between this and the marker-penned one.
Perhaps having seen the look on my face, Charles assured me it would look much better once the swelling subsided. As he handed me a bottle of alcohol and some cotton wool in a bag, I asked him how much I owed him. Cue mental arithmetic face. Then impish grin. "Got fifty?" he asked. "That'll cover the ink. Fuck the rest, it's on me."
Considering I was counting out the hundreds in my mind, it came as a huge, pleasant surprise. Yes, he was definitely sure. He liked me. And no, he didn't do this for everybody. Sure he didn't need the money, but it was a nice thing to have.
He friendlily snapped the note out of my hand and walked me to the door. I didn't have to, but it would be great if I would come back once the swelling was down, so he could see it. And anytime I wanted to hang out, really. Dianne would be back next week and I could meet her then, he said, handing me a business card.
Thanking him again, I told Charles I would love to come back soon and meet her.
But I couldn't. Not soon, not ever.
Because he doesn't exist, you see. And neither does Dianne, or the little shop in Geylang.
Thank you for reading my first work of fiction.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Getting inked.
Yes, it has been that busy.
So we left you at an ambiguously homosexual moment. The air is fraught with tension. Charged with the sort of palpable electricity that scientists who never get shagged refuse to acknowledge the existence of. Myself. Charles. Two decent-looking young blokes sort of alternating between foot-shuffling and playing spot-the-non-existent-spider-on-the-wall.
The moment passes, of course. We handle it in our stride, as men of our stature are wont. Which is to say, we pretend it never happened. So was I thinking of getting a tattoo, he asks. No, I wasn't. It was just that my fountain pen had run dry, you see.
'Course, I wasn't going to risk a steamrolled-squirrel-type joke on someone who would be standing over me with an instrument of torture. Yes, I say. I was thinking about it. Not sure how far it was going to take me but thinking, definitely.
On more even footing now, we perform the dance of the expert salesman and the customer who was probably going to buy something, anyway. He hesitantly brings up the stigma associated with having a tattoo and we laugh about my being used to it with my lack of education. And though I'd briefly entertained something screaming loud down the length of my arm, by now I'd figured that my primary concern with getting any sort of tattoo was going to be the screaming, period.
We talk a little about it, inevitably getting around to me pointing out that Charles had nothing visible on him. He grins a little and turns around, whipping his singlet off.
...yes, that was all that came off.
Starting a little below the shoulder blades, a sword. That was all. Done in shades of black, with a single flare of blue from the one sapphire in the hilt. Angled slightly to the right, it was a little East, a little West, a quiet power more than the sum of its parts. Exquisite, elegant and halfway erotic, it was the sort of thing you could properly use the word, "fusion" for.
Half the blade slides into his spine, with a play of shadow and dimensions so skillful I reached out to examine it before I realized what I was doing. Feel free, he says, and I start a little. No mirrors, so how the... . Of course, he must get that sort of reaction a lot. I slide the fingers of my right hand down the blade, watching it ripple down to the end. It was a real urge, to somehow take hold of the hilt and wrench the thing free.
I snap out of it. It was splendid work and I say so. Shrugging back into the singlet, he smiles. Dianne's work, he says. She has a rose similarly embedded, done by him. Depending on what sort of person you were, you get a tattoo for different reasons. The flamboyant go for any old thing, anywhere. The wannabes get your usual skulls and dragons. Sometimes other reasons are involved, like the remembrance of a person, or to be marked. He tells me I should see some of the Japanese Yakuza without their shirts. Literally, there is no bit of skin un-inked.
For tattooists like himself and Dianne, there were also many ways of going about it. Charles says he knows some who just get their bodies covered for the image - that a tattooist should have tattoos. It was different for himself and Dianne. They weren't in this for the money, but for the art. No matter how skilled your were, you cannot do anything on your own back. So it was the ultimate expression of surrender for them to turn their backs and say, "Yes, you may paint me.
Though I absorbed all of it and found it beautifully fascinating, I will confess to have had two primary thoughts override all else at the time:
1. You rich, good looking bastard.
2. In accordance with the grand scheme of things, Dianne had to be smart, funny and drop-dead gorgeous. With that and the tattoo thing going, one could only begin to imagine the sort of sex they must have. Quite probably on the tattoo chairs. Both. Several times. A night.
Some people.
We get a little smarter this time. Charles flows smoothly on to ask me if I wanted a look at the sort of designs they had, or if I had something in mind already. With the tiny, law-abiding and more importantly, pain-fearing bit of my consciousness banging on the back of my head and asking if I was fucking nuts, I chew my lip thoughtfully.
Oh wot the hell. No obligations yet at this stage, eh? I glance up from examining the carpet.
"Got a pen?"
Getting lateish. Sodding off. No hopes on next opportunity to write being soon, but yes, prolly not this long.
So we left you at an ambiguously homosexual moment. The air is fraught with tension. Charged with the sort of palpable electricity that scientists who never get shagged refuse to acknowledge the existence of. Myself. Charles. Two decent-looking young blokes sort of alternating between foot-shuffling and playing spot-the-non-existent-spider-on-the-wall.
The moment passes, of course. We handle it in our stride, as men of our stature are wont. Which is to say, we pretend it never happened. So was I thinking of getting a tattoo, he asks. No, I wasn't. It was just that my fountain pen had run dry, you see.
'Course, I wasn't going to risk a steamrolled-squirrel-type joke on someone who would be standing over me with an instrument of torture. Yes, I say. I was thinking about it. Not sure how far it was going to take me but thinking, definitely.
On more even footing now, we perform the dance of the expert salesman and the customer who was probably going to buy something, anyway. He hesitantly brings up the stigma associated with having a tattoo and we laugh about my being used to it with my lack of education. And though I'd briefly entertained something screaming loud down the length of my arm, by now I'd figured that my primary concern with getting any sort of tattoo was going to be the screaming, period.
We talk a little about it, inevitably getting around to me pointing out that Charles had nothing visible on him. He grins a little and turns around, whipping his singlet off.
...yes, that was all that came off.
Starting a little below the shoulder blades, a sword. That was all. Done in shades of black, with a single flare of blue from the one sapphire in the hilt. Angled slightly to the right, it was a little East, a little West, a quiet power more than the sum of its parts. Exquisite, elegant and halfway erotic, it was the sort of thing you could properly use the word, "fusion" for.
Half the blade slides into his spine, with a play of shadow and dimensions so skillful I reached out to examine it before I realized what I was doing. Feel free, he says, and I start a little. No mirrors, so how the... . Of course, he must get that sort of reaction a lot. I slide the fingers of my right hand down the blade, watching it ripple down to the end. It was a real urge, to somehow take hold of the hilt and wrench the thing free.
I snap out of it. It was splendid work and I say so. Shrugging back into the singlet, he smiles. Dianne's work, he says. She has a rose similarly embedded, done by him. Depending on what sort of person you were, you get a tattoo for different reasons. The flamboyant go for any old thing, anywhere. The wannabes get your usual skulls and dragons. Sometimes other reasons are involved, like the remembrance of a person, or to be marked. He tells me I should see some of the Japanese Yakuza without their shirts. Literally, there is no bit of skin un-inked.
For tattooists like himself and Dianne, there were also many ways of going about it. Charles says he knows some who just get their bodies covered for the image - that a tattooist should have tattoos. It was different for himself and Dianne. They weren't in this for the money, but for the art. No matter how skilled your were, you cannot do anything on your own back. So it was the ultimate expression of surrender for them to turn their backs and say, "Yes, you may paint me.
Though I absorbed all of it and found it beautifully fascinating, I will confess to have had two primary thoughts override all else at the time:
1. You rich, good looking bastard.
2. In accordance with the grand scheme of things, Dianne had to be smart, funny and drop-dead gorgeous. With that and the tattoo thing going, one could only begin to imagine the sort of sex they must have. Quite probably on the tattoo chairs. Both. Several times. A night.
Some people.
We get a little smarter this time. Charles flows smoothly on to ask me if I wanted a look at the sort of designs they had, or if I had something in mind already. With the tiny, law-abiding and more importantly, pain-fearing bit of my consciousness banging on the back of my head and asking if I was fucking nuts, I chew my lip thoughtfully.
Oh wot the hell. No obligations yet at this stage, eh? I glance up from examining the carpet.
"Got a pen?"
Getting lateish. Sodding off. No hopes on next opportunity to write being soon, but yes, prolly not this long.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Getting an inkling.
No, not dead. Just terribly busy. And been very...distracted. Mind's all over the place, lingering lambent where it has no business being.
Yes, distracted.
Did I mention distracted?
Well, then.
So, yes. Impulse is a powerful thing. You've lost half your money at BlackJack and...oh FUCK IT. Bet the other half.
Reallyshouldn'thaveanotherdrinkreallyshouldn'thaveanotherdrink. "Uh, share a jug? Sure!" Cue rest of night with head in toilet.
Boy meets girl. There is attraction. They are alone. One innocently whips around to find the other quite a bit closer than expected. Conscious thought fights tooth and claw with primal instinct. Fight? Flight? ...Fuck?
I got my only ear-piercing that way. No, not kissing someone. Those would be really weird teeth. Was waiting for In.Significant, walking about and poke-prodding shops. Ah, piercing shop. Ok PIERCE EAR PIERCE EAR NOW.
...pok.
Was surprised at the lack of feeling. The earring hasn't served me at all badly, though I must say it's tough when infection sets in and you walk about the place with your earlobe the size of a ping-pong ball.
Fitting then, that I get my first tattoo the same way. And while everyone and his pet cat has had their ears pierced, getting a 'tatt (hwah insider lingo) is relatively rare. So hear ye, hear ye, this story of...
Well, not very much actually. Getting a tattoo done is about pain. That's it. The flavours differ, but the theme runs throughout. It'd always been one of those vague crazy notions, getting a tattoo. But I preempt myself. There I was with half a day to kill and on my own, something that's been happening distressingly often these days. Poke. Prod. Tattoo Shop. HMMM.
The place was fairly big, occupying two units on the ground level of a row of shophouses in Geylang. Located, strangely, right next to a tire shop. Possibly, rent is cheap at such places, because I've seen all sorts of weird things next to tire shops. Hair salons, prata shops and cafe/bars. The smell of freshly minted rubber must go hella well with food.
It was the only two-unit shop there, too. Very rare. The district being the prostitution zone of our island that we try to pretend does not exist, most shophouses there that weren't going to have a red lantern on at night were in complete disrepair. Can't blame them I suppose. Can't do straight business in there.
"Mr Richards! It's great to see you. How was your flight? Great, great. Now, do you want to hear our proposal for that international -"
"SERRRR! FUCKY SUCKY? LOVE YOU LOONG TIME!"
"-multi-million dollar contract that we suppose we'll never get now."
But, yes. There I was at inKorporated - a stylish font, with the K brushstroked. Positive vibes, there were. It made an interesting contrast to "Hock Leng Tyre and Rubber Trading" next to it. And beats "Johnny Two-Thumbs" as a name. Sure, Johnny's is famous and seems to be the place to go. But I've never trusted anything too hyped. And why would anyone in the right frame of mind want to be tattooed by a person with an extra thumb?
The outside was all one-way mirrored glass upon which the name was stenciled, terminating in a wooden door at the end. I stroll up to find a surprising lack of the usual badly-photographed samples of lions and lagons. Instead, one of those OPEN-type plastic signs behind the small glass panel of the door said, "You think it. We ink it." How about that, eh?
Was about to walk off. Didn't. Went in. Yeah, the impulse thing.
You go into places with a certain mental picture in mind. At a fancy restaurant, you expect posh-posh lighting, with posh-posh furniture. At Hooters, heck, half the bill is for the cleavage. I went into inK', as I later learn is their abbreviation, expecting...I don't know. Never been in one before. Vague ideas of seedy and smokey. Heavyweight bikers lifting weights. Monkey inna tux dancing in the corner. Really, no idea.
So the sheer...pleasantness of the room I walked into threw me. A fuck-off huge sofa-bed thing against one wall, the only other furniture a largish wooden desk with a computer in the far right corner. Lighting was uh, upward-pointing lamps sheathed with blue glass, against navy-blue walls and the floor was carpeted an even darker blue.
Three framed pictures of tattooed bodies - one on each wall - were the only indication of what the place was about. An artsy monochrome dragon, a technicolour phoenix and above the desk, the Red Dragon tattoo, from the movie:
...which I thought was a really nice touch. No one else was in the room, though. No noises coming from the one other doorway set in the left wall. It led into the one-way mirrored space, which had to be the business area.
"One moment, please. Sorry!" a cheerful male voice chimes from inside the doorway. Yes, that was what he said. You must understand, after countless similar situations of "WAIT AH" and its variations, this stood out.
Water gushes somewhere and a figure emerges, towelling off his hands. In a loose, plain white singlet and jeans, he was lean, muscled and impishly good-looking. Looking a little over my own twenty-four years, he had that unique aura of matured youth. And that casual, out-of-bed look that takes bloody hours to get right, with short, black, tousled hair to match. But you could somehow tell he was one of those bastards that really get out of bed like that.
I considered walking out on general principles. No one should be able to look that good without trying.
Grinning sheepishly, he apologizes. He had to run the place alone this week and was just mixing inks when I came in. Firm handshake. He was Charles, and I was...? Great! One moment.
He quickly strides to the door and flips the plastic sign over. I just had time to make out the other side - a fountain pen within a red circle, a diagonal line across. Like, no smoking sign. No inking!
Bemused, I ask if he was closing up. Not at all, he says, with an easy, done-this-and-had-to-explain-it-before half-smile. He usually ran the place with his girlfriend, Dianne. But she was in Japan for the week, for a tattooists' convention. Inside the doorway, he points, there were only two tattoo studios. They had room for expansion if they needed it, but for now they were quite happy with the space they had to work with. Everything they would need for a session was in each of the two studios, so there was no need to run all over the place for equipment, inks and such.
When etching and especially when inking, you don't want to stop for anything. If you get interrupted, you lose the focus. Not so important for small, simple patterns, but if you were doing something like the pictures on the wall, you work as long as you can without a break, to ensure the colour and definition are all consistent.
So if Charles and Dianne were both occupied, they would close the shop till one of them was free. With just him around, it was done for every customer. That was some dedication, I remark. With a laudable effort at hiding his pleasure, he replies that it was just the way they worked, there.
Cue moment of awkward silence: two young men in singlets standing around, realizing they just hit it off really well with someone they'd just met. Of the same gender. For the longest, most homosexual five seconds of my life, we stood there looking at each other. We were both at a loss and both unused to it.
Don't you just hate cliffhangers like this?
Yes, distracted.
Did I mention distracted?
Well, then.
So, yes. Impulse is a powerful thing. You've lost half your money at BlackJack and...oh FUCK IT. Bet the other half.
Reallyshouldn'thaveanotherdrinkreallyshouldn'thaveanotherdrink. "Uh, share a jug? Sure!" Cue rest of night with head in toilet.
Boy meets girl. There is attraction. They are alone. One innocently whips around to find the other quite a bit closer than expected. Conscious thought fights tooth and claw with primal instinct. Fight? Flight? ...Fuck?
I got my only ear-piercing that way. No, not kissing someone. Those would be really weird teeth. Was waiting for In.Significant, walking about and poke-prodding shops. Ah, piercing shop. Ok PIERCE EAR PIERCE EAR NOW.
...pok.
Was surprised at the lack of feeling. The earring hasn't served me at all badly, though I must say it's tough when infection sets in and you walk about the place with your earlobe the size of a ping-pong ball.
Fitting then, that I get my first tattoo the same way. And while everyone and his pet cat has had their ears pierced, getting a 'tatt (hwah insider lingo) is relatively rare. So hear ye, hear ye, this story of...
Well, not very much actually. Getting a tattoo done is about pain. That's it. The flavours differ, but the theme runs throughout. It'd always been one of those vague crazy notions, getting a tattoo. But I preempt myself. There I was with half a day to kill and on my own, something that's been happening distressingly often these days. Poke. Prod. Tattoo Shop. HMMM.
The place was fairly big, occupying two units on the ground level of a row of shophouses in Geylang. Located, strangely, right next to a tire shop. Possibly, rent is cheap at such places, because I've seen all sorts of weird things next to tire shops. Hair salons, prata shops and cafe/bars. The smell of freshly minted rubber must go hella well with food.
It was the only two-unit shop there, too. Very rare. The district being the prostitution zone of our island that we try to pretend does not exist, most shophouses there that weren't going to have a red lantern on at night were in complete disrepair. Can't blame them I suppose. Can't do straight business in there.
"Mr Richards! It's great to see you. How was your flight? Great, great. Now, do you want to hear our proposal for that international -"
"SERRRR! FUCKY SUCKY? LOVE YOU LOONG TIME!"
"-multi-million dollar contract that we suppose we'll never get now."
But, yes. There I was at inKorporated - a stylish font, with the K brushstroked. Positive vibes, there were. It made an interesting contrast to "Hock Leng Tyre and Rubber Trading" next to it. And beats "Johnny Two-Thumbs" as a name. Sure, Johnny's is famous and seems to be the place to go. But I've never trusted anything too hyped. And why would anyone in the right frame of mind want to be tattooed by a person with an extra thumb?
The outside was all one-way mirrored glass upon which the name was stenciled, terminating in a wooden door at the end. I stroll up to find a surprising lack of the usual badly-photographed samples of lions and lagons. Instead, one of those OPEN-type plastic signs behind the small glass panel of the door said, "You think it. We ink it." How about that, eh?
Was about to walk off. Didn't. Went in. Yeah, the impulse thing.
You go into places with a certain mental picture in mind. At a fancy restaurant, you expect posh-posh lighting, with posh-posh furniture. At Hooters, heck, half the bill is for the cleavage. I went into inK', as I later learn is their abbreviation, expecting...I don't know. Never been in one before. Vague ideas of seedy and smokey. Heavyweight bikers lifting weights. Monkey inna tux dancing in the corner. Really, no idea.
So the sheer...pleasantness of the room I walked into threw me. A fuck-off huge sofa-bed thing against one wall, the only other furniture a largish wooden desk with a computer in the far right corner. Lighting was uh, upward-pointing lamps sheathed with blue glass, against navy-blue walls and the floor was carpeted an even darker blue.
Three framed pictures of tattooed bodies - one on each wall - were the only indication of what the place was about. An artsy monochrome dragon, a technicolour phoenix and above the desk, the Red Dragon tattoo, from the movie:
...which I thought was a really nice touch. No one else was in the room, though. No noises coming from the one other doorway set in the left wall. It led into the one-way mirrored space, which had to be the business area.
"One moment, please. Sorry!" a cheerful male voice chimes from inside the doorway. Yes, that was what he said. You must understand, after countless similar situations of "WAIT AH" and its variations, this stood out.
Water gushes somewhere and a figure emerges, towelling off his hands. In a loose, plain white singlet and jeans, he was lean, muscled and impishly good-looking. Looking a little over my own twenty-four years, he had that unique aura of matured youth. And that casual, out-of-bed look that takes bloody hours to get right, with short, black, tousled hair to match. But you could somehow tell he was one of those bastards that really get out of bed like that.
I considered walking out on general principles. No one should be able to look that good without trying.
Grinning sheepishly, he apologizes. He had to run the place alone this week and was just mixing inks when I came in. Firm handshake. He was Charles, and I was...? Great! One moment.
He quickly strides to the door and flips the plastic sign over. I just had time to make out the other side - a fountain pen within a red circle, a diagonal line across. Like, no smoking sign. No inking!
Bemused, I ask if he was closing up. Not at all, he says, with an easy, done-this-and-had-to-explain-it-before half-smile. He usually ran the place with his girlfriend, Dianne. But she was in Japan for the week, for a tattooists' convention. Inside the doorway, he points, there were only two tattoo studios. They had room for expansion if they needed it, but for now they were quite happy with the space they had to work with. Everything they would need for a session was in each of the two studios, so there was no need to run all over the place for equipment, inks and such.
When etching and especially when inking, you don't want to stop for anything. If you get interrupted, you lose the focus. Not so important for small, simple patterns, but if you were doing something like the pictures on the wall, you work as long as you can without a break, to ensure the colour and definition are all consistent.
So if Charles and Dianne were both occupied, they would close the shop till one of them was free. With just him around, it was done for every customer. That was some dedication, I remark. With a laudable effort at hiding his pleasure, he replies that it was just the way they worked, there.
Cue moment of awkward silence: two young men in singlets standing around, realizing they just hit it off really well with someone they'd just met. Of the same gender. For the longest, most homosexual five seconds of my life, we stood there looking at each other. We were both at a loss and both unused to it.
Don't you just hate cliffhangers like this?
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Fancy Nancy.
All these interesting England-English terms.
Over a working lunch, we learn that to over-describe something with hyperbole, adjectives, verbs and other such grammaticulars is a Nancy. Something one of my...elders then said I was good at.
Too much credit, though I do have a penchant for verbosity. Not an advantage on this island. It's all about how short and how fast. Kind of like Chinese men.
Yes, good writing is concise writing. But who can resist the occasional flights of fancy? So yes, we try. The distressing habit of falling arse over tit for the nearest female makes this one fairly easy:
She captivates, with her little eccentricities. The way she moves with a grace; a dancing lightness beyond description. A flower fades, a song grows stale - she is timeless as the wind and sea, as irrefutable a force. In a painful, epiphanic understanding of what the word was created to describe; she is beautiful, beautiful.
Not Nancy enough. I suspect that would involve phrases like "hair the glossed ebony of the raven's wing" and "breasts like jewelled melons". But then where got class, hor? Still, they beat, "WAH THAT ONE SIBEI CHIO LEH."
I swear to various assorted gods, I read those phrases in a children's book of Arabian Tales or something. When I was aged eight or so. Once in a while, I still try to imagine what sort of breast that would look like.
And no, no one in particular. ...I think.
Food's a bit more difficult. It's all been said before and there's only so far you can go before the description starts sounding as phony as a...telephone or something. I'm quite persuadable, with my food. If it's meat and FOR CHRISSAKES DON'T OVERCOOK IT, I'm generally happy.
But I do like my salmon!
There can be no argument: salmon was designed as food of the highest order. By itself, it is rich, smooth and almost creamy - a taste one begs to linger. Though far risen above the petty needs of other meats to be cooked, salmon lends itself with ease to any preparation. From vivid orange streaked with white, it then becomes a pleasant pink, still a delight to both behold and savour.
Poor things. Every bit of them tastes so good, you just can't help but think Nature really had it in for them. Then again, looking at what they have to do to have a sex life, she prolly does.
...you know, I've never liked the name, Nancy.
Over a working lunch, we learn that to over-describe something with hyperbole, adjectives, verbs and other such grammaticulars is a Nancy. Something one of my...elders then said I was good at.
Too much credit, though I do have a penchant for verbosity. Not an advantage on this island. It's all about how short and how fast. Kind of like Chinese men.
Yes, good writing is concise writing. But who can resist the occasional flights of fancy? So yes, we try. The distressing habit of falling arse over tit for the nearest female makes this one fairly easy:
She captivates, with her little eccentricities. The way she moves with a grace; a dancing lightness beyond description. A flower fades, a song grows stale - she is timeless as the wind and sea, as irrefutable a force. In a painful, epiphanic understanding of what the word was created to describe; she is beautiful, beautiful.
Not Nancy enough. I suspect that would involve phrases like "hair the glossed ebony of the raven's wing" and "breasts like jewelled melons". But then where got class, hor? Still, they beat, "WAH THAT ONE SIBEI CHIO LEH."
I swear to various assorted gods, I read those phrases in a children's book of Arabian Tales or something. When I was aged eight or so. Once in a while, I still try to imagine what sort of breast that would look like.
And no, no one in particular. ...I think.
Food's a bit more difficult. It's all been said before and there's only so far you can go before the description starts sounding as phony as a...telephone or something. I'm quite persuadable, with my food. If it's meat and FOR CHRISSAKES DON'T OVERCOOK IT, I'm generally happy.
But I do like my salmon!
There can be no argument: salmon was designed as food of the highest order. By itself, it is rich, smooth and almost creamy - a taste one begs to linger. Though far risen above the petty needs of other meats to be cooked, salmon lends itself with ease to any preparation. From vivid orange streaked with white, it then becomes a pleasant pink, still a delight to both behold and savour.
Poor things. Every bit of them tastes so good, you just can't help but think Nature really had it in for them. Then again, looking at what they have to do to have a sex life, she prolly does.
...you know, I've never liked the name, Nancy.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Enter the Lagon.
Lagon, lagon.
There's American-style bar brawls and ye olde Englishe fisticuffs. All charming in their way. But for sheer style, it's hard to beat Chinese martial arts.
Whether it's Shaolin kung fu or ErMei Shan's uh, Stance of the Wounded Badger or something, there's just this grace and fluidity that runs through the lot. We're talking about the actual stuff here, mind. Not the throw-fireball-from-hands, Street Fighter hadoken fancifuls.
Jackie Chan is good at it. The nose just throws him as a suave character though. Jet Li also quite pro, lah. Somemore got nice stylo name. But who doesn't know the legend that has endured time - the one who brought magic to the screen in an era when computer effects were so many green characters on a black screen - Bruce Lee.
Being of that particular sort of build, it's unlikely I'll ever get impressive bodybuilt mass without enough steroids to make my testicles look like those peanuts they serve with beer. The best bet, as a friend has said, is to go for the Bruce Lee option - thin, hardwired strength, lean and corded.
That one also not likely, lah. He ran a martial arts school, taught fighting and did it for a living. I'm an impoverished copywriter with delusions of grandeur. Fat, to boot.
But one can always admire and aspire. So once again, long introduction-prelude to small shitty Photoshop by your favourite goat. Been a lack of visual stimuli here lately, anyhow.
Yes, I make one. Click for wallpaper in full 1280x1024 glory.
...or don't. See if I care. - does trademark Bruce Lee thumb-against-nose-rub -
There's American-style bar brawls and ye olde Englishe fisticuffs. All charming in their way. But for sheer style, it's hard to beat Chinese martial arts.
Whether it's Shaolin kung fu or ErMei Shan's uh, Stance of the Wounded Badger or something, there's just this grace and fluidity that runs through the lot. We're talking about the actual stuff here, mind. Not the throw-fireball-from-hands, Street Fighter hadoken fancifuls.
Jackie Chan is good at it. The nose just throws him as a suave character though. Jet Li also quite pro, lah. Somemore got nice stylo name. But who doesn't know the legend that has endured time - the one who brought magic to the screen in an era when computer effects were so many green characters on a black screen - Bruce Lee.
Being of that particular sort of build, it's unlikely I'll ever get impressive bodybuilt mass without enough steroids to make my testicles look like those peanuts they serve with beer. The best bet, as a friend has said, is to go for the Bruce Lee option - thin, hardwired strength, lean and corded.
That one also not likely, lah. He ran a martial arts school, taught fighting and did it for a living. I'm an impoverished copywriter with delusions of grandeur. Fat, to boot.
But one can always admire and aspire. So once again, long introduction-prelude to small shitty Photoshop by your favourite goat. Been a lack of visual stimuli here lately, anyhow.
Yes, I make one. Click for wallpaper in full 1280x1024 glory.
...or don't. See if I care. - does trademark Bruce Lee thumb-against-nose-rub -
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Oops, I...
Stealing a moment, here. The office pace has once again stepped up. Does not bode well, no. Though yes, as has been professionally advised by both of the two lovely ladies, the work is the thing keeping the cheques signed. Complain what, lah.
Mr Ancob himself is back. I can tell, you see, by the great heaps of paper that suddenly appear all over the place. Having been taken ill during his vacation, he is rapidly and most distressingly getting healthier.
Bad news. Healthy boss makes for work-long-hours boss. I wouldn't wish a hair off his head, mind. But I think his coming in early to put paper all over the place and then packing it up in the late 'noon to rest works quite nicely. The surreptitious (one of the words I have a great fondness for, yes) coughing and sneezing on him on my part is still holding up. But not for too much longer, I fear.
Then again of course, there's the problem of his staff stealing time off proper work to write nasty things about him on the internet. Terrible people, they are.
...ok, steal a bit more.
Much like the family, the sense of humour is apparently also semi-dysfunctional. Very hit and miss. Added to scoreboard is third attempt that came out flatter than steamrolled squirrel. I suspect I'm setting myself up for a lawsuit proper, next.
Not that it would necessarily be a bad thing, mind. Those seem to do for the selling of written work what Viagra does for the...otherwise indisposed. Comes with a cement truck-load of bad associations and generally frowned upon. Occasionally kills you. But hey - works.
So, yes. Prolly not a good idea to ditch what's paying the bills for a career in stand-up. I'd have the drummer at the back in charge of the da-DUNK chings going, "Uh, tell you wot mate, we'll do hand signals for when I'm supposed to go at it, right?" .
Ah, to have a little bit more Izzard in the blood.
Mr Ancob himself is back. I can tell, you see, by the great heaps of paper that suddenly appear all over the place. Having been taken ill during his vacation, he is rapidly and most distressingly getting healthier.
Bad news. Healthy boss makes for work-long-hours boss. I wouldn't wish a hair off his head, mind. But I think his coming in early to put paper all over the place and then packing it up in the late 'noon to rest works quite nicely. The surreptitious (one of the words I have a great fondness for, yes) coughing and sneezing on him on my part is still holding up. But not for too much longer, I fear.
Then again of course, there's the problem of his staff stealing time off proper work to write nasty things about him on the internet. Terrible people, they are.
...ok, steal a bit more.
Much like the family, the sense of humour is apparently also semi-dysfunctional. Very hit and miss. Added to scoreboard is third attempt that came out flatter than steamrolled squirrel. I suspect I'm setting myself up for a lawsuit proper, next.
Not that it would necessarily be a bad thing, mind. Those seem to do for the selling of written work what Viagra does for the...otherwise indisposed. Comes with a cement truck-load of bad associations and generally frowned upon. Occasionally kills you. But hey - works.
So, yes. Prolly not a good idea to ditch what's paying the bills for a career in stand-up. I'd have the drummer at the back in charge of the da-DUNK chings going, "Uh, tell you wot mate, we'll do hand signals for when I'm supposed to go at it, right?" .
Ah, to have a little bit more Izzard in the blood.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Stay still!
Truth/Fiction
Quite often, the line is about the width of that slash. Successful authors walk the line well. Timeless ones blur it. While a well-spun tale always regales, it's when the story makes you sort of go, "Hey! That's me!" that the enchantment is complete.
Well, for me, anyhow.
The preferred Goat-read is comic fantasy. Pratchett, Aspirin, Anthony and such. Not terribly useful stuff and a fair bit more divided from daily life. But even with trolls, goblins and the undead involved, chords still can be struck, and well.
Not-so-famous English writer Tom Holt does not make for smooth reading. "Ok, so Siegfried kills the dragon, gets the Tarnhelm and the ring of power and loses it to a Frost giant through a terribly complicated process of incest and deception. Four thousand years later, the hero of the story runs over a badger who turns out to be the Frost giant in hiding and then there's Rhinedaughters involved and..."
Well, I'm deliberately mucking it up a bit, but one does get lost in his twists.
In the Portable Door trilogy though, he phrased something really well. The protagonist, Paul Carpenter, is luckless, loveless and has been so all through his twenty-odd years.
...leave off. I won't deny that holds true for most of mine, but that's not the bit I'm talking about, alright?
Paul is unremarkably unremarkable. Not good at very much at all, broke and reticent in company (look, sod off. I'm getting to it alright?). Practically invisible to women. To top it off, he has a most distressing syndrome of falling in love.
It didn't take very much - they just had to be there. Tall, short, fat, slim...anything female with a pulse. Or not. Pulse negotiable. And he knew very well about it - he just couldn't do anything about it. Upon the third meeting or so, his pulse would race and he'd find himself stealing glances...well, robbing them, really. He fell in love with anything that'd stay still long enough.
That last was the quote, yes. Don't like them tadpole things at the tops of sentences that aren't dialogue. Tadpoles have their place. Ponds.
So it was that something I'd never been about to put a finger on was dragged screaming and kicking into the spotlight. I had that syndrome! Have, even.
Through the teenage diaries, I fixated myself on all sorts of women. Some of them didn't even resemble women. I'd go as far as to say human beings, but that would be going a little far. Though there was that one with the mustache...
Nevermind. Suppressed memory in time. So, yes. Explained all sorts of things, it did. My movie melancholia, for one. Yes, it just takes roughly an hour and a half of watching a character for it to sink in. Heck, for a bit I was even enamoured with Narusegawa. Naru of Love Hina fame. It's an anime. I did feel silly about that one. And that other one I went outstandingly psychotic on from reading her writing. If I weren't me, I'd scare me. Lots.
It's tough being an introverted nerd-geek that way. I'm hiding it better these days, but tennish years of cultivated instinct are hard to break completely. And I suspect all of us, besides the elite order of coke-bottle specced', acne-at-forty-five computer programmers are prone to it. Those blokes are just hardcore. Born to press Allllllt.
Sorry, best pun I could do on short notice.
So if you're female and have a nerd-geek friend, it's quite likely he's smitten with you. Do something about the poor boy. If you're not going to take him up on his uh, silent offer, do something to put him off. Nothing vicious, mind. We nerd-geeks are fragile that way. Many a broken-hearted sysadmin has been found dead in the morning, having hung himself with his mouse cord.
...I admit I'm at a loss for ideas, here. He's going to think everything you do is divine. If you squirt cola through your nose at him, he's not going to wash that shirt for the next week. Invite him over for dinner and serve up blackened bits on a plate. Watch in fascination as he crunches through what really is charcoal and asks for seconds.
So, sorry. Not much help. Don't worry, it wears off with time. But on no account show any kind of competence with a computer or inclination to play games on one. That rustling in the bushes at 3AM you'll hear for the next ten years will be him.
Quite happy I was, to have it suddenly cleared up for me. Not that it's a whole lot of help when you can't do anything about it. But it's nice to know, and all that.
Though, what Tom Holt didn't cover was what to do when, out of the wild blue, something all music and song and tinkly grace - what dreams may come - decides you somehow qualify.
I'm going with deer-in-headlights. If I figure it out, I'll do a book and retire off it.
Quite often, the line is about the width of that slash. Successful authors walk the line well. Timeless ones blur it. While a well-spun tale always regales, it's when the story makes you sort of go, "Hey! That's me!" that the enchantment is complete.
Well, for me, anyhow.
The preferred Goat-read is comic fantasy. Pratchett, Aspirin, Anthony and such. Not terribly useful stuff and a fair bit more divided from daily life. But even with trolls, goblins and the undead involved, chords still can be struck, and well.
Not-so-famous English writer Tom Holt does not make for smooth reading. "Ok, so Siegfried kills the dragon, gets the Tarnhelm and the ring of power and loses it to a Frost giant through a terribly complicated process of incest and deception. Four thousand years later, the hero of the story runs over a badger who turns out to be the Frost giant in hiding and then there's Rhinedaughters involved and..."
Well, I'm deliberately mucking it up a bit, but one does get lost in his twists.
In the Portable Door trilogy though, he phrased something really well. The protagonist, Paul Carpenter, is luckless, loveless and has been so all through his twenty-odd years.
...leave off. I won't deny that holds true for most of mine, but that's not the bit I'm talking about, alright?
Paul is unremarkably unremarkable. Not good at very much at all, broke and reticent in company (look, sod off. I'm getting to it alright?). Practically invisible to women. To top it off, he has a most distressing syndrome of falling in love.
It didn't take very much - they just had to be there. Tall, short, fat, slim...anything female with a pulse. Or not. Pulse negotiable. And he knew very well about it - he just couldn't do anything about it. Upon the third meeting or so, his pulse would race and he'd find himself stealing glances...well, robbing them, really. He fell in love with anything that'd stay still long enough.
That last was the quote, yes. Don't like them tadpole things at the tops of sentences that aren't dialogue. Tadpoles have their place. Ponds.
So it was that something I'd never been about to put a finger on was dragged screaming and kicking into the spotlight. I had that syndrome! Have, even.
Through the teenage diaries, I fixated myself on all sorts of women. Some of them didn't even resemble women. I'd go as far as to say human beings, but that would be going a little far. Though there was that one with the mustache...
Nevermind. Suppressed memory in time. So, yes. Explained all sorts of things, it did. My movie melancholia, for one. Yes, it just takes roughly an hour and a half of watching a character for it to sink in. Heck, for a bit I was even enamoured with Narusegawa. Naru of Love Hina fame. It's an anime. I did feel silly about that one. And that other one I went outstandingly psychotic on from reading her writing. If I weren't me, I'd scare me. Lots.
It's tough being an introverted nerd-geek that way. I'm hiding it better these days, but tennish years of cultivated instinct are hard to break completely. And I suspect all of us, besides the elite order of coke-bottle specced', acne-at-forty-five computer programmers are prone to it. Those blokes are just hardcore. Born to press Allllllt.
Sorry, best pun I could do on short notice.
So if you're female and have a nerd-geek friend, it's quite likely he's smitten with you. Do something about the poor boy. If you're not going to take him up on his uh, silent offer, do something to put him off. Nothing vicious, mind. We nerd-geeks are fragile that way. Many a broken-hearted sysadmin has been found dead in the morning, having hung himself with his mouse cord.
...I admit I'm at a loss for ideas, here. He's going to think everything you do is divine. If you squirt cola through your nose at him, he's not going to wash that shirt for the next week. Invite him over for dinner and serve up blackened bits on a plate. Watch in fascination as he crunches through what really is charcoal and asks for seconds.
So, sorry. Not much help. Don't worry, it wears off with time. But on no account show any kind of competence with a computer or inclination to play games on one. That rustling in the bushes at 3AM you'll hear for the next ten years will be him.
Quite happy I was, to have it suddenly cleared up for me. Not that it's a whole lot of help when you can't do anything about it. But it's nice to know, and all that.
Though, what Tom Holt didn't cover was what to do when, out of the wild blue, something all music and song and tinkly grace - what dreams may come - decides you somehow qualify.
I'm going with deer-in-headlights. If I figure it out, I'll do a book and retire off it.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
No. No, I didn't.
Unless you're one of those charmed bastards, you've had one of these days. You can take five out of seven buses from that bus-stop to where you're going and the other two come twice each before them. A usually innocuous slip dumps that hot coffee on your lap. Just before the huge, fuck-off important meeting.
Nothing goes quite the way it's supposed to. Doing your damnedest, everything that's expected from you is still late.
Hectic, hectic week and a half. Crazed, WTF DID THE TIME GO sort of thing. Still, it was bearable. Almost against my will, an unanticipated...tinkle, flavoured things nicely, much like the sweet-after-medicine deal for little sick kids.
It's distressing to discover, however, that I now seem to be a Responsible Adult. Mr Ancob - the boss - is out of the country. And instead of HURHUR GO LATE LEAVE EARLY, I instead work ever longer hours than the usual crazed ones to keep up. I'm almost disappointed with myself.
Stuff had to get done. And as said, all of me to do it with. I get to the office at three-thirty in the morning after a jug and two bottles, dazed but determined.
Bad combination.
The ingrained routine takes over. Switch everything on, empty pockets onto table. I decide to wash my face before tackling anything. Stifling the 34th yawn, I lurch out of the office.
Something occurred to me just before the door shut behind me. The instant lay between the softer click the metal in-outie bit by the side of the door makes as it contacts the edge before the hole and the louder sound of it springing back into place, extended into the hole.
I freeze. My eyes go from "half-closed with sleep and beer" to "walk in on parents having sex".
Silence.
No. No, I didn't. Did I?
Mouthing the words airlessly, I turn. The fluorescent light glinted maliciously off the doorknob. Rapidly, I replay the past five seconds in my mind.
With doorknobs these days, a push of a tiny button locks the door from the inside with a springy clack. So easy. There's no excuse for forgetting. Must make sure everything is secure. But I tend to be casual about it. Even when alone at the office, how much disaster can happen in a pee-span?
No use. The usually welcome haze of a beer or five left me yet in doubt. I reach with trepidation for the doorknob.
Grip.
Breathe.
Turn.
chikachika.
...
chikachikachika
...
Bloody 'ell.
There I was, outside the office three-forty in the morning, inebriated and nothing else on me besides the clothes on my back. For the first ten minutes, I reminded myself to be calm and rational. Ah, the picture hanging off the door. I take it down and undo the wire it hung by. Follow twenty minutes of poke-prodding, inspired by too many movies that while entertaining, tend to lie about things like how easily locks are picked.
Then I proceed to lose it.
Another twenty minutes later, victory was...the door's. Bruised and battered, I learned new respect for the flimsy-looking shit that is cubicle panelling.
I can't remember ever feeling quite as low as when I flipped the door off in unwilling admission of defeat.
Cue walk to friend's place. A fair distance in normal circumstances became interminable, with a bruised foot. Reach. Scare seven types of it out of said friend. Sleep.
You evil wooden bastard. For now, you are needed. But one day...one day. Ten minutes with an axe, and a night of toasting marshmallows.
Nothing goes quite the way it's supposed to. Doing your damnedest, everything that's expected from you is still late.
Hectic, hectic week and a half. Crazed, WTF DID THE TIME GO sort of thing. Still, it was bearable. Almost against my will, an unanticipated...tinkle, flavoured things nicely, much like the sweet-after-medicine deal for little sick kids.
It's distressing to discover, however, that I now seem to be a Responsible Adult. Mr Ancob - the boss - is out of the country. And instead of HURHUR GO LATE LEAVE EARLY, I instead work ever longer hours than the usual crazed ones to keep up. I'm almost disappointed with myself.
Stuff had to get done. And as said, all of me to do it with. I get to the office at three-thirty in the morning after a jug and two bottles, dazed but determined.
Bad combination.
The ingrained routine takes over. Switch everything on, empty pockets onto table. I decide to wash my face before tackling anything. Stifling the 34th yawn, I lurch out of the office.
Something occurred to me just before the door shut behind me. The instant lay between the softer click the metal in-outie bit by the side of the door makes as it contacts the edge before the hole and the louder sound of it springing back into place, extended into the hole.
I freeze. My eyes go from "half-closed with sleep and beer" to "walk in on parents having sex".
Silence.
No. No, I didn't. Did I?
Mouthing the words airlessly, I turn. The fluorescent light glinted maliciously off the doorknob. Rapidly, I replay the past five seconds in my mind.
With doorknobs these days, a push of a tiny button locks the door from the inside with a springy clack. So easy. There's no excuse for forgetting. Must make sure everything is secure. But I tend to be casual about it. Even when alone at the office, how much disaster can happen in a pee-span?
No use. The usually welcome haze of a beer or five left me yet in doubt. I reach with trepidation for the doorknob.
Grip.
Breathe.
Turn.
chikachika.
...
chikachikachika
...
Bloody 'ell.
There I was, outside the office three-forty in the morning, inebriated and nothing else on me besides the clothes on my back. For the first ten minutes, I reminded myself to be calm and rational. Ah, the picture hanging off the door. I take it down and undo the wire it hung by. Follow twenty minutes of poke-prodding, inspired by too many movies that while entertaining, tend to lie about things like how easily locks are picked.
Then I proceed to lose it.
Another twenty minutes later, victory was...the door's. Bruised and battered, I learned new respect for the flimsy-looking shit that is cubicle panelling.
I can't remember ever feeling quite as low as when I flipped the door off in unwilling admission of defeat.
Cue walk to friend's place. A fair distance in normal circumstances became interminable, with a bruised foot. Reach. Scare seven types of it out of said friend. Sleep.
You evil wooden bastard. For now, you are needed. But one day...one day. Ten minutes with an axe, and a night of toasting marshmallows.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Qi ge long dong qiang dong qiang.
...wo men qu bai nien.
Still on time, I think. Terribly and tragically busy. See next entry for details.
Yes, the title is yet another series of mouthed cymbal-and-drum noises. Yes, also song. This fragment translates as, "With a series of godawful noises, off we go to inflict ourselves upon relatives!"
We'd left off at the point where the holiday arrives. Unlike other holidays, the eve of Chinese New Year has its own special significance. Planes are packed full. Train carriages resemble so many little tins of sardine. We're all rushing back for the Reunion Dinner, you see.
Every Chinese New Years' Eve, one is expected to return to the home of the immediate family for a meal. The Dinner itself is a warming Chinese tradition that shows the deeply rooted culture of close family bonds and filial piety. At least, that's what you'll read in a tourist guide. I suspect the tradition caters more for the families who hate each other's guts. You'd only have to see the other bastards once a year. After an evening of forced smiles and strained conversation, the nights tend to run on into mahjong. Children are also allowed to stay up past usual bedtimes without being smacked to shit. In a strange, twisted sort of deal, the longer they stay up, the longer the parents of said children are supposed to live.
...Should have gone to sleep earlier, all those times.
That's the Eve done with, then. At the core of the actual holiday lies the Visiting. Every Chinese New Year, I am painfully reminded that I have relatives. Relatives I am duty-bound to visit on pain of being a Bad Boy. The colour red, which is considered auspicious, is the colour to wear when you go visiting. And to ensure additional luck, one must be wearing new red clothing. Unfortunately, this being hard to carry off without looking flaming homosexual, I tend to just wear any old thing. It explains my terrible, terrible karma.
It's the favourite time of the little ones. For no apparent reason, they get little red envelopes stuffed with money. The system of the red packets work thus: if you're not married, you receive them. If you are, you give them away. This works well up to the onset of adulthood. Then it becomes embarrassing.
"Hello, hello, happy new year and all of that. I have nothing to do with you the other 364 days of the year, but if you could see your way to giving me some money in a red envelope that would be great, yo?"
At least, it's how it goes for me. I figure I earn it though. In exchange for random and more often than not pitiful sums of cash, I have to listen to the same bloody converstion year after year. What are you doing now, then? Shouldn't you be continuing your studies? That's very important, you know? Why, during my time...
The ante was upped this year. I explain to a bitch aunt that I saw for the first time in ten years or so that yes, I know a degree helps, but I simply cannot afford to be financially dependent anymore. Also, in the business I'm in, the work you produce counts for something.
"No. I've been in the outside world. Listen to me. You must go study."
Aunty dearest, fuck you. Unless you're going to be paying for said education, why don't you shut the fuck up, choke to death on an orange and make the world a better place? I'm sure I've never "been in the outside world" like you have. I'll get that experience eventually though, while you'll still have a face like a retarded horse (she really does). Tell you what, I'll throw your fucking six dollars back in your face and slap you with a fifty. How's that for outside world.
Pfft. Outside world, indeed.
So no, I don't usually enjoy the visiting. I did have some sweet experiences this year, though. At my grand-aunt's place, where I had the misfortune of running into horseface, I coincidentally went on the day and time when another aunt was there.
I've talked about my dysfunctional memory when it comes to my childhood. Where other people can tell you about the things Daddy did to them when they were five, my long-term memory doesn't seem to extend beyond the past five years.
When I was little, I was apparently looked after by that other aunt and my grand-aunt. They talked about how adorable I was and this year, brought out pictures of me when I was little. It was a little surreal, looking at myself, age 4 or so, sitting on an elephant at the zoo. Ever so faintly, the memory is there. And myself, banging away merrily on a two-dollar drum, having the time of my life.
Looking at the wistful, poignant smiles on their faces as they narrated the story of my little life, I wished desperately to be able to say, "Yes" each time they asked me if I remembered it. They would deflate a little bit with each refutation, then forcefully laugh it off. Of course he doesn't remember. We're being silly. He was so young back then, after all.
I'm sorry. I wish I did and that I was more in touch. I truly do. And a little part of me longs for the time when happiness only cost two dollars.
That concluded my visiting, this year. Still not enjoyable, but on some subtle level, it was educational. Maybe it's part of the growing-up process. I don't know.
And that's all, because there's ten thousand things to do and me to do it with.
May you wag your year in prosperously, doggy-style.
Still on time, I think. Terribly and tragically busy. See next entry for details.
Yes, the title is yet another series of mouthed cymbal-and-drum noises. Yes, also song. This fragment translates as, "With a series of godawful noises, off we go to inflict ourselves upon relatives!"
We'd left off at the point where the holiday arrives. Unlike other holidays, the eve of Chinese New Year has its own special significance. Planes are packed full. Train carriages resemble so many little tins of sardine. We're all rushing back for the Reunion Dinner, you see.
Every Chinese New Years' Eve, one is expected to return to the home of the immediate family for a meal. The Dinner itself is a warming Chinese tradition that shows the deeply rooted culture of close family bonds and filial piety. At least, that's what you'll read in a tourist guide. I suspect the tradition caters more for the families who hate each other's guts. You'd only have to see the other bastards once a year. After an evening of forced smiles and strained conversation, the nights tend to run on into mahjong. Children are also allowed to stay up past usual bedtimes without being smacked to shit. In a strange, twisted sort of deal, the longer they stay up, the longer the parents of said children are supposed to live.
...Should have gone to sleep earlier, all those times.
That's the Eve done with, then. At the core of the actual holiday lies the Visiting. Every Chinese New Year, I am painfully reminded that I have relatives. Relatives I am duty-bound to visit on pain of being a Bad Boy. The colour red, which is considered auspicious, is the colour to wear when you go visiting. And to ensure additional luck, one must be wearing new red clothing. Unfortunately, this being hard to carry off without looking flaming homosexual, I tend to just wear any old thing. It explains my terrible, terrible karma.
It's the favourite time of the little ones. For no apparent reason, they get little red envelopes stuffed with money. The system of the red packets work thus: if you're not married, you receive them. If you are, you give them away. This works well up to the onset of adulthood. Then it becomes embarrassing.
"Hello, hello, happy new year and all of that. I have nothing to do with you the other 364 days of the year, but if you could see your way to giving me some money in a red envelope that would be great, yo?"
At least, it's how it goes for me. I figure I earn it though. In exchange for random and more often than not pitiful sums of cash, I have to listen to the same bloody converstion year after year. What are you doing now, then? Shouldn't you be continuing your studies? That's very important, you know? Why, during my time...
The ante was upped this year. I explain to a bitch aunt that I saw for the first time in ten years or so that yes, I know a degree helps, but I simply cannot afford to be financially dependent anymore. Also, in the business I'm in, the work you produce counts for something.
"No. I've been in the outside world. Listen to me. You must go study."
Aunty dearest, fuck you. Unless you're going to be paying for said education, why don't you shut the fuck up, choke to death on an orange and make the world a better place? I'm sure I've never "been in the outside world" like you have. I'll get that experience eventually though, while you'll still have a face like a retarded horse (she really does). Tell you what, I'll throw your fucking six dollars back in your face and slap you with a fifty. How's that for outside world.
Pfft. Outside world, indeed.
So no, I don't usually enjoy the visiting. I did have some sweet experiences this year, though. At my grand-aunt's place, where I had the misfortune of running into horseface, I coincidentally went on the day and time when another aunt was there.
I've talked about my dysfunctional memory when it comes to my childhood. Where other people can tell you about the things Daddy did to them when they were five, my long-term memory doesn't seem to extend beyond the past five years.
When I was little, I was apparently looked after by that other aunt and my grand-aunt. They talked about how adorable I was and this year, brought out pictures of me when I was little. It was a little surreal, looking at myself, age 4 or so, sitting on an elephant at the zoo. Ever so faintly, the memory is there. And myself, banging away merrily on a two-dollar drum, having the time of my life.
Looking at the wistful, poignant smiles on their faces as they narrated the story of my little life, I wished desperately to be able to say, "Yes" each time they asked me if I remembered it. They would deflate a little bit with each refutation, then forcefully laugh it off. Of course he doesn't remember. We're being silly. He was so young back then, after all.
I'm sorry. I wish I did and that I was more in touch. I truly do. And a little part of me longs for the time when happiness only cost two dollars.
That concluded my visiting, this year. Still not enjoyable, but on some subtle level, it was educational. Maybe it's part of the growing-up process. I don't know.
And that's all, because there's ten thousand things to do and me to do it with.
May you wag your year in prosperously, doggy-style.
Dong dong dong qiang.
Dong, dong dong qiang.
Dong, dong dong qiang.
Dong, dong dong qiang dong qiang dong qiang.
It's part of a Chinese New Year song. No, they are not Chinese words. Yes, we have songs where we make drum and cymbal noises.
I'm not late either. People in some parts of China are still celebrating the holiday that is Chinese New Year, I'll have you know. In Singapore, we get two days to their two weeks.
I've never been particularly fond of the holiday. Mistake me not, I'm quite happy being Chinese, certain genetic endowments aside. I'm not one to argue with an extra few hundred dollars in red packet money. And if it gets me off work, I'd celebrate anything that doesn't involve having lice flung onto oneself. But the rest of it is just...
I get ahead of myself, I do. To make a proper start of it, perhaps I should explain why we celebrate Chinese New Year. Most of the rest of the world is quite happy to call the first of January New Year's day and do their partying and drunken debauchery then. Why must we Chinese be so different?
Because we outnumber the rest of you, so we'll do what we like, yeah?
Well fine, it's not like that. It's a rich cultural festival celebrating the arrival of Spring and new life after a harsh cold winter. The fact that we make such a big deal of it in tropical Singapore really is because we outnumber everyone else, though.
Like other major holidays such as Christmas and...well, Christmas, it's not something you're allowed to forget. Two weeks after Christmas Day itself, enterprising and economic shopping mall decorators rip the beard off their pre-fab, fuck-off huge Santa. They then paint him yellow, turn his eyes up slightly, stick a respectable Chinese beard on him and swap the hats. Voila! The God of Fortune, all ready to Usher in the New Year. This actually happened, mind.
That is but the slightest scratch on the holiday. We also have a Chinese Zodiac, with sensible avatars like the Dog (this year), Rat, Ox and Badger. There are twelve animals in all and each lasts a year. None of that month-to-month bother for us. Also, instead of playing connect-the-dots with the stars while drunk, our horoscopes were decided by having a Heavenly Race. The animals have some sort of hierarchy according to the position they finished up. In a race that also included the Tiger and the Dragon, the Rat finished first because the little bastard sat on the head of first runner-up Ox and leapt forward just before Mr Moo broke the tape.
Ok, maybe no Badger. Everything else is true, though. And offers insights into the collective Chinese mind better left unsaid.
There's the Elements of Wood, Air, Gold and such too, so people born twelve years apart will be the same horoscope with a different element. Wood Dog, Fire Dog, Bad Dog and such. But we're not concerned with those. It's the animals that get me. Depending on which animal's turn it is, you'll find the bastard EVERYWHERE. Dog year. Dog statues. Dog toys. Cartoon dogs in advertisements try to sell you vacuum cleaners. One that ran for days in the Straits Times asked everyone to go down to such and such a place to WAG IN THE NEW YEAR.
I decided the odds were too low on doe-eyed, pert-bottomed young nubile women taking up the offer and politely declined.
Shops transform; particularly supermarkets. About the time they get the left eye slanted on the ex-Santa, they ALL start playing Chinese New Year music. Don't worry if you don't know the words - voice DONG and CHIANG randomly to the rhythm and nobody will notice. This mind-numbing aural atrocity is a primitive form of mind-control, I suspect. It's like the Chinese population suddenly sits up and blinks simultaneously. As one we decide, fuck all the rest. The only nutrition we'll ever need from now is mandarin oranges, preserved fruit, assorted crackers, pineapple tarts and barbecued pork sweetmeats (bak kwa to you, my Chinese brethren). Hey, and while we're at it, those cans of abalone are looking pretty good.
The larger supermarkets sometimes thoughtfully reserve an entire aisle labelled "Food and stuff for non-Chinese people. Happy Chinese New Year!!!"
After getting in your face for two months or so, the holiday finally has the decency to arrive, towards the end of January. Work on your dongs and qiangs till the next I get some time to stroke the keyboard.
Dong, dong dong qiang.
Dong, dong dong qiang dong qiang dong qiang.
It's part of a Chinese New Year song. No, they are not Chinese words. Yes, we have songs where we make drum and cymbal noises.
I'm not late either. People in some parts of China are still celebrating the holiday that is Chinese New Year, I'll have you know. In Singapore, we get two days to their two weeks.
I've never been particularly fond of the holiday. Mistake me not, I'm quite happy being Chinese, certain genetic endowments aside. I'm not one to argue with an extra few hundred dollars in red packet money. And if it gets me off work, I'd celebrate anything that doesn't involve having lice flung onto oneself. But the rest of it is just...
I get ahead of myself, I do. To make a proper start of it, perhaps I should explain why we celebrate Chinese New Year. Most of the rest of the world is quite happy to call the first of January New Year's day and do their partying and drunken debauchery then. Why must we Chinese be so different?
Because we outnumber the rest of you, so we'll do what we like, yeah?
Well fine, it's not like that. It's a rich cultural festival celebrating the arrival of Spring and new life after a harsh cold winter. The fact that we make such a big deal of it in tropical Singapore really is because we outnumber everyone else, though.
Like other major holidays such as Christmas and...well, Christmas, it's not something you're allowed to forget. Two weeks after Christmas Day itself, enterprising and economic shopping mall decorators rip the beard off their pre-fab, fuck-off huge Santa. They then paint him yellow, turn his eyes up slightly, stick a respectable Chinese beard on him and swap the hats. Voila! The God of Fortune, all ready to Usher in the New Year. This actually happened, mind.
That is but the slightest scratch on the holiday. We also have a Chinese Zodiac, with sensible avatars like the Dog (this year), Rat, Ox and Badger. There are twelve animals in all and each lasts a year. None of that month-to-month bother for us. Also, instead of playing connect-the-dots with the stars while drunk, our horoscopes were decided by having a Heavenly Race. The animals have some sort of hierarchy according to the position they finished up. In a race that also included the Tiger and the Dragon, the Rat finished first because the little bastard sat on the head of first runner-up Ox and leapt forward just before Mr Moo broke the tape.
Ok, maybe no Badger. Everything else is true, though. And offers insights into the collective Chinese mind better left unsaid.
There's the Elements of Wood, Air, Gold and such too, so people born twelve years apart will be the same horoscope with a different element. Wood Dog, Fire Dog, Bad Dog and such. But we're not concerned with those. It's the animals that get me. Depending on which animal's turn it is, you'll find the bastard EVERYWHERE. Dog year. Dog statues. Dog toys. Cartoon dogs in advertisements try to sell you vacuum cleaners. One that ran for days in the Straits Times asked everyone to go down to such and such a place to WAG IN THE NEW YEAR.
I decided the odds were too low on doe-eyed, pert-bottomed young nubile women taking up the offer and politely declined.
Shops transform; particularly supermarkets. About the time they get the left eye slanted on the ex-Santa, they ALL start playing Chinese New Year music. Don't worry if you don't know the words - voice DONG and CHIANG randomly to the rhythm and nobody will notice. This mind-numbing aural atrocity is a primitive form of mind-control, I suspect. It's like the Chinese population suddenly sits up and blinks simultaneously. As one we decide, fuck all the rest. The only nutrition we'll ever need from now is mandarin oranges, preserved fruit, assorted crackers, pineapple tarts and barbecued pork sweetmeats (bak kwa to you, my Chinese brethren). Hey, and while we're at it, those cans of abalone are looking pretty good.
The larger supermarkets sometimes thoughtfully reserve an entire aisle labelled "Food and stuff for non-Chinese people. Happy Chinese New Year!!!"
After getting in your face for two months or so, the holiday finally has the decency to arrive, towards the end of January. Work on your dongs and qiangs till the next I get some time to stroke the keyboard.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Modern-day minstreling
Hark - dost not hear?
The time of reckoning is near
Steel on steel doth itself shear
The time is come, the time is here
Muster thee all thou holdst dear
Tell them all to have no fear
For though thou art but mortal mere
For the task thou hast no peer
Now is the time! For thou art geared
To face the beast that e'en leers
Spill the ichor, gold and clear
And tell thy beloved,
...
"This is good beer!"
Complete with shoddy Photoshop. =o
My personal demon of the moment. Lovely stuff. Makes the other beers curl up into a small whimpering ball.
The time of reckoning is near
Steel on steel doth itself shear
The time is come, the time is here
Muster thee all thou holdst dear
Tell them all to have no fear
For though thou art but mortal mere
For the task thou hast no peer
Now is the time! For thou art geared
To face the beast that e'en leers
Spill the ichor, gold and clear
And tell thy beloved,
...
"This is good beer!"
Complete with shoddy Photoshop. =o
My personal demon of the moment. Lovely stuff. Makes the other beers curl up into a small whimpering ball.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Simi Mia?
To be fair, it's quite logical that the further we progress, the more things will already have been done. But to be vindictive, count the number of recent films that aren't sequels, based off a novel, a play, comic book superheroes or a remake of a classic.
...used the other hand yet?
So we were on our way to see Proof, another one of those critically acclaimed, powerful and stirring movies that tend to bore me shitless. Yes, yes, no art in my soul and all that. But Proof was quite well done. At least it didn't pretend to be funny, like Sideways. Comedy of the year my sweet, yellow...
But hey, what do I know. My idea of funny is Jackie Chan saying, "What's up, my nigger?".
We walk past the promotional cardboards for the upcoming Pink Panther movie and the missus tugs my arm. "Look! My future son's name!" she says. Yes, she wants to name her son Pink Panther.
No argument from me. Bad enough being Chinese and one of those with a common surname. The angs have it good - the possibilities are endless. Lurking on the SomethingAwful forums, I read a thread about names. Someone knew of a person with the middle name, "Needs More Nutmeg". There were sweet names around like...Davian Blood, I think. Also names that produce a bitter cynic by the age of 12, like Justin Time and Justin Case.
"...what? Heh, heh. You mean like Just-In..."
"OH YOU ARE SO VERY FUNNY SIR I HAVE NEVER HAD THAT POINTED OUT TO ME AT ALL I MUST GO TELL ALL MY FRIENDS SO THEY CAN LAUGH TOO pleased to meet you too."
Enough of the Johns and Bens, eh? Pink Panther should get my future son laid more often than me. ...or turn him flaming homosexual. Either way, he'll be a hit at parties.
"Pink Panther Lim," she says softly to herself. "You decide the Chinese name ok?"
Some of us are just born with this spirit of one-upsmanship. I decided to see her Pink Panther and raise her...
"Sure. Lim Beh Ka Li Gong. Pink Panther Lim Beh Ka Li Gong."
Oh he'll go through some tough formulative years. But what don't kill'im only make'im strongah, yo?
P.P Lim is surrounded by some older boys in his first year of high-school equivalent. They look tough as nails, but are friendly blokes.
"Hello, we's from the rugby team," says one shaven-headed boy with a scar across his face. He flexes a bicep for emphasis. "We's looking for some new players this year - what your name, mate?"
P.P Lim has this sinking, sinking feeling.
"Uh, thanks guys but Rugby's not really my thing..."
"Oh no worries eh? We around if youse ever interested. Name's Pete. Me friends call me Killer." Cue appreciative grunts from the team. "You are?" he smiles, revealing two gaps in his teeth.
"...anther," P.P mumbles.
"Huzzat mate? Anthony?"
"...pink..panther"
The mood flickers. The gap-toothed smile is gone.
"We just trying to be friendly mate. What's your name?"
"Ok, ok, Lim."
"No need to be like that about it. Your proper name."
Resigned, P.P takes a deep breath and says, "Lim Beh Ka Li Gong."
Brows furrow. The group advances. "Oh you think youse funny, eh?"
Just before the group closes in, P.P mumbles under his breath, "No, but my father thinks he's a fucking comedian," and puts his arms over his head.
...I insist it's funny. For what help it is, "Lim Beh Ka Li Gong" translates as "I, your father, am telling you" in Hokkien.
Um.
This does not bode well for my offspring.
...used the other hand yet?
So we were on our way to see Proof, another one of those critically acclaimed, powerful and stirring movies that tend to bore me shitless. Yes, yes, no art in my soul and all that. But Proof was quite well done. At least it didn't pretend to be funny, like Sideways. Comedy of the year my sweet, yellow...
But hey, what do I know. My idea of funny is Jackie Chan saying, "What's up, my nigger?".
We walk past the promotional cardboards for the upcoming Pink Panther movie and the missus tugs my arm. "Look! My future son's name!" she says. Yes, she wants to name her son Pink Panther.
No argument from me. Bad enough being Chinese and one of those with a common surname. The angs have it good - the possibilities are endless. Lurking on the SomethingAwful forums, I read a thread about names. Someone knew of a person with the middle name, "Needs More Nutmeg". There were sweet names around like...Davian Blood, I think. Also names that produce a bitter cynic by the age of 12, like Justin Time and Justin Case.
"...what? Heh, heh. You mean like Just-In..."
"OH YOU ARE SO VERY FUNNY SIR I HAVE NEVER HAD THAT POINTED OUT TO ME AT ALL I MUST GO TELL ALL MY FRIENDS SO THEY CAN LAUGH TOO pleased to meet you too."
Enough of the Johns and Bens, eh? Pink Panther should get my future son laid more often than me. ...or turn him flaming homosexual. Either way, he'll be a hit at parties.
"Pink Panther Lim," she says softly to herself. "You decide the Chinese name ok?"
Some of us are just born with this spirit of one-upsmanship. I decided to see her Pink Panther and raise her...
"Sure. Lim Beh Ka Li Gong. Pink Panther Lim Beh Ka Li Gong."
Oh he'll go through some tough formulative years. But what don't kill'im only make'im strongah, yo?
P.P Lim is surrounded by some older boys in his first year of high-school equivalent. They look tough as nails, but are friendly blokes.
"Hello, we's from the rugby team," says one shaven-headed boy with a scar across his face. He flexes a bicep for emphasis. "We's looking for some new players this year - what your name, mate?"
P.P Lim has this sinking, sinking feeling.
"Uh, thanks guys but Rugby's not really my thing..."
"Oh no worries eh? We around if youse ever interested. Name's Pete. Me friends call me Killer." Cue appreciative grunts from the team. "You are?" he smiles, revealing two gaps in his teeth.
"...anther," P.P mumbles.
"Huzzat mate? Anthony?"
"...pink..panther"
The mood flickers. The gap-toothed smile is gone.
"We just trying to be friendly mate. What's your name?"
"Ok, ok, Lim."
"No need to be like that about it. Your proper name."
Resigned, P.P takes a deep breath and says, "Lim Beh Ka Li Gong."
Brows furrow. The group advances. "Oh you think youse funny, eh?"
Just before the group closes in, P.P mumbles under his breath, "No, but my father thinks he's a fucking comedian," and puts his arms over his head.
...I insist it's funny. For what help it is, "Lim Beh Ka Li Gong" translates as "I, your father, am telling you" in Hokkien.
Um.
This does not bode well for my offspring.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Requiem.
She was different.
The rest of them are tools. To facilitate. To entertain. A means to an end.
She was a part of my life. I came home to her. Woke up to her. Bemusedly said goodbye to her each time I left my house. A secret silliness only she would ever know.
I knew her temperments, her every nuance. What she could do or would try to, for me. She had her limits, but their boundaries were enough for my simple wants. My...needs.
I suppose I should have seen the signs. All those times when it looked like the end was near. But we always found a way out. Unconventional, unorthodox way that defied logic - but we never cared about what other people thought as long as we were together.
And now...she's gone.
The moment of parting was poignant in its mundanity. A day like every other; spending time together like we always did. Then, she just froze.
It had happened before. Things I find nondescript would affect her adversely. I left her to cool off and we picked up where we were, after a few false starts. What happened hung over us uncomfortably. I tried to bury it, doing things we normally did, but when I turned to her again...
It was over. Things could never be the same between us again.
So yes, my computer finally died on me.
I haven't examined it carefully yet, but it's a fair bit over a thousand dollars, should I need to get a new one.
And that makes me a sad, sad goat.
The rest of them are tools. To facilitate. To entertain. A means to an end.
She was a part of my life. I came home to her. Woke up to her. Bemusedly said goodbye to her each time I left my house. A secret silliness only she would ever know.
I knew her temperments, her every nuance. What she could do or would try to, for me. She had her limits, but their boundaries were enough for my simple wants. My...needs.
I suppose I should have seen the signs. All those times when it looked like the end was near. But we always found a way out. Unconventional, unorthodox way that defied logic - but we never cared about what other people thought as long as we were together.
And now...she's gone.
The moment of parting was poignant in its mundanity. A day like every other; spending time together like we always did. Then, she just froze.
It had happened before. Things I find nondescript would affect her adversely. I left her to cool off and we picked up where we were, after a few false starts. What happened hung over us uncomfortably. I tried to bury it, doing things we normally did, but when I turned to her again...
It was over. Things could never be the same between us again.
So yes, my computer finally died on me.
I haven't examined it carefully yet, but it's a fair bit over a thousand dollars, should I need to get a new one.
And that makes me a sad, sad goat.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Meow Mix.
It's like the civilised world has selective amnesia towards the end of the year.
Everyone gets so psyched. "HAPPY NEW YEAR!", we exclaim to each other. There is global revelry as we celebrate the end of the previous year and the beginning of a new one. People queue for hours to get into NEW YEAR PARTAYs at clubs and such, hoping for a night of drunken debauchery.
Post party, we enter the new year with hope, joy and happiness. We resolve to be better people. This is the year where everything will change for the better!
Of course, it all lasts about two days before we realize we're really in exactly the same shit as before. Funny things, people.
It hasn't really been a rousing start, for me. Work to do by the truckload, running on broke far earlier than I should be and already she and I have fought. This isn't another whinentry, though. No, no.
There's something about the route I take to the bus stop on the way to work. The mind rustles with the abstract and absurd and I'm quite likely to run smack into a car someday. Today though, I was thinking about cats.
Lovely creatures. Dogs are all that, but cats are where it's at.
Matter of fact, it'd be great to be a cat!
Oh to be a cat!
Like that, like that
No worries
No hurries
Just plush-paw paddies
I could be a kitten
With little kitten mittens
And the softest downy fur
That you would love, for sure
Or a sleek, stealthy prowler
Wouldn't that be dapper
I'd stalk my prey, crouch and wait
And make him what I ate
I'd never be unhappy
Unhappy is unkitty
I'd have no bills, no tests to fail
And I could chase my tail!
Oh to be a cat!
Like that, like that
But not the one
The car squashed flat
Here's hoping your year got off to a better start than mine.
Everyone gets so psyched. "HAPPY NEW YEAR!", we exclaim to each other. There is global revelry as we celebrate the end of the previous year and the beginning of a new one. People queue for hours to get into NEW YEAR PARTAYs at clubs and such, hoping for a night of drunken debauchery.
Post party, we enter the new year with hope, joy and happiness. We resolve to be better people. This is the year where everything will change for the better!
Of course, it all lasts about two days before we realize we're really in exactly the same shit as before. Funny things, people.
It hasn't really been a rousing start, for me. Work to do by the truckload, running on broke far earlier than I should be and already she and I have fought. This isn't another whinentry, though. No, no.
There's something about the route I take to the bus stop on the way to work. The mind rustles with the abstract and absurd and I'm quite likely to run smack into a car someday. Today though, I was thinking about cats.
Lovely creatures. Dogs are all that, but cats are where it's at.
Matter of fact, it'd be great to be a cat!
Oh to be a cat!
Like that, like that
No worries
No hurries
Just plush-paw paddies
I could be a kitten
With little kitten mittens
And the softest downy fur
That you would love, for sure
Or a sleek, stealthy prowler
Wouldn't that be dapper
I'd stalk my prey, crouch and wait
And make him what I ate
I'd never be unhappy
Unhappy is unkitty
I'd have no bills, no tests to fail
And I could chase my tail!
Oh to be a cat!
Like that, like that
But not the one
The car squashed flat
Here's hoping your year got off to a better start than mine.
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