Good very early morning.
This is TehUneducated, cub reporter, bringing you the latest scoop in...well, nothing in particular, really. With a bad attempt at an English accent from watching too much Eddie Izzard and harbouring an unhealthy attraction to him. Meh.
Just when you think you're at bottom-of-barrel, you find out you can hit new lows in your life when insomnia from a screwed-over sleeping schedule saves you procrastination on entry-ing the page.
A peculiar pattern I've been studying is that my esteemed employer will mysteriously vanish off the face of the earth when I send him stuff on a Saturday morning; namely the article-to-be I'd spent the night up on and need his feedback from. Indubitably, he's a busy man under much pressure, and it's only the second time I've done it but meh. Twice in a row. Same circumstances. Uncanny.
So it is then, that with yesterday being a bit of a break, today was spent aimlessly milling about an area of roughly 1x2 m² (Bed), with occasional loo and food breaks, trying to get him on the phone. Bless you, internet pirates, for providing sources of engagement other than reading yet again about Sino-Japan ties or how -Blogging- is teh next big thing.
Bit weird isn't it, that two economic giants in Asia are acting like little children fighting. I've developed a penchant for this lately so, bear with me.
China (As a little girl): Japs, I'm not playing with you anymore until you show that you're sorry for telling everyone I gave you a blowjob when all that really happened was that you grabbed my butt. And I didn't even say you could.
Japan (As little boy): Ok Chinsy, I'm real sorry about it and all. Can we play Doctor again now?
China: ...you can't say you're sorry while jacking off in front of me. How do you expect me to believe you when you stand fondling yourself with that stupid look on your face?
Japan: It doesn't mean anything! Honest! I always jack off when uh, it's 3.07pm on an odd day of the week. And the wind is blowing North. Or something. I'm really sorry. Mmmm. Oooh.
China: Well, bother you. I'm going home to rip up all the letters you gave me. And the nurses' outfit.
Japan flips off the retreating back of China
But I'm really sorry!
China: Saw that.
...you'd have to be following the saga to know what I'm talking about. And even then it's a long stretch. Serves as a good showcase of how twisted I can get, in any case. You really wonder what Japan is thinking, re-apologizing on one hand for being a piece of shit during the war while the government all but hails war criminals at the shrine. I just stare at the latest full-page commentary by yet another heavily lauded writer on the episode and think, look, you can say all that with: Yeap. Still being brats about it.
Oh, but what do I know. Just don't sue me. I quite stupid. Donch know what I sayings.
So, yes.
Nevermind the next -blogger- getting threatened with lawsuits over something they "thought they were just writing for their friends". Seriously, now. I write entertaining hopes that someday Brittany Murphy will read it, find me a sexy motha and send me a ticket to fly over to where she is, where we will live out our lives in glorious decadence. Enough with the whole "i tot onli my frenx wiww see sorry arhz". I don't know which is more pathetic: Clueless pieces of shit, or mega-corps that relentlessly hunt down webloggers who badmouth them on their weblogs. If Bush could threaten to sue each time...whoa.
I agree with the responsibility factor, but am worried about this intrusion, really. I doubt it'll end up with all self-published content (which is in essence what a weblog is) having to be the taste and consistency of cardboard, but where will it end?
And for chrissake, enough already. China-Japan. Blogs. A certain hairy-armed, effusive lady with a penchant for makeup in particular. Dead horses. Beating them.
News. Not Olds. Kthx.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Vindication! Flogging optional.
Work, work (a la Warcraft Peon voice).
Finally, this thing is almost done with. It's tough, the switching of, from whatever can be termed my usual style of writing, to PORPER journalistic writing. Sort of like going from eating sirloin steak (medium rare or bust) to...chewing cardboard.
My legs feel like they've been spread for a host of 14 African-Americans from the walking...oh the walking, and I've had to mentally restrain myself from laying out several pieces of shit who were...well, being pieces of shit.
Nonetheless, a little more than a week, a route-march, and several sheets of cardboard later, I finally managed to produce something enough to be deemed "excellent". Ah, the sweet, sweet joy of vindication.
Self-congratulatory bits aside, in the few snatches of newspaper I managed to catch in between getting snubbed by people I want to interview, almost all had something to say about Web-logging.
If you've read the first few posts, you'll understand I've always been adverse to the term "blogging", and indeed apprehensive about setting this up in the first place. If you haven't... Well?
Look, it makes a disgusting sound in the first place. "Blog". Rather like the slightly hollow splat sound your brain would make were it scooped out your skull and dropped from a height. Now, slow down the pronunciation process, and you'll see that right from the start of the word, you have to do this gagging motion with your lips closed. The middle "Orrrh" sound is often heard in Club toilets when people drink too much, and to finish the word, you have to sort of choke yourself in the throat, as opposed to the crisp cut-off of words ending in "K".
Yes, I have just finished making a series of strange noises writing that and yes, I think my mother, outside the door, is wondering WTF her son is doing.
Everything involved in pronouncing the word, however, is put to great use when you read weblogs like this (click on Entries to reveal the full horror), which leads me to suspect that the term actually came about from the sounds made by some famous academic upon seeing things like in that link (credits to my Enigmatic Goddess and Australian Penguin dearest). His brain jumped out his skull to avoid further damage and the vomitting was the body's attempt to purge it from the system.
Web-logging, the keeping of an online journal or diary which other may peruse, is being abused. From having to tolerate the lovely Miss Wendy Cheng of Xiaxue fame's picture jumping out at you from the papers every two days to...things like the above link, and webloggers being threatened with libel suits left right, quality journals to read are becoming few and far between. An interesting point, in the light of my hardly reading any but uh...uh...
Yes (Gogo Eddie Izzard). The power of the written word, however, is finally being given its due with the proliferation of...Blogging. If I manage to quench the bile in my stomach and the bitter envy every time one of our Celebrity Bloggers makes it on the news...again, it is much cause for celebration! What I believe they're doing wrong, however, is encouraging everyone to blog, because the result will be twenty thousand Sanly Lims, which will uh, take up space on the internet because of all the X-s.
What I believe needs to be done is the coining of a new term, to give these bright young hopefuls their due recognition and respect. It has to be similar enough to the original term as to be recognizable, and simple enough to catch on. Ladies, gentlemen, and small yappy-type dogs, I present to you...
Flogging.
Omgwtf that is already a word. Tough cookies, and the original meaning is actually rather relevant, for the pain these people inflict. If you're wondering what the "F" stands for, here's a clue: Rhymes with Duck. Well, I suppose if you want to avoid being harsh, you can use another word, which rhymes with uh... Mailure. Sorry, nothing else.
And it gets late. Also, I really need to pee. Three people and a small yappy-type dog, I leave you with this:
Do people you like, with a blog, favours. Don't call them Bloggers. We are -Writers-, and would like to be termed such, with the exception of the 80% of the Blog-And-Flog population who think it's really groovy to be a Blogger. In which case, just make it the royal plural.
Hee hee. Flog. Ah, I kill me.
The entries will be a little slower, I think. Because if you see a guy in a yellow singlet and blue jeans pottering about where you live taking pictures of things and trying to jump people with interviews...yeah, it's me. And it's deceptively tiring, so most of the time I jump flop and drop when I get back.
Hee hee. Flop and drop. Ah...
Sorry.
Finally, this thing is almost done with. It's tough, the switching of, from whatever can be termed my usual style of writing, to PORPER journalistic writing. Sort of like going from eating sirloin steak (medium rare or bust) to...chewing cardboard.
My legs feel like they've been spread for a host of 14 African-Americans from the walking...oh the walking, and I've had to mentally restrain myself from laying out several pieces of shit who were...well, being pieces of shit.
Nonetheless, a little more than a week, a route-march, and several sheets of cardboard later, I finally managed to produce something enough to be deemed "excellent". Ah, the sweet, sweet joy of vindication.
Self-congratulatory bits aside, in the few snatches of newspaper I managed to catch in between getting snubbed by people I want to interview, almost all had something to say about Web-logging.
If you've read the first few posts, you'll understand I've always been adverse to the term "blogging", and indeed apprehensive about setting this up in the first place. If you haven't... Well?
Look, it makes a disgusting sound in the first place. "Blog". Rather like the slightly hollow splat sound your brain would make were it scooped out your skull and dropped from a height. Now, slow down the pronunciation process, and you'll see that right from the start of the word, you have to do this gagging motion with your lips closed. The middle "Orrrh" sound is often heard in Club toilets when people drink too much, and to finish the word, you have to sort of choke yourself in the throat, as opposed to the crisp cut-off of words ending in "K".
Yes, I have just finished making a series of strange noises writing that and yes, I think my mother, outside the door, is wondering WTF her son is doing.
Everything involved in pronouncing the word, however, is put to great use when you read weblogs like this (click on Entries to reveal the full horror), which leads me to suspect that the term actually came about from the sounds made by some famous academic upon seeing things like in that link (credits to my Enigmatic Goddess and Australian Penguin dearest). His brain jumped out his skull to avoid further damage and the vomitting was the body's attempt to purge it from the system.
Web-logging, the keeping of an online journal or diary which other may peruse, is being abused. From having to tolerate the lovely Miss Wendy Cheng of Xiaxue fame's picture jumping out at you from the papers every two days to...things like the above link, and webloggers being threatened with libel suits left right, quality journals to read are becoming few and far between. An interesting point, in the light of my hardly reading any but uh...uh...
Yes (Gogo Eddie Izzard). The power of the written word, however, is finally being given its due with the proliferation of...Blogging. If I manage to quench the bile in my stomach and the bitter envy every time one of our Celebrity Bloggers makes it on the news...again, it is much cause for celebration! What I believe they're doing wrong, however, is encouraging everyone to blog, because the result will be twenty thousand Sanly Lims, which will uh, take up space on the internet because of all the X-s.
What I believe needs to be done is the coining of a new term, to give these bright young hopefuls their due recognition and respect. It has to be similar enough to the original term as to be recognizable, and simple enough to catch on. Ladies, gentlemen, and small yappy-type dogs, I present to you...
Flogging.
Omgwtf that is already a word. Tough cookies, and the original meaning is actually rather relevant, for the pain these people inflict. If you're wondering what the "F" stands for, here's a clue: Rhymes with Duck. Well, I suppose if you want to avoid being harsh, you can use another word, which rhymes with uh... Mailure. Sorry, nothing else.
And it gets late. Also, I really need to pee. Three people and a small yappy-type dog, I leave you with this:
Do people you like, with a blog, favours. Don't call them Bloggers. We are -Writers-, and would like to be termed such, with the exception of the 80% of the Blog-And-Flog population who think it's really groovy to be a Blogger. In which case, just make it the royal plural.
Hee hee. Flog. Ah, I kill me.
The entries will be a little slower, I think. Because if you see a guy in a yellow singlet and blue jeans pottering about where you live taking pictures of things and trying to jump people with interviews...yeah, it's me. And it's deceptively tiring, so most of the time I jump flop and drop when I get back.
Hee hee. Flop and drop. Ah...
Sorry.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Accentuated.
Oh, for the love of...
Well yes, I watched another one. Nothing too hardcore, thankfully. I actually feel pretty alright. It was one of those low-budget English comedies along the lines of Bend it Like Beckham, with this one entitled Virtual Sexuality.
That's going to snag a few hits from keyword-searches alone, I suspect. Much like how I found out about and pondered for quite a bit some bloke in Pakistan (I think) stumbling onto TehUneducated with a search for "female ejaculation". In the light of the lack of concrete evidence, we conjecture that his interest was purely scientific.
...Right.
As with most productions in the category, Virtual Sexuality is a light-hearted and interesting enough take on...nothing in particular. Alright, a brief overview is that it involves a nerd-geek, a hot (passably) chick, and some science fiction that came out of nowhere, like a flasher lurking in the corner of a dark street alley. Somehow, in another one of those done to death new-technology-experiences-unanticipated-power-surge scenes, her perfect male image is brought to life...with her mind. While she potters off home, having no idea. Mild hilarity ensues.
The film is forgettable enough, but it reminded me of just how unbelievably sexy the English accent is. At risk of sounding like a a broken record, simply lovely.
Yes, yes, I'm a white-worshipping, jia kan tang bananaman. Can you believe some punk kid actually called me the last? Like, wtf, bananaman? He probably meant it as some mortal insult, but it sorta defused me by throwing me off track for a bit. How do you hit someone who thinks bananaman is a fighting word? More complimentary than anything really, because as detailed by the illustrous person whose name I forgot heading the latest (yet another) Speak Good English Campaign, broken English has been spoken for so long and accepted as the norm, and even a measure of identity, that speaking proper English is seen as "putting on airs".
Away with thee, Demons of Digression!
But, yes. English accent. Very, very sexy leh. And the women...well some...just have this very elegant look that goes perfectly with it. Fuck that, Mike Meyers playing Austin Powers in Goldmember turned me on, chest hair and all, in that bit of dialogue with his father, if you can at all recall it.
To aid visualization of this unhealthy fetish of mine, I must resort to more vulgar measures.
Sex with a British Chick: "Mmm...oh yes...YES! Right there, you animal! Do it to me...take me...oh fuuuuuck yes!" You can't make an accent evident in text. Not with dirty talk. Imagination, to please be using.
Sex with homegrown, made in Singapore Ah Lian: "WAH KAN NIN NA SI BEI SONG AHHH. HWAHHH!" ...
A ridiculously large sum of money which I don't have but will find some way to pay for provocative pictures of Keira Knightley! Sad ah. I'd say "A Date With", but I'd prolly screw it up and it'd degenerate into yet another one-sided psychotic stalker relationship. Um, did I say "yet another"? I mean "A". In jest. For comic relief. Believe or die.
Definitely a chipper mood, tonight.
To wrap it up, I'll relate something Mr Ancob said about TehUneducated, which I'd meant to but forgot somehow. I did mention he visited this site and found it satisfactory. He then went on to say, in a subsequent meeting, that some of the writing here might even be publishable, if only I'd stop saying "Fuck" so much. As a sort of demonstration that it was a professional statement rather than personal objection, he went on to relate a rather amusing anecdote.
He was in the Navy back in the days, you see, and the phrase "curse like a seaman" came about for a reason. "Fuck" was indeed almost a middle syllable of every word in the sailor dictionary. So it came to pass that they had an official dinner, with everyone smartly decked out in their finest, at a class restaurant with parents, girlfriends and such. With what he wanted woefully out of reach, a sailor, impeccable in his attire for the evening, turned to the mother of his sweetheart, smiled and said smoothly,
"Would you pass the fucking butter?"
It is his tale, and told as such, mildly embellished for effect on my part. He then went on to suggest that I could possibly replace it with "bother".
It was a highly intriguing suggestion, to sanitize my writing. I truthfully told him that, well, I would consider it, but seeing as this is writing of a personal nature with the mild fact that no one reads the shit anyway, it was probably unneccessary. Intriguing and related, though, because I've always found "bother" to be a very English sort of sanitary child-swear, as opposed to "drat", or "darn", which seem less indigenous to that part of the world.
"Wear your macintosh, love! It looks like rain today."
"Oh, bother my macintosh!", the child would say, but reaches for it anyway.
"And your wellies! I don't want you getting mud on you new shoes."
"Oh, bother my wellies!", the child mutters, pulling them on.
"I'll be waiting for you outside in the car after school with your step-mother, alright?"
"Oh, fuck that bitch!", the child exclaims without thinking, and then freezes as it sinks in.
"What. Did. You. Say.", the father, appearing for the first time in text, says quietly in slow rage.
"I'm sssoo ssorry D-dad...", the poor kid sputters. "I-I didn't m-mean it!"
"I WILL NOT HAVE THAT SORT OF LANGUAGE IN MY HOUSE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?", the father roars.
The child bursts into tears, sincerely remorseful.
"WE ARE ENGLISH, AND YOU WILL SPEAK LIKE ONE. AT THE VERY LEAST, CALL HER A 'SORRY OLD NAG'!"
...Ok, sense of humour defective.
Mr Ancob does have his point, but I believe that strong language, when not overdone, can add to the humour of something, or serve to make a point better. It is...weird, reading the papers and seeing a columnist tell you something is so "darn fun".
What, you don't agree?
Well, bother you.
Lah.
Well yes, I watched another one. Nothing too hardcore, thankfully. I actually feel pretty alright. It was one of those low-budget English comedies along the lines of Bend it Like Beckham, with this one entitled Virtual Sexuality.
That's going to snag a few hits from keyword-searches alone, I suspect. Much like how I found out about and pondered for quite a bit some bloke in Pakistan (I think) stumbling onto TehUneducated with a search for "female ejaculation". In the light of the lack of concrete evidence, we conjecture that his interest was purely scientific.
...Right.
As with most productions in the category, Virtual Sexuality is a light-hearted and interesting enough take on...nothing in particular. Alright, a brief overview is that it involves a nerd-geek, a hot (passably) chick, and some science fiction that came out of nowhere, like a flasher lurking in the corner of a dark street alley. Somehow, in another one of those done to death new-technology-experiences-unanticipated-power-surge scenes, her perfect male image is brought to life...with her mind. While she potters off home, having no idea. Mild hilarity ensues.
The film is forgettable enough, but it reminded me of just how unbelievably sexy the English accent is. At risk of sounding like a a broken record, simply lovely.
Yes, yes, I'm a white-worshipping, jia kan tang bananaman. Can you believe some punk kid actually called me the last? Like, wtf, bananaman? He probably meant it as some mortal insult, but it sorta defused me by throwing me off track for a bit. How do you hit someone who thinks bananaman is a fighting word? More complimentary than anything really, because as detailed by the illustrous person whose name I forgot heading the latest (yet another) Speak Good English Campaign, broken English has been spoken for so long and accepted as the norm, and even a measure of identity, that speaking proper English is seen as "putting on airs".
Away with thee, Demons of Digression!
But, yes. English accent. Very, very sexy leh. And the women...well some...just have this very elegant look that goes perfectly with it. Fuck that, Mike Meyers playing Austin Powers in Goldmember turned me on, chest hair and all, in that bit of dialogue with his father, if you can at all recall it.
To aid visualization of this unhealthy fetish of mine, I must resort to more vulgar measures.
Sex with a British Chick: "Mmm...oh yes...YES! Right there, you animal! Do it to me...take me...oh fuuuuuck yes!" You can't make an accent evident in text. Not with dirty talk. Imagination, to please be using.
Sex with homegrown, made in Singapore Ah Lian: "WAH KAN NIN NA SI BEI SONG AHHH. HWAHHH!" ...
A ridiculously large sum of money which I don't have but will find some way to pay for provocative pictures of Keira Knightley! Sad ah. I'd say "A Date With", but I'd prolly screw it up and it'd degenerate into yet another one-sided psychotic stalker relationship. Um, did I say "yet another"? I mean "A". In jest. For comic relief. Believe or die.
Definitely a chipper mood, tonight.
To wrap it up, I'll relate something Mr Ancob said about TehUneducated, which I'd meant to but forgot somehow. I did mention he visited this site and found it satisfactory. He then went on to say, in a subsequent meeting, that some of the writing here might even be publishable, if only I'd stop saying "Fuck" so much. As a sort of demonstration that it was a professional statement rather than personal objection, he went on to relate a rather amusing anecdote.
He was in the Navy back in the days, you see, and the phrase "curse like a seaman" came about for a reason. "Fuck" was indeed almost a middle syllable of every word in the sailor dictionary. So it came to pass that they had an official dinner, with everyone smartly decked out in their finest, at a class restaurant with parents, girlfriends and such. With what he wanted woefully out of reach, a sailor, impeccable in his attire for the evening, turned to the mother of his sweetheart, smiled and said smoothly,
"Would you pass the fucking butter?"
It is his tale, and told as such, mildly embellished for effect on my part. He then went on to suggest that I could possibly replace it with "bother".
It was a highly intriguing suggestion, to sanitize my writing. I truthfully told him that, well, I would consider it, but seeing as this is writing of a personal nature with the mild fact that no one reads the shit anyway, it was probably unneccessary. Intriguing and related, though, because I've always found "bother" to be a very English sort of sanitary child-swear, as opposed to "drat", or "darn", which seem less indigenous to that part of the world.
"Wear your macintosh, love! It looks like rain today."
"Oh, bother my macintosh!", the child would say, but reaches for it anyway.
"And your wellies! I don't want you getting mud on you new shoes."
"Oh, bother my wellies!", the child mutters, pulling them on.
"I'll be waiting for you outside in the car after school with your step-mother, alright?"
"Oh, fuck that bitch!", the child exclaims without thinking, and then freezes as it sinks in.
"What. Did. You. Say.", the father, appearing for the first time in text, says quietly in slow rage.
"I'm sssoo ssorry D-dad...", the poor kid sputters. "I-I didn't m-mean it!"
"I WILL NOT HAVE THAT SORT OF LANGUAGE IN MY HOUSE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?", the father roars.
The child bursts into tears, sincerely remorseful.
"WE ARE ENGLISH, AND YOU WILL SPEAK LIKE ONE. AT THE VERY LEAST, CALL HER A 'SORRY OLD NAG'!"
...Ok, sense of humour defective.
Mr Ancob does have his point, but I believe that strong language, when not overdone, can add to the humour of something, or serve to make a point better. It is...weird, reading the papers and seeing a columnist tell you something is so "darn fun".
What, you don't agree?
Well, bother you.
Lah.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
The Candle Snuffing.
Wow.
Having worked on an entry for close to two hours, I realized upon the reviewing that it didn't really make any sense, and read rather badly. Excusable maybe, considering the emotional slump I was in, but not acceptable. I have my inane posts, but they are quality inane posts. I am my own Quality Control, and I refuse to subject my readers, however few, to actual bad writing.
Suffice to say that I had a bad day. Not slit-wrists bad, just...one of those rare times my own company strangely does not suffice, and no one was actually, well, around. And I choose to watch a lovely, lovely movie. It's rather like knowing you have to choose an item to shove up your arse, and picking a durian, thinking it would a good idea.
The lovely film in question is Spanglish, and I can't quite do it justice. Quality stuff, as with most Sandler films, and reaffirms my vague notions of learning Spanish and trying to date Hispanic women, because Paz Vega is amazing stuff.
Please watch it, because you're rather unlikely to suffer the same sort of genetic mutation, that demands empathetic equal and opposite reactions, I do. In brief, the better and more I like a film, the bigger the piece of shit I feel like afterwards. Covered briefly, I think, in one of the previous entries. Movie Melancholia, but hey, who really cares about one more Emo guy out there.
The process of writing the previous post aided the whole reality-resinking a little. I am slightly better.
My apologies for putting you through this.
Having worked on an entry for close to two hours, I realized upon the reviewing that it didn't really make any sense, and read rather badly. Excusable maybe, considering the emotional slump I was in, but not acceptable. I have my inane posts, but they are quality inane posts. I am my own Quality Control, and I refuse to subject my readers, however few, to actual bad writing.
Suffice to say that I had a bad day. Not slit-wrists bad, just...one of those rare times my own company strangely does not suffice, and no one was actually, well, around. And I choose to watch a lovely, lovely movie. It's rather like knowing you have to choose an item to shove up your arse, and picking a durian, thinking it would a good idea.
The lovely film in question is Spanglish, and I can't quite do it justice. Quality stuff, as with most Sandler films, and reaffirms my vague notions of learning Spanish and trying to date Hispanic women, because Paz Vega is amazing stuff.
Please watch it, because you're rather unlikely to suffer the same sort of genetic mutation, that demands empathetic equal and opposite reactions, I do. In brief, the better and more I like a film, the bigger the piece of shit I feel like afterwards. Covered briefly, I think, in one of the previous entries. Movie Melancholia, but hey, who really cares about one more Emo guy out there.
The process of writing the previous post aided the whole reality-resinking a little. I am slightly better.
My apologies for putting you through this.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
R.E.S.P.E.C.T.
Quiet dignity, and screaming it.
(Image truncated to fit. All rights reserved by and all credits go to Paramount Pictures and MTV. For full image and other information about this lovely movie, please visit go here. No sues me please. T_T)
It's the name of a song.
Ragged memories of a video of a rendition too long ago involve retro-istical nasal voices, heavily made up African-American women, and too many sequins. Ahh, the sequins! Make them stop! Make them sto-
Vivid stuff. In a brilliant application of linguistic devices I have just thought of while sipping tea, my thoughts on the stuff may be summarized as "Earn or Burn". Everybody knows or has known at least one piece of shit who thinks he's gods' gift to insertfieldhere, and a majority have probably entertained very satisfying images of said person shaved bald and dangled over a slow fire.
In a world of punk kids who think they're tough shit, and condescending ugly people who think I'm a punk kid, I haven't found a whole lot worth respecting. One half of the parents is an obnoxious source of many a belief I was adopted, the majority of the teachers I was inflicted upon were overbearing and slimy in their illusions of grandeur, and let's not get started about my many run-ins with incompetent policemen who think their uniforms give them the moral high ground to talk down to you from. Except the ones who arrested me, of course. They did a good job, there, but that's another story altogether. It is my personal belief that up to half the population of the generic figures-of-authority have no business being there but hey, I'm uneducated, what do I know?
Suffice to say that, as I psyched the self to gear for an interview of sorts with one of the few (fine, the only) replies to my many solicitations for consideration to give me money, I was gearing more to sell what I had (thinkth thou no evil thoughts), than to actually learn anything.
Mr Ancob (if you haven't yet figured out no real names are used here where possible, then, um...figure it out) described himself as "...an European man with grey hair. Easy enough to spot.", over the phone. And so he was, so he was. I had no trouble whatsoever identifying him upon reaching the stipulated place. Alas and alack, what had we here? Engaged, was he, in interview-al conversation with a distinguished Indian gentleman, immaculately garbed in the white-collar standard of shirt and pants, presenting a stack of documents much thicker than the few sheets I had. Hong gan liao, I think to the self. There goes the job, and so much for the afterglow (no hidden reference, I just thought it sounded nice. Yes I know it's the name of a song and yes I know the song itself. What is it with my sudden love of bracketed text? Beats me.).
So I find a seat behind them, and scratch at the writing samples I had brought, inking out typos I would swear weren't there before that added nicely to my confidence right then. After two years or so, Uneducated@Chair time, they finish, and Mr Ancob sees me for the first time.
"Oh! Are you..."
I affirmed that I was, indeed, his four o'clock.
"Gosh, I hadn't realized the time! I hope you haven't been waiting long. What time is it now any...", he trails off, fumbling in a pocket for a timing device.
I reassure him that it hadn't been at all long (actual-time wise), and that I was actually somewhat early.
"Ah, so you're early! Very good!", he exclaims, making me feel for all the world like the kid who spelled C-A-T right. There was just something in his demeanour, something about the way he weighted his words, that left no doubt as to his genuine pleasure. He excused himself to retrieve my Resume and such which he'd left in the office, and spying the Marlboro Lights he held in one hand together with some documents, I surmised it would be acceptable to consume my own last stick in the wait.
Bemusedly, alternating thoughts of doom and hope, I take very same seat the Indian gentleman vacated, gestured over by Mr Ancob before his departure. It was, disturbingly, still warm. Spreading yesterday's papers before me, I proceeded to finish said cigarrette over a few articles. Worth mentioning here is the mosquito I expertly laid the smackdown on as it hovered hesitant, looking for an opening. Examining the tiny corpse with disgust, I noted the distinctive black and white stripes of Aedes Triseriatus, and entertained brief thoughts of dengue fever before letting it flutter gently to the ground, "It Couldn't Happen To Me." mental defense firmly in place. Thank gods I never intend to visit prostitutes.
He returns soon after the murderous deed, and as I hurriedly put away the paper, comments on recent news are exchanged. At some point of the wildly digressing conversation, we return to the matter at hand: The evaluation of the possibility that I would be working for him. I whip out the plastic file, suddenly unsure as to what I should hand him. I had four choices, and all of them seemed suddenly inadequate.
Indeed, such was true. Going over my work with a pen, I was frankly at a loss about what to feel as he began marking my document. "You don't mind if I mark this, do you?", he checks with me, having already underlined some underlines and circled some circles. Not at all minding, and not about to disagree, were those papers what I would be consuming for dinner, I hurriedly gesture my immense non-mindedness towards it, the long-regressed student in me already shoving innate mild Writer's Affront aside. Mr Ancob began to set himself to the task with a will, and I was increasingly drawn into the spontaneous lesson.
He decides, a quarter through the document, that it was entirely too ornate, and asks for another. Shrinking a little, I proceed to offer another by-this-time even more inadequate one. The process begins anew, and we plow through this one. Mr Ancob continues to point out where exactly the document is lacking, and positively coos over sentences he denotes as "Bee-YOO-Ti-Ful! I knew you could do it!", complete with sideways elbow nudge (which, in a bit of awkwardness, missed). Meh, if school had been this good, it might just be me on trial for racist comments unbecoming of a PSC scholar.
Wow.
We then speak more at length about my possible employment, and Mr Ancob, half-in-jest, says I should be paying him for the lesson, and proceeds to relate how his father used to take on apprentices, who in an archaic system of Respect, would pay him to work for him. Rather than any form of outrage however, I fully agreed! In less than an hour, the weight of what I'd learned from Mr Ancob about writing professionally was worth its weight in gold. Seeing as how it, um, weighed nothing, let me just rephrase that as "A lot of money". Which in all seriousness, I would have paid.
Let's take a moment here to relate the one other interview I landed, some time back. It was a new startup, with the intent of publishing and distributing a magazine similar in concept to the free distribution of Juice, I-S and GameAxis, but of course with different content. I'd sent my resume in, and that was about it. I receive a call with a request for an interview, and was only too happy to acquiesce.
I turn up. The Editor interviewing me directs me to a table, whereupon she thrusts a stack of forms upon me to fill out, three-quarters of which were requests for information already provided in my resume. We speak briefly thereafter, corporate-assessment questions asked and answered. I am thanked and shown to the door, never to hear from them again. No, I am not bitter. That, really, was about it.
Mr Ancob then continues to tell me how he used to set potential employees to a -test article- of sorts, and how he would call some of them up after days, and discover they hadn't done it because they'd found another job. Pfft, Singaporeans. To prevent my head from falling off should I start nodding, I voice my agreement. We talk again at length about everything and nothing in particular before we shake on it and part ways. His last words at that meeting were that...he liked my pants. I leave the premises, feeling something entirely foreign through disuse, which I later am able to identify as Respect, pure and simple. Oh, and with a vague afterimage of nostril hair. Don't ask.
Appreciating for the first time how difficult an informative yet elegantly simple, short article was to write the following day, it was with much relief that I sent off the finished work to Mr Ancob. I receive two replies when I next check my mail, one confirming my selection for the assignment, with brief details, and another succinct one from Mr Ancob with a sentence I stared at for a bit. Quite a bit.
"I visited tehuneducated and I thought it made the test a waste of your time."
Hopefully, Mr Ancob doesn't mind me quoting him. And, I don't know, having what matters to you (in my case, Writing) validated from someone you respect just feels...pretty damned good.
He reminds me, Mr Ancob does, of my Junior College home tutor, Mr Lawrence. Except Mr Lawrence has the fuck-off biggest beard you're likely to see in Singapore off a Sikh. Had anyone else been my home tutor, it is entirely likely that I would have turned out less...eloquent. Not that I'm being a credit to him, with the results I got. But hey, an A in Literature for knowing roughly half the syllabus, with the other half compensated for with eloquent bullshit, isn't too bad, I think. Ah, the days.
" 'Sir' is a term of respect. You will have that respect until you abuse it." Though rather different from my personal views on the R.E.S.P.E.C.T, Coach Carter has a beautiful line there with regard to the term of address. It is a term of address I use for people who have earned mine (and just forget the sorry excuses for Officers I was required to use it on in the Army, alright?). Lovely, lovely film. The movie is an inspiring story about basketball, and more importantly, about Respect. Watch it.
Though I leave out quite a few names, here, seeing as they are who I have talked about in this title-themed entry...
Mr Lawrence, Mr Ancob, thank you, sirs.
P/S: Yes, did a bit of nip and tuck on the layout and such. Let me know if this is better. Also, I figured it was sickening to prelude something while the sequel lies snug in procrastination, hence the title changes. About a Girl, should I ever continue it, probably will have to be more...circumspect. Not something I'd like to incorporate into a piece, no.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
A cold, wet sort of Magic.
Weather's lovely.
Had the fuck-off heaviest spate of rain just now. Not the usual half hearted oh-all-right-here's-some kind of affair, no. Someone up there was really laying this one on thick.
It started with a distinct, unusual chill, which I appreciated immensely. The heat here in Teh Cubicle (Room. Which is the size of rich people's wardrobes.) is so bad I sometimes just give up trying to do things, close my eyes, and surrender.
Then, the periodic rolls of thunder, irregular but persistent. Deep, lengthy, rumbling growls of bass; the type you both hear and feel.
The rain then began, but instead of the usual bucket-in-your-face approach as storms here are wont, it...crept. An indistinct rustle at first, making you second-guess yourself, both hopeful and suspicious. Teasingly, it grew from whisper to audible patter, then loud, wet splats. Finally, almost as if it realized no one could do fuck-all about it, it burst into full glory, the water gaining a joyous, defiant sort of voice from the relentless assault of water on various surfaces, so fast and thick as to obscure the next block in a white sheen.
Lovely. I really like this particular type of storm, these periods of intense rain with no irritatingly loud, boastful thundering. Loud yet at the same time quiet; the roar of rain slowly becoming a sort of endearing prescence that encompasses, enfolds everything else. Undeniable force and energy somehow become a queerly serene thing, and you can focus on either on its own merit, or deliciously linger in the middleground possible only here, wonderful each and every time.
Or, for total immersion (Pun, uh, ambiguous), run out and stand in classic silver-screen cliche, face to the heavens. Let it envelope you, initial individual ticklish trickles none-too-gradually losing themselves in the enormity of the affair, as the sweet, sweet rain wraps you head to toe, plastering hair to scalp, clothes to skin, blurring, then almost obscuring vision. In gleeful darkness, feel the rain, its wet embrace tracing your every contour, dripping off your chin, earlobes, fingertips. And know an indescribable, quiet joy.
Nah, didn't do it. Would be mighty weird, standing between two blocks of flats like that. Plus, the cheebye street lamps and such detract from the romanticism of it all. The proper place for this is by the sea, where in addition to the rain, you can hear the laughter of the sea in the storm, and where the wind properly whips the rain into scintillating sheets. The air has a distinct, crisper quality, and the sheer expanse of open sky just completes a truly magnific experience.
Been some time since the last I did that. Maybe I should make a point to go again. The whole feeling like a jackass afterwards; a very wet, soggy jackass, is kinda detrimental though. Plus, it'll be in East Coast. Other side of damned island.
But y'know, I think that quiet, indescribable joy was well worth it.
Had the fuck-off heaviest spate of rain just now. Not the usual half hearted oh-all-right-here's-some kind of affair, no. Someone up there was really laying this one on thick.
It started with a distinct, unusual chill, which I appreciated immensely. The heat here in Teh Cubicle (Room. Which is the size of rich people's wardrobes.) is so bad I sometimes just give up trying to do things, close my eyes, and surrender.
Then, the periodic rolls of thunder, irregular but persistent. Deep, lengthy, rumbling growls of bass; the type you both hear and feel.
The rain then began, but instead of the usual bucket-in-your-face approach as storms here are wont, it...crept. An indistinct rustle at first, making you second-guess yourself, both hopeful and suspicious. Teasingly, it grew from whisper to audible patter, then loud, wet splats. Finally, almost as if it realized no one could do fuck-all about it, it burst into full glory, the water gaining a joyous, defiant sort of voice from the relentless assault of water on various surfaces, so fast and thick as to obscure the next block in a white sheen.
Lovely. I really like this particular type of storm, these periods of intense rain with no irritatingly loud, boastful thundering. Loud yet at the same time quiet; the roar of rain slowly becoming a sort of endearing prescence that encompasses, enfolds everything else. Undeniable force and energy somehow become a queerly serene thing, and you can focus on either on its own merit, or deliciously linger in the middleground possible only here, wonderful each and every time.
Or, for total immersion (Pun, uh, ambiguous), run out and stand in classic silver-screen cliche, face to the heavens. Let it envelope you, initial individual ticklish trickles none-too-gradually losing themselves in the enormity of the affair, as the sweet, sweet rain wraps you head to toe, plastering hair to scalp, clothes to skin, blurring, then almost obscuring vision. In gleeful darkness, feel the rain, its wet embrace tracing your every contour, dripping off your chin, earlobes, fingertips. And know an indescribable, quiet joy.
Nah, didn't do it. Would be mighty weird, standing between two blocks of flats like that. Plus, the cheebye street lamps and such detract from the romanticism of it all. The proper place for this is by the sea, where in addition to the rain, you can hear the laughter of the sea in the storm, and where the wind properly whips the rain into scintillating sheets. The air has a distinct, crisper quality, and the sheer expanse of open sky just completes a truly magnific experience.
Been some time since the last I did that. Maybe I should make a point to go again. The whole feeling like a jackass afterwards; a very wet, soggy jackass, is kinda detrimental though. Plus, it'll be in East Coast. Other side of damned island.
But y'know, I think that quiet, indescribable joy was well worth it.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Placebo.
Wah, four days and nothing. Gone case liao lar.Meh. No, no, been busy, really. As title suggests, this is a Milo-Genre post. Done with what I had to, but not quite in a state of mind to entertain. Nothing quite as dreadful as what I normally would portent with that sort of language, though.
Think happy thoughts. Think cute, fluffy white sheep frolicking in rolling, sun-kissed meadows.And then roasting one over a spit to medium-rare perfection, spiced and seasoned to taste. As you shear off a good-sized chunk (none of those bullshit portions they serve you in restaurants and demand your first-born child for), feel the tug of imminent food against saw-edged stainless steel, initially yielding easily to your efforts, then taking a firmer grip against the metal as the pink, tender portion you love and can already almost taste, is reached. The meat falls onto the waiting ceramic with a satisfying thunk, and a bit of melted fat, jogged loose by your exertions, falls onto the glowing embers and hisses gently. In the distance, a movie cliche comes alive as you hear, then see a wolf silhouetted against the backdrop of a gibbous moon and stars, oh, stars; its head thrown back in silent protest against nothing in particular as the last dregs of wolfsong die on the breeze.
I have no idea why I did that, but yes, that sort of quaint little loveliness. TehUneducated...will be back.
Think happy thoughts. Think cute, fluffy white sheep frolicking in rolling, sun-kissed meadows.And then roasting one over a spit to medium-rare perfection, spiced and seasoned to taste. As you shear off a good-sized chunk (none of those bullshit portions they serve you in restaurants and demand your first-born child for), feel the tug of imminent food against saw-edged stainless steel, initially yielding easily to your efforts, then taking a firmer grip against the metal as the pink, tender portion you love and can already almost taste, is reached. The meat falls onto the waiting ceramic with a satisfying thunk, and a bit of melted fat, jogged loose by your exertions, falls onto the glowing embers and hisses gently. In the distance, a movie cliche comes alive as you hear, then see a wolf silhouetted against the backdrop of a gibbous moon and stars, oh, stars; its head thrown back in silent protest against nothing in particular as the last dregs of wolfsong die on the breeze.
I have no idea why I did that, but yes, that sort of quaint little loveliness. TehUneducated...will be back.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Intransigence All Around.
Wah, KNN.
Another day. Another, pretty much empty one. Once again, no jobs to go for. Translated: Nothing I'd both want to do and/or qualify for.
So, now that the Fallout 2 adrenal rush (Geek Gamer Goes Gangstah! ...Uh.), I've properly sat down again to catch up on the papers, comb the various Classifieds, etc. The, uh, Productive side of my life.
Nope. And hence, yay, more posting on same day.
You know, I have this love-hate relationship with movies. Films. I've said before, I really, really love a good story. Movies, books, games. As much as I advocate the written word, and make vague derogatory remarks at those whu cn onli tok lyk tis lolx, I must concede that the motion picture packs a far greater psychological punch in a lot of ways.
"As she teasingly undid the buttons of her shirt with almost painful deliberation, I stood, caught somewhere between her deliciously weighted scrutiny and the slowly emerging, equally fascinating contours of her..."
Hmmm I have a positive talent for this. Buuuut anyway, yes, between reading that and seeing it happen between two people on the screen (assume hawt women, good acting), the screen smacks the mind a good deal harder. And so it is that feel-good, fuzzy-wuzzy romantic comedies hit me the hardest. To quote myself (this feels weird) in previous writing, "When you walk out of the theatre, the world is no longer lit in the soft, golden candlelight you just saw, but blindingly clinical, sterile fluorescent white." Or something like that.
I've got a cluster of, um, electronically appropriated video media, that I've yet to watch. Quite a number. If I'm honest with myself, it's because I can't really bring myself to. In the stagnation I'm in (a pretty fuck-off long one), as much as I'd enjoy myself for the duration of the picture, the post-production, what I like to call movie melancholia, is not something I want to deal with right now.
So, warraw, why read newspaper also got ah?
Firstly, that they don't even have any Writing openings. I've combed them enough to know they're far and few between, but mostly there's at least one or two. Which of course I fling myself pathetically at. To the inevitable result of silent disdain. But no more.
Then, there's all this success going on. Oh, stop it. Yes, I know these are people who've worked hard for their efforts, etc. Allow me to bitch once inna bit, alright? Xiaxue (I can never remember her name...was it Wendy Cheng?) makes the papers yet again, and so do Mr Miyagi and Mr Brown, for setting up a Singapore-Blog Portal of sorts, which I, having visited, applaud. Very commendable. I read other bits and marvel at Colin Goh's seemingly intrinsic wit, and Sumiko Tan's grace and poise in her prose (though her choice of subjects is always a little...squeaky for my tastes. Singapore Tee Shirts, wtf?).
And TehUneducated's Ego is knocked down for the count! The round, and the championship belt goes to the Various Outstanding Pillars of Sociiiiiiiiety~!
Kay. Enough wallowing. Take it like it is.
Hey, I know it was my fault for not lining up for the A-s at the A-s, knowing full well I could have. Being stuck with a half-arsed A-Cert is a bit of a bummer. Can't laugh at that Poly-now-Grad holding that position I'd maim small animals for now, can I? I don't know...was it a bad decision, the holding out for a proper position? In a world sickeningly certificate-centred, do the talented who fucked up sometime back not get a chance to showcase what they can do, as opposed to some private degree kia who slaps the smiling receptionist with money and writes his name on the Degree (not you, my skinny Chinese ambiguously homosexual lover, you animal, you)? Like, if I had the money, I'd do the same, you know? Big, buggered If, though.
So, yes. Self-inflicted intransigence. To hold out, waiting for that big break...or to sell myself out, and knock up some generic grunt-employment affair, earning shit for doing shit. Gods know I need money.
But, well, if that was all it was about, I wouldnae have quit the previous thankless gig. I need to feel some kind of satisfaction at the end of the work-day, work at a result, produce something, and have it recognized. I'd take 2/3 of my previous pay (and believe me, the full sum was nothing to throw parties about) at something I enjoy doing, like Writing, rather than the original sum, for the retardation that was the job.
Inevitably, ends have to meet, I guess. This slim shady, might just be spitting on your onion rings next. Be honoured. And afraid. =)
This Self-Rationalizing Piece of Shit has been Brought to you by TehUneducated.
P/S That makes no sense to anyone else but myself:
Jason Woo, as much as I admire your talent and sheer tenacity for churning out remarkable pieces of work...fuck you. I want your job. You bastard. T_T
Another day. Another, pretty much empty one. Once again, no jobs to go for. Translated: Nothing I'd both want to do and/or qualify for.
So, now that the Fallout 2 adrenal rush (Geek Gamer Goes Gangstah! ...Uh.), I've properly sat down again to catch up on the papers, comb the various Classifieds, etc. The, uh, Productive side of my life.
Nope. And hence, yay, more posting on same day.
You know, I have this love-hate relationship with movies. Films. I've said before, I really, really love a good story. Movies, books, games. As much as I advocate the written word, and make vague derogatory remarks at those whu cn onli tok lyk tis lolx, I must concede that the motion picture packs a far greater psychological punch in a lot of ways.
"As she teasingly undid the buttons of her shirt with almost painful deliberation, I stood, caught somewhere between her deliciously weighted scrutiny and the slowly emerging, equally fascinating contours of her..."
Hmmm I have a positive talent for this. Buuuut anyway, yes, between reading that and seeing it happen between two people on the screen (assume hawt women, good acting), the screen smacks the mind a good deal harder. And so it is that feel-good, fuzzy-wuzzy romantic comedies hit me the hardest. To quote myself (this feels weird) in previous writing, "When you walk out of the theatre, the world is no longer lit in the soft, golden candlelight you just saw, but blindingly clinical, sterile fluorescent white." Or something like that.
I've got a cluster of, um, electronically appropriated video media, that I've yet to watch. Quite a number. If I'm honest with myself, it's because I can't really bring myself to. In the stagnation I'm in (a pretty fuck-off long one), as much as I'd enjoy myself for the duration of the picture, the post-production, what I like to call movie melancholia, is not something I want to deal with right now.
So, warraw, why read newspaper also got ah?
Firstly, that they don't even have any Writing openings. I've combed them enough to know they're far and few between, but mostly there's at least one or two. Which of course I fling myself pathetically at. To the inevitable result of silent disdain. But no more.
Then, there's all this success going on. Oh, stop it. Yes, I know these are people who've worked hard for their efforts, etc. Allow me to bitch once inna bit, alright? Xiaxue (I can never remember her name...was it Wendy Cheng?) makes the papers yet again, and so do Mr Miyagi and Mr Brown, for setting up a Singapore-Blog Portal of sorts, which I, having visited, applaud. Very commendable. I read other bits and marvel at Colin Goh's seemingly intrinsic wit, and Sumiko Tan's grace and poise in her prose (though her choice of subjects is always a little...squeaky for my tastes. Singapore Tee Shirts, wtf?).
And TehUneducated's Ego is knocked down for the count! The round, and the championship belt goes to the Various Outstanding Pillars of Sociiiiiiiiety~!
Kay. Enough wallowing. Take it like it is.
Hey, I know it was my fault for not lining up for the A-s at the A-s, knowing full well I could have. Being stuck with a half-arsed A-Cert is a bit of a bummer. Can't laugh at that Poly-now-Grad holding that position I'd maim small animals for now, can I? I don't know...was it a bad decision, the holding out for a proper position? In a world sickeningly certificate-centred, do the talented who fucked up sometime back not get a chance to showcase what they can do, as opposed to some private degree kia who slaps the smiling receptionist with money and writes his name on the Degree (not you, my skinny Chinese ambiguously homosexual lover, you animal, you)? Like, if I had the money, I'd do the same, you know? Big, buggered If, though.
So, yes. Self-inflicted intransigence. To hold out, waiting for that big break...or to sell myself out, and knock up some generic grunt-employment affair, earning shit for doing shit. Gods know I need money.
But, well, if that was all it was about, I wouldnae have quit the previous thankless gig. I need to feel some kind of satisfaction at the end of the work-day, work at a result, produce something, and have it recognized. I'd take 2/3 of my previous pay (and believe me, the full sum was nothing to throw parties about) at something I enjoy doing, like Writing, rather than the original sum, for the retardation that was the job.
Inevitably, ends have to meet, I guess. This slim shady, might just be spitting on your onion rings next. Be honoured. And afraid. =)
This Self-Rationalizing Piece of Shit has been Brought to you by TehUneducated.
P/S That makes no sense to anyone else but myself:
Jason Woo, as much as I admire your talent and sheer tenacity for churning out remarkable pieces of work...fuck you. I want your job. You bastard. T_T
Geek Nostalgia.
I've actually been planning this for some time, but...things happened. The most major of which is related, I guess.
Sickened of grinding the EXP in Maple Story (believe me, you couldn't possibly come up with a new comment or disdainful look I haven't already experienced for playing the game T_T), sudden nostalgia struck, and I rummaged through the stack of old CDs I had to see if it was still there. Aha!
Fallout 2: A Post-Nuclear Apocalyptic Role-Playing Game.
Yeah, I'm that much of a geek I wax nostalgic over games. It's just one section, bear with it.
Gaming on the PC platform has evolved considerably, and one rather important aspect is multi-player support. Everything goes online these days, for you to "be part of a fun and dynamic community!". A rather interesting illustration of this was the release of Doom 3 not too long ago. Highly anticipated? Yes. As drool-soakingly beautifully rendered as the pre-release screenshots claimed it to be? Yes. Multiplayer? ...No. And so, it was released, snapped up for a bit, and then quietly sank into oblivion.
Peculiar, isn't it? No one cares about a storyline anymore; it's all about how high-levelled you are, in relation to other players. And, really, that's the sickening bit about all the massively multiplayered online games these days: The Assholes. The ones who were there before you were, or play for longer each day than you do. They have more life, take less damage, do more damage, wear better gear than you, and they want to be sure you know it. Depending on the game, this is illustrated in a variety of ways, but make the real-life analogy of the pimply kid with the rich parents who gets chauffered to school in a Mercedes, is full-body designer-decked, and who gives you that pond-scum look...and you get the idea.
This is not to say, of course, that only Assholes play these games. I play them. Hmmm, wait, ok, bad analogy. I've made my fair share of friends from the games I play, and at least one has resulted in a fruitful, semi-homosexual and lasting friendship. But the occasional encounter is enough to put you off, and additionally, there basically isn't much of a storyline for any of them. You get a world-setting, some superficial background, and that's it. Now go level up, earn virtual money and show off. Shoo.
I like stories. Growing up a deprived kid without much company but the books probably has something to do with it. And while the levelling treadmill is engaging on its own, as you watch your character grow, there's only so much appeal in that.
Enter Fallout 2: A Post Nuclear Apocalyptic Role-playing Game, with the emphasis on Role-Playing. The world has seen the third world war, and the first two were little boys scuffling at the playground in comparison. The world powers all blew their big ones, and life on the planet was virtually wiped out. As the international tensions mounted, various giant, fuck-off big Vaults with water-recycling and food production facilities were comissioned and built all over the world. Whoever could fit, if it meant shooting that brother you grew up with and hated to reduce family headcount, went into the Vaults. When the A-Bombs and N-Blasts went off, the people in the Vaults were all that were left of Humanity. When radition levels finally fell to safe limits after decades, the people in the Vaults emerged to a desolate nuclear wasteland, and began, like bipedal cockroaches, to infest the Earth once more.
In this sequel to the original, you are the Chosen One of a small tribe living in the desert. Having totally exhausted the land, the village is dying, and you are tasked to go forth into the world and bring back a device called the Garden of Eden Creation Kit, an invention from before the war meant to rejuvenate the land and make it fruitful once more. And so, off you go, into the New Human World, only in its infancy, and already a fuck-off big mess.
I just completed the game, after about three days of straight play. Most of them were wake up in the morning, double click, and Exit when unable to stay awake any longer affairs. Like, 9am to 12am, or something. Along the way, I kept my head low in the beginning, honed my skills, performed rewarding tasks, did drugs, picked up companions, stole from people, screwed the wife and daughter of a prominent Mob boss of whose Family I became a Made Man, and returned to totally fuck up the assholes giving me lip when I was weaker. All in the name of saving the village, of course.
If the above doesn't sound fun to you, wtf, d00d. You should probably stop reading if you even had to patience to get this far and go get another 2% on your l337 h4xx0r level 25276 pwnage character. Or, if it just doesn't sound like your idea of a good time, try here. I was just panting for more to the end, heh.
Fallout 2's graphics, by today's standards, are uh...fine, utterly retarded. It has pathetic resolution, a sore lack of distinctive sprites, and ten thousand fatal bugs that caused me to lose 4 hours or more of straight play each time because I hadn't saved. Not to mention the whole epileptic save/loading during tight combat situations where a single bad shot assigned by the computer rips you a new one. And despite all these, it's maintained a cult following all the way to the present, from when it was released back in 1998 or so. With me a proud, dark-circled, pasty-skinned member, of course.
Don't get me started on Ultima Underworld. It was 1995-ish, I was (seriously this time) a dinky, shaven-headed piece of shit kid, and the computer and I had times too good to speak of in polite company.
If you're a gamer, particularly a role-playing one like myself, do yourself a favour. Play Fallout, and re-discover the joy of a interactive, enthralling story. Or if you seriously enjoy attaining some wonderfully high level in your MMO and love the "OMFG PRO" comments from new players, and that rush of power as you kill-steal hapless lower-levellers, do humanity a favour and get yourself neutered. Or I kill your kids kthxbye gg no re.
Now that Fallout's done with, the other pieces in the dusty stack of CDs call out to me, pulling me with an almost tangible force. Stay tuned, though, for subsequent Get Medieval!s, and more sad failed nerd-geek romances in subsequent About a Girl-s.
...and in the meantime, I -still- need to get a damned job. Sigh.
Sickened of grinding the EXP in Maple Story (believe me, you couldn't possibly come up with a new comment or disdainful look I haven't already experienced for playing the game T_T), sudden nostalgia struck, and I rummaged through the stack of old CDs I had to see if it was still there. Aha!
Fallout 2: A Post-Nuclear Apocalyptic Role-Playing Game.
Yeah, I'm that much of a geek I wax nostalgic over games. It's just one section, bear with it.
Gaming on the PC platform has evolved considerably, and one rather important aspect is multi-player support. Everything goes online these days, for you to "be part of a fun and dynamic community!". A rather interesting illustration of this was the release of Doom 3 not too long ago. Highly anticipated? Yes. As drool-soakingly beautifully rendered as the pre-release screenshots claimed it to be? Yes. Multiplayer? ...No. And so, it was released, snapped up for a bit, and then quietly sank into oblivion.
Peculiar, isn't it? No one cares about a storyline anymore; it's all about how high-levelled you are, in relation to other players. And, really, that's the sickening bit about all the massively multiplayered online games these days: The Assholes. The ones who were there before you were, or play for longer each day than you do. They have more life, take less damage, do more damage, wear better gear than you, and they want to be sure you know it. Depending on the game, this is illustrated in a variety of ways, but make the real-life analogy of the pimply kid with the rich parents who gets chauffered to school in a Mercedes, is full-body designer-decked, and who gives you that pond-scum look...and you get the idea.
This is not to say, of course, that only Assholes play these games. I play them. Hmmm, wait, ok, bad analogy. I've made my fair share of friends from the games I play, and at least one has resulted in a fruitful, semi-homosexual and lasting friendship. But the occasional encounter is enough to put you off, and additionally, there basically isn't much of a storyline for any of them. You get a world-setting, some superficial background, and that's it. Now go level up, earn virtual money and show off. Shoo.
I like stories. Growing up a deprived kid without much company but the books probably has something to do with it. And while the levelling treadmill is engaging on its own, as you watch your character grow, there's only so much appeal in that.
Enter Fallout 2: A Post Nuclear Apocalyptic Role-playing Game, with the emphasis on Role-Playing. The world has seen the third world war, and the first two were little boys scuffling at the playground in comparison. The world powers all blew their big ones, and life on the planet was virtually wiped out. As the international tensions mounted, various giant, fuck-off big Vaults with water-recycling and food production facilities were comissioned and built all over the world. Whoever could fit, if it meant shooting that brother you grew up with and hated to reduce family headcount, went into the Vaults. When the A-Bombs and N-Blasts went off, the people in the Vaults were all that were left of Humanity. When radition levels finally fell to safe limits after decades, the people in the Vaults emerged to a desolate nuclear wasteland, and began, like bipedal cockroaches, to infest the Earth once more.
In this sequel to the original, you are the Chosen One of a small tribe living in the desert. Having totally exhausted the land, the village is dying, and you are tasked to go forth into the world and bring back a device called the Garden of Eden Creation Kit, an invention from before the war meant to rejuvenate the land and make it fruitful once more. And so, off you go, into the New Human World, only in its infancy, and already a fuck-off big mess.
I just completed the game, after about three days of straight play. Most of them were wake up in the morning, double click, and Exit when unable to stay awake any longer affairs. Like, 9am to 12am, or something. Along the way, I kept my head low in the beginning, honed my skills, performed rewarding tasks, did drugs, picked up companions, stole from people, screwed the wife and daughter of a prominent Mob boss of whose Family I became a Made Man, and returned to totally fuck up the assholes giving me lip when I was weaker. All in the name of saving the village, of course.
If the above doesn't sound fun to you, wtf, d00d. You should probably stop reading if you even had to patience to get this far and go get another 2% on your l337 h4xx0r level 25276 pwnage character. Or, if it just doesn't sound like your idea of a good time, try here. I was just panting for more to the end, heh.
Fallout 2's graphics, by today's standards, are uh...fine, utterly retarded. It has pathetic resolution, a sore lack of distinctive sprites, and ten thousand fatal bugs that caused me to lose 4 hours or more of straight play each time because I hadn't saved. Not to mention the whole epileptic save/loading during tight combat situations where a single bad shot assigned by the computer rips you a new one. And despite all these, it's maintained a cult following all the way to the present, from when it was released back in 1998 or so. With me a proud, dark-circled, pasty-skinned member, of course.
Don't get me started on Ultima Underworld. It was 1995-ish, I was (seriously this time) a dinky, shaven-headed piece of shit kid, and the computer and I had times too good to speak of in polite company.
If you're a gamer, particularly a role-playing one like myself, do yourself a favour. Play Fallout, and re-discover the joy of a interactive, enthralling story. Or if you seriously enjoy attaining some wonderfully high level in your MMO and love the "OMFG PRO" comments from new players, and that rush of power as you kill-steal hapless lower-levellers, do humanity a favour and get yourself neutered. Or I kill your kids kthxbye gg no re.
Now that Fallout's done with, the other pieces in the dusty stack of CDs call out to me, pulling me with an almost tangible force. Stay tuned, though, for subsequent Get Medieval!s, and more sad failed nerd-geek romances in subsequent About a Girl-s.
...and in the meantime, I -still- need to get a damned job. Sigh.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Intermission. And Snails.
So...yes! -in British accent and particularly wickedly funny because Eddie Izzard is saying it-
I'd meant to try and put non-Milo type things up not more between than 2 days apiece, but, well. The girlfriend, with whom I have had no prior plans before, jio-s me swimming in the noon, which I do.
Then, I cut my hair, seeing as I've been whining about it to no one in particular for quite a bit .
Thereafter, we wind up in town, where I sit and read while girlfriend does the whole -Omg did I tell you about the time when...-, with two other people, both known; one much less than the other.
We proceed from there, having dropped the two lovely chaps and taken up with another, to have dinner.
Dinner is unremarkable, except when the in-house singer makes his rounds singing "My Way", and suddenly thrusts mike at me at the chorus. I yodel, they collapse laughing, and obligatory Singapore Idol comments were passed.
Subsequently, we adjourn to her, uh, other place, where third chap is supposed to study. Sleepy from dinner and 5 minutes of fame, I wanted quite a bit to be back home basking in the radioactive glow of the monitor, but nooo.
At roughly ten pm, girlfriend and studying-friend both fall asleep, dead tired. I shake my head, continue reading, and at 11.30pm, wake them. We head home.
Indeed, I've forsworn writing about the itty-gritty bits of life, but bear with me, because the content and structure of the above are meant to illustrate a couple of things:
1. Don't be a shitbrick and procrastinate, like me. Leave it till the last bit possible, and suddenly you're in demand, suddenly you're going places. It starts off as one little thing, turns into a string of the shit, and whoa, you're home past midnight, drop dead beat and surprised at how much bull you can actually still churn out.
2. Study at home. This isn't a gripe I have to deal with often, but it's been a painful one as of recent times. The missus claims she can NOT study at home due to noise, distractions, blah. Hence, she has to go to remote locations, and study till hours deemed blasphemous and unholy even by me. Of course, she starts off claiming she can do well enough by herself, or with a friend who can stay for a bit with her. Sia la, Bangla see she sexy-sexy then drag her to rubbish dump rape how? I haven't nubbed her yet, and I'll be fucked if a Bangla does it before I do (interesting verbal dichotomy there). So I'm there every time hence, smiling and doing my uneducated things while she crams for her examinations. Way to go, ego. And of course, she's so tired most of the time she falls asleep, and I smile and do my uneducated things, now sans girlfriend, in said remote location. Finally unable to take it, I wake her, and we go home.
I realize that yes, the poor girl often does nothing but study from noon till said downright obscene hour. Uneducated as I am, I am unable to comprehend the notion of effectively digesting and retaining things when one is nodding off.
3. My life is a string of ceaseless mundane events. Abduct me, you aliens.
And, uh, save the snails!
Yes, no relation. I'm tired, deal with it. So you see, I've got this habit of keeping my eyes alternatingly on the ground and above it, and sometimes during periods of extended rain like now, snails are smack all over the pavement.
I appeal to you, oh, discerning, compassionate reader currently going WTF? , to save them.
Think about it. Say you're out taking a gander, and the sky darkens. It's this really, and I mean really, fuck-off big shoe. You scream and start to run as the shoe descends, but it's an exercise in futility. The last sensory experience you have is the sight of an overwhelmingly, similarly fuck-off big swoosh symbol, and in your final moments of consciousness, a booming voice in the distance saying, "Ewww, grossss." .
We've all seen them, the poor unfortunate victims who couldn't run fast enough (no shit, they're fucking snails) and end up sick pancakes of antfood. What one should do upon sight of the poor misguided, and above all, slow mothas that are snails sliming their way along the pavement, is pick them up and toss them into the bush they came from. It's not too bad, really; there's no slime on the shell and you can do it quickly. You don't even have to give them a little pet and kiss like I do. This will save 01 x Snail Life, and will make you feel like a Better Person for the next 10 minutes, or until a respectable pair of breasts walks past. To that end, I've come up with one of those witty slogans we all know work absolute wonders:
Don't End Their Trail! Save the Snails!
With "trail" being the slime they ooze as they move...no, crawl...no, inch...no, centimeter, no...OK, -millimeter- their way along. Slime-trail, geddit, geddit? Hyuk.
Right, then. With peace of mind duely re-established, I'm off to play a spot of Fallout (oh, which is featuring in originally intended piece, I think) before bed.
Remember! Don't End Their Trail!
I'd meant to try and put non-Milo type things up not more between than 2 days apiece, but, well. The girlfriend, with whom I have had no prior plans before, jio-s me swimming in the noon, which I do.
Then, I cut my hair, seeing as I've been whining about it to no one in particular for quite a bit .
Thereafter, we wind up in town, where I sit and read while girlfriend does the whole -Omg did I tell you about the time when...-, with two other people, both known; one much less than the other.
We proceed from there, having dropped the two lovely chaps and taken up with another, to have dinner.
Dinner is unremarkable, except when the in-house singer makes his rounds singing "My Way", and suddenly thrusts mike at me at the chorus. I yodel, they collapse laughing, and obligatory Singapore Idol comments were passed.
Subsequently, we adjourn to her, uh, other place, where third chap is supposed to study. Sleepy from dinner and 5 minutes of fame, I wanted quite a bit to be back home basking in the radioactive glow of the monitor, but nooo.
At roughly ten pm, girlfriend and studying-friend both fall asleep, dead tired. I shake my head, continue reading, and at 11.30pm, wake them. We head home.
Indeed, I've forsworn writing about the itty-gritty bits of life, but bear with me, because the content and structure of the above are meant to illustrate a couple of things:
1. Don't be a shitbrick and procrastinate, like me. Leave it till the last bit possible, and suddenly you're in demand, suddenly you're going places. It starts off as one little thing, turns into a string of the shit, and whoa, you're home past midnight, drop dead beat and surprised at how much bull you can actually still churn out.
2. Study at home. This isn't a gripe I have to deal with often, but it's been a painful one as of recent times. The missus claims she can NOT study at home due to noise, distractions, blah. Hence, she has to go to remote locations, and study till hours deemed blasphemous and unholy even by me. Of course, she starts off claiming she can do well enough by herself, or with a friend who can stay for a bit with her. Sia la, Bangla see she sexy-sexy then drag her to rubbish dump rape how? I haven't nubbed her yet, and I'll be fucked if a Bangla does it before I do (interesting verbal dichotomy there). So I'm there every time hence, smiling and doing my uneducated things while she crams for her examinations. Way to go, ego. And of course, she's so tired most of the time she falls asleep, and I smile and do my uneducated things, now sans girlfriend, in said remote location. Finally unable to take it, I wake her, and we go home.
I realize that yes, the poor girl often does nothing but study from noon till said downright obscene hour. Uneducated as I am, I am unable to comprehend the notion of effectively digesting and retaining things when one is nodding off.
3. My life is a string of ceaseless mundane events. Abduct me, you aliens.
And, uh, save the snails!
Yes, no relation. I'm tired, deal with it. So you see, I've got this habit of keeping my eyes alternatingly on the ground and above it, and sometimes during periods of extended rain like now, snails are smack all over the pavement.
I appeal to you, oh, discerning, compassionate reader currently going WTF? , to save them.
Think about it. Say you're out taking a gander, and the sky darkens. It's this really, and I mean really, fuck-off big shoe. You scream and start to run as the shoe descends, but it's an exercise in futility. The last sensory experience you have is the sight of an overwhelmingly, similarly fuck-off big swoosh symbol, and in your final moments of consciousness, a booming voice in the distance saying, "Ewww, grossss." .
We've all seen them, the poor unfortunate victims who couldn't run fast enough (no shit, they're fucking snails) and end up sick pancakes of antfood. What one should do upon sight of the poor misguided, and above all, slow mothas that are snails sliming their way along the pavement, is pick them up and toss them into the bush they came from. It's not too bad, really; there's no slime on the shell and you can do it quickly. You don't even have to give them a little pet and kiss like I do. This will save 01 x Snail Life, and will make you feel like a Better Person for the next 10 minutes, or until a respectable pair of breasts walks past. To that end, I've come up with one of those witty slogans we all know work absolute wonders:
Don't End Their Trail! Save the Snails!
With "trail" being the slime they ooze as they move...no, crawl...no, inch...no, centimeter, no...OK, -millimeter- their way along. Slime-trail, geddit, geddit? Hyuk.
Right, then. With peace of mind duely re-established, I'm off to play a spot of Fallout (oh, which is featuring in originally intended piece, I think) before bed.
Remember! Don't End Their Trail!
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
About a Girl.
As the ugly head of unemployment continues to loom (well, ok, it's been looming so long I've sort of adopted it as a pet and feed it stale cigarrette butts now and then, but never mind), I figured I prolly should take the opportunity to write up the things I've always wanted to but inadvertently put off for more interesting things, like watching my toenails grow. Writing still feels entirely too much like actual work to me, sometimes. Hey, I can't help it. Allergies, y'know?
This is a story 'bout a girl. As are they all, I guess. I actually have a few of them, these stories, corresponding to the sad, sad route most of my romantic life has taken. But they say you never quite forget the first, and I guess sometimes, the bastards are right. To me, she'll always be..The One. Various random-enough monikers will be used throughout the relation, more for my protection than theirs, heh.
She.
Moving from Primary to Secondary school is hard, especially so when one is moving from a chinkypiang neighbourhood school where you finished tops to a premier place like Raffles, where you get relegated to "slightly above pond scum, and thank your stars the Cleaners are around". The subsequent impact on my mental well-being was...detrimental, to say the least. I stuck out, much in the manner of a Japanese man in a porn vid with African Americans. Can you say, inadequacy?
So there I was, thrust into sudden mediocrity. Never having really had the opportunity to speak up for the self, I wasn't exactly the confident kid. Fast foward two to three years to full-blown resentful pimply adolescence proper, because, heck, I want to spare myself the various degrees of 13 and 14 year old drama.
I didn't have, like, actual good friends to hang out, laugh and chill with. I went out with some of them, some of the time, on a hey-we-all-wear-white-so-I-guess-we-can-tolerate-him basis. Having next to no experience with girls prior to this, 13 and 14 year old melodrama aside, I really was quite unprepared for the meeting with Nea.J .
Out, on yet another one of those oh-I-guess-he-can-tag-along things, with the Cooler (read: Boys who had actual female friends omfg) people, she was there. I forget what we did, I forget what we said, but I do remember going up the escalator at City Hall to our (the boys') appropriate train-line, done and parting ways for the day. With the last dregs of conversation exchanged as the escalator chugged us to our seperate ways, I made some disparaging remark, and Nea, the adorably-featured, tinkly-voiced, year-younger pixie I'd just met, gave me the finger from the bottom of the escalator.
Hawt.
So, in typical oh-so-casual schoolboy fashion, I grabbed Gob, the immediate contact with her, and threatened anonymous anthrax sendings to his residence unless details were provided. Softball Captain of her, similarly single-gender school. You don't say.
I can't remember either if we did go out as a group after that. What I do recall was the subsequent hooking up-of and conversation with her on, uh, IRC (look, IRC is teh shit to teenage boys, alright? I suspect it's some yet-undiscovered bit in the human genome). She went by "cloud" back then, I think. Generically girlish enough, in those pre-FF7 days. Maybe it was meant to be, more probably it was an unromantic mix of lack of female contact and schoolboy lust, but I was smitten. Blown over. Head over heels. Meh. Particularly embarrassing was the time we'd both just gotten our Pagers (before your time, kids), and were gushing to each other about it. So we'd try to send each other pages, as sort of tests, y'know? She got mine well enough, yay, but I could never seem to receive hers, no matter how many times we tried. Typical of my usual fumbling, turns out I'd given her the wrong number. Stupid Retard: 1, Charm and Charisma: 0.
As with all really pretty, high profiled girls in single-gender schools, I was of course not the only one with an explicit interest in Nea. J . There was this other guy, Van, who was her age. With typical teenage arrogance, I of course thought nothing of it. Really, I couldn't. For, you see, I'd met Van, and far from dirty looks and the like, he was just such a nice guy it was almost sickening. You coudn't not like this guy. Even knowing we were both after the same girl, he was absolutely friendly with me, and with his braces and cute, disarming smile, heck, -I- could have fallen for him. We cutely called each other "brothers", and talked a bit on IRC as well. I disgust myself.
Things get a little hazy around this point, and what you will be reading is probably anachronistic. They all had about equal impact, and eh, it was almost ten years ago. Cut me some slack.
I never knew. I could feel that high.
Nea and I went on a date. Woohoo. I remember what she wore: This slightly off-shoulder, long-sleeved affair, horizontally striped black and white, zebra-style. With a modest black skirt. Horizontal stripes make you look fat? Not on her. I also remember she tried to arrange for some friend of hers to come along, some uninspired, really dark girl whose name I reemmber but is of no importance. I believe we were introduced, and subsequently, the friend had to go off, or something. Newton MRT, was it? Static.
We went for a movie, and it was probably a foretelling of some sort that we watched Mr Bean: The movie, rather than some feel-good fuzzy romance comedy (which I actually like. Uh.). She remarked on being cold in the theatre, and off comes my black jacket, on to her. Now -I- was freezing. This act of schoolboy chivalry would not prove unappreciated, as she brushes my fingertips while reaching for something and realizes I was being retarded, but sweet. She cups my cheek ("You're freezing~!") and coos her appreciation. It was, perhaps, the singular sweetest moment of my life.
Walking along aimlessly after, she suddenly comments that she really liked the song that was in the movie, and asks if I can sing it for her. It was, really, a measure of how taken I was with her that I acceded, having never sung in front of anyone before.
Yesterday
All my troubles seemed so far away
Now it looks as though they're here to stay
Oh, I believe
In Yesterday.
Suddenly
I'm not half the man I used to be
There's a shadow hanging over me
Oh, yesterday
Came suddenly
I now know the rest of the song, but back then, that was all I had. "What, that's all?", was her unimpressed reply. Sigh. Fuck.
Maybe it was before, and hence a precursor to the date. Maybe it was after, and then an indication I hadn't fucked up as bad as I thought. In any case, at some point, Nea. J said something like this to me online:
cloud: "You know, I've only known you for, what, 5 days? And I've known Van for something like 5 months. But I feel so much more comfortable with you. You make me laugh."
I'm at a loss to express how I felt. I was really, really happy. Elated. Hovering 2 feet above the chair I was sitting on on sheer joy alone.
Crash. And burn, motha..., burn.
For every action, equal, opposite reaction, eh? Try tenfold. I doubt she ever was intentionally cruel, or that she had very much of an idea, really, caught up as it were in her own problems.
So, she had a birthday coming up. I think this was after the movie date. We'd caught the movie near the end of its run, and I really, really wanted to get her the Mr Bean bear. I looked high. I looked low. I found it in my Uncle's place via some strange kind of divine intervention, because they were sold out all over town. I forget what I had to promise my uncle to get the bear off him, probably my immortal soul, or close.
So, she being the popularity princess she was, was going to have a celebration at KAP McDonald's. Van and I were both invited, of course. And I found out what his trump was, and it did not take the form of any manner of apparel.
I turn up, either by myself or with someone inconsequential, to find the party already well underway. The place was, uh, thronged with her friends. And his. Hello, who the hell are you? I sat quietly at a table for a bit, I think. Trying to smile. Clutching the bear with one eye in his paper bag. Watching the standard secondary school nudging on of both Nea. J and Van by their respective groups. Watching the standard demure deference of both parties involved. Seen it twenty times before, at twenty other parties. Only I never knew it could cut me up like that.
I forget who I left the damned bear with, or if I even got to speak to her. In a particularly enlightening moment as I walked out the glass doors with the printed Golden Arches, as the doors slowly swung shut to eventually cut off the squeals and revelry behind me, however, I do remember understanding exactly what it felt like, to be a total piece of shit.
Understandably confused, furiously making up self rationalizations, I couldn't find Nea anywhere on the usual channels she frequented. Doing a /find, which pinpoints someone's location, I find she's online, but only in this private, oddly named channel. Translated into real-life terms, it would have been great soap opera material. I join the channel, a million greetings dying on my electronic lips as I see she's in there with just one other person: Van.
"Oh, uh, hello. Just passing by."
Way to go, Tarzan.
If only that had been the end, really. Of course, to the broken shell of whatever was left of me back then, it was. I still tried to say hi when I saw her online, of course. Stony silence, no surprise. Or so I thought. I saw Van again, subsequently. Whether on the streets or online, I forget. I was that much of a nerd the distinction blurs, heh. I bore him no animosity, really; like I said, you can not not like this guy. Cautious enquiry as to the well-being of Nea. J was met with surprise: He thought I'd be in a better position to judge, seeing as how they didn't talk much anymore.
Double. You. Tee. Eff?
A little out of my depth, I make a similar threat to Gob, who reluctantly reveals that Nea. J had gone into recluse, and had cut off all contact with all potentially amorous men, allowing only encrypted messages slipped under her door by eunuchs with a previous history of beastiality. In other words, he was in contact with Nea. I was not.
I didn't quite know what to make of this. Had she been sexually assualted by Banglas? By Van? Initiated into some secret witching sect that drank the blood of young virgin boys? What? Despite my best efforts, I could hardly not let the long-dark ember of hope glow a little...ok fine, burn the damned forest down. I redoubled my efforts at contacting her and things got mildly paranormal. She didn't respond to pages like she'd stopped since the walk-in. She'd stopped signing on to IRC as her previous moniker, and the sight of a pimply, dark-circled teenager in staring blankly at the screen, once in a while entering "Does...anybody know Nea. J? I'd like to speak to her." in her school channel every once in a while is in a class of its own.
I managed to speak to some people, though, who guardedly asked me who I was, and then ignored me. I must have solicited every Nea-sounding name on the channel, and at times, I was sure she was somewhere in the channel, watching. I traced a strong trail to the name "crapcrud", once, which promptly disappeared upon contact. My teenage obsession had become the Abominable Snowman, only much cuter and infinitely more desirable.
I forget, once again, how long I kept up at it, on and off. I gave up eventually, for it was much akin to humping a brick wall: The potential of gratification is there, but it just hurts. So we move on with life, eventually filing the memory of the singular most joyful sentence in my life, the sweet electrical jolt of her touch and the soft, gentle curves of her face away under "BIOHAZARD. DO NOT TOUCH." .
That was when she called me.
It was a mildly late hour, I was engaged in something forgettable. The phone rings, arousing gentle curiosity.
"Hello?", the caller, hesitation tinging mundanity, says.
I believe that was when I learnt the meaning of "heart skipped a beat".
It was an innocuous enough call: she wanted advice on Literature homework. Giving her what I could, my own attempts at finding out what exactly had happened met with verbal dead ends. All in all, it was much like a perfunctory business communication. She took what she needed, thanked me, and said she had to go. Never mind that her voice unravelled stitches painfully sewn, and never mind the re-living of every poignant moment, staring at the ceiling, thereafter. I don't know what she thought she was doing; I didn't care. She called me. Naturally she vanished once again into the mist after.
I saw her one last time, in person, much later, in a chance encounter. She was with Gob and some friends, and I was in the arcade. Someone tapping at the glass panel - Couldn't be for me. I turn anyway, simultaneously piqued and mildly irritated at losing concentration in my frivolous activity. Chirpily smiling girl. Familiarity. Dawning. Realization. She gestures for me to come outside, and I do. This is when I see Gob and various unnameds at a distance, ceremonially waving.
She asks if I am well, and for the sake of argument, I reply in the positive. Well, yes, I am still smoking. I know I should quit -mock rolling of eyes, self-deprecating smile-. It was good to see you, too (really, really good) and yeah, I know they're all waiting. Take care, now.
I didn't ask for a number, or anything, and neither did she. Maybe we both understood. Maybe only I did. Definitely, and at risk of sounding like every moronic boyband out there, I'll never forget her. Her features, now, are indistinct. The things we did and shared, in that relatively short, intense time have vagued a little. But were Nea. J to walk in that door now...
That beat would definitely skip.
This is a story 'bout a girl. As are they all, I guess. I actually have a few of them, these stories, corresponding to the sad, sad route most of my romantic life has taken. But they say you never quite forget the first, and I guess sometimes, the bastards are right. To me, she'll always be..The One. Various random-enough monikers will be used throughout the relation, more for my protection than theirs, heh.
She.
Moving from Primary to Secondary school is hard, especially so when one is moving from a chinkypiang neighbourhood school where you finished tops to a premier place like Raffles, where you get relegated to "slightly above pond scum, and thank your stars the Cleaners are around". The subsequent impact on my mental well-being was...detrimental, to say the least. I stuck out, much in the manner of a Japanese man in a porn vid with African Americans. Can you say, inadequacy?
So there I was, thrust into sudden mediocrity. Never having really had the opportunity to speak up for the self, I wasn't exactly the confident kid. Fast foward two to three years to full-blown resentful pimply adolescence proper, because, heck, I want to spare myself the various degrees of 13 and 14 year old drama.
I didn't have, like, actual good friends to hang out, laugh and chill with. I went out with some of them, some of the time, on a hey-we-all-wear-white-so-I-guess-we-can-tolerate-him basis. Having next to no experience with girls prior to this, 13 and 14 year old melodrama aside, I really was quite unprepared for the meeting with Nea.J .
Out, on yet another one of those oh-I-guess-he-can-tag-along things, with the Cooler (read: Boys who had actual female friends omfg) people, she was there. I forget what we did, I forget what we said, but I do remember going up the escalator at City Hall to our (the boys') appropriate train-line, done and parting ways for the day. With the last dregs of conversation exchanged as the escalator chugged us to our seperate ways, I made some disparaging remark, and Nea, the adorably-featured, tinkly-voiced, year-younger pixie I'd just met, gave me the finger from the bottom of the escalator.
Hawt.
So, in typical oh-so-casual schoolboy fashion, I grabbed Gob, the immediate contact with her, and threatened anonymous anthrax sendings to his residence unless details were provided. Softball Captain of her, similarly single-gender school. You don't say.
I can't remember either if we did go out as a group after that. What I do recall was the subsequent hooking up-of and conversation with her on, uh, IRC (look, IRC is teh shit to teenage boys, alright? I suspect it's some yet-undiscovered bit in the human genome). She went by "cloud" back then, I think. Generically girlish enough, in those pre-FF7 days. Maybe it was meant to be, more probably it was an unromantic mix of lack of female contact and schoolboy lust, but I was smitten. Blown over. Head over heels. Meh. Particularly embarrassing was the time we'd both just gotten our Pagers (before your time, kids), and were gushing to each other about it. So we'd try to send each other pages, as sort of tests, y'know? She got mine well enough, yay, but I could never seem to receive hers, no matter how many times we tried. Typical of my usual fumbling, turns out I'd given her the wrong number. Stupid Retard: 1, Charm and Charisma: 0.
As with all really pretty, high profiled girls in single-gender schools, I was of course not the only one with an explicit interest in Nea. J . There was this other guy, Van, who was her age. With typical teenage arrogance, I of course thought nothing of it. Really, I couldn't. For, you see, I'd met Van, and far from dirty looks and the like, he was just such a nice guy it was almost sickening. You coudn't not like this guy. Even knowing we were both after the same girl, he was absolutely friendly with me, and with his braces and cute, disarming smile, heck, -I- could have fallen for him. We cutely called each other "brothers", and talked a bit on IRC as well. I disgust myself.
Things get a little hazy around this point, and what you will be reading is probably anachronistic. They all had about equal impact, and eh, it was almost ten years ago. Cut me some slack.
I never knew. I could feel that high.
Nea and I went on a date. Woohoo. I remember what she wore: This slightly off-shoulder, long-sleeved affair, horizontally striped black and white, zebra-style. With a modest black skirt. Horizontal stripes make you look fat? Not on her. I also remember she tried to arrange for some friend of hers to come along, some uninspired, really dark girl whose name I reemmber but is of no importance. I believe we were introduced, and subsequently, the friend had to go off, or something. Newton MRT, was it? Static.
We went for a movie, and it was probably a foretelling of some sort that we watched Mr Bean: The movie, rather than some feel-good fuzzy romance comedy (which I actually like. Uh.). She remarked on being cold in the theatre, and off comes my black jacket, on to her. Now -I- was freezing. This act of schoolboy chivalry would not prove unappreciated, as she brushes my fingertips while reaching for something and realizes I was being retarded, but sweet. She cups my cheek ("You're freezing~!") and coos her appreciation. It was, perhaps, the singular sweetest moment of my life.
Walking along aimlessly after, she suddenly comments that she really liked the song that was in the movie, and asks if I can sing it for her. It was, really, a measure of how taken I was with her that I acceded, having never sung in front of anyone before.
Yesterday
All my troubles seemed so far away
Now it looks as though they're here to stay
Oh, I believe
In Yesterday.
Suddenly
I'm not half the man I used to be
There's a shadow hanging over me
Oh, yesterday
Came suddenly
I now know the rest of the song, but back then, that was all I had. "What, that's all?", was her unimpressed reply. Sigh. Fuck.
Maybe it was before, and hence a precursor to the date. Maybe it was after, and then an indication I hadn't fucked up as bad as I thought. In any case, at some point, Nea. J said something like this to me online:
cloud: "You know, I've only known you for, what, 5 days? And I've known Van for something like 5 months. But I feel so much more comfortable with you. You make me laugh."
I'm at a loss to express how I felt. I was really, really happy. Elated. Hovering 2 feet above the chair I was sitting on on sheer joy alone.
Crash. And burn, motha..., burn.
For every action, equal, opposite reaction, eh? Try tenfold. I doubt she ever was intentionally cruel, or that she had very much of an idea, really, caught up as it were in her own problems.
So, she had a birthday coming up. I think this was after the movie date. We'd caught the movie near the end of its run, and I really, really wanted to get her the Mr Bean bear. I looked high. I looked low. I found it in my Uncle's place via some strange kind of divine intervention, because they were sold out all over town. I forget what I had to promise my uncle to get the bear off him, probably my immortal soul, or close.
So, she being the popularity princess she was, was going to have a celebration at KAP McDonald's. Van and I were both invited, of course. And I found out what his trump was, and it did not take the form of any manner of apparel.
I turn up, either by myself or with someone inconsequential, to find the party already well underway. The place was, uh, thronged with her friends. And his. Hello, who the hell are you? I sat quietly at a table for a bit, I think. Trying to smile. Clutching the bear with one eye in his paper bag. Watching the standard secondary school nudging on of both Nea. J and Van by their respective groups. Watching the standard demure deference of both parties involved. Seen it twenty times before, at twenty other parties. Only I never knew it could cut me up like that.
I forget who I left the damned bear with, or if I even got to speak to her. In a particularly enlightening moment as I walked out the glass doors with the printed Golden Arches, as the doors slowly swung shut to eventually cut off the squeals and revelry behind me, however, I do remember understanding exactly what it felt like, to be a total piece of shit.
Understandably confused, furiously making up self rationalizations, I couldn't find Nea anywhere on the usual channels she frequented. Doing a /find, which pinpoints someone's location, I find she's online, but only in this private, oddly named channel. Translated into real-life terms, it would have been great soap opera material. I join the channel, a million greetings dying on my electronic lips as I see she's in there with just one other person: Van.
"Oh, uh, hello. Just passing by."
Way to go, Tarzan.
If only that had been the end, really. Of course, to the broken shell of whatever was left of me back then, it was. I still tried to say hi when I saw her online, of course. Stony silence, no surprise. Or so I thought. I saw Van again, subsequently. Whether on the streets or online, I forget. I was that much of a nerd the distinction blurs, heh. I bore him no animosity, really; like I said, you can not not like this guy. Cautious enquiry as to the well-being of Nea. J was met with surprise: He thought I'd be in a better position to judge, seeing as how they didn't talk much anymore.
Double. You. Tee. Eff?
A little out of my depth, I make a similar threat to Gob, who reluctantly reveals that Nea. J had gone into recluse, and had cut off all contact with all potentially amorous men, allowing only encrypted messages slipped under her door by eunuchs with a previous history of beastiality. In other words, he was in contact with Nea. I was not.
I didn't quite know what to make of this. Had she been sexually assualted by Banglas? By Van? Initiated into some secret witching sect that drank the blood of young virgin boys? What? Despite my best efforts, I could hardly not let the long-dark ember of hope glow a little...ok fine, burn the damned forest down. I redoubled my efforts at contacting her and things got mildly paranormal. She didn't respond to pages like she'd stopped since the walk-in. She'd stopped signing on to IRC as her previous moniker, and the sight of a pimply, dark-circled teenager in staring blankly at the screen, once in a while entering "Does...anybody know Nea. J? I'd like to speak to her." in her school channel every once in a while is in a class of its own.
I managed to speak to some people, though, who guardedly asked me who I was, and then ignored me. I must have solicited every Nea-sounding name on the channel, and at times, I was sure she was somewhere in the channel, watching. I traced a strong trail to the name "crapcrud", once, which promptly disappeared upon contact. My teenage obsession had become the Abominable Snowman, only much cuter and infinitely more desirable.
I forget, once again, how long I kept up at it, on and off. I gave up eventually, for it was much akin to humping a brick wall: The potential of gratification is there, but it just hurts. So we move on with life, eventually filing the memory of the singular most joyful sentence in my life, the sweet electrical jolt of her touch and the soft, gentle curves of her face away under "BIOHAZARD. DO NOT TOUCH." .
That was when she called me.
It was a mildly late hour, I was engaged in something forgettable. The phone rings, arousing gentle curiosity.
"Hello?", the caller, hesitation tinging mundanity, says.
I believe that was when I learnt the meaning of "heart skipped a beat".
It was an innocuous enough call: she wanted advice on Literature homework. Giving her what I could, my own attempts at finding out what exactly had happened met with verbal dead ends. All in all, it was much like a perfunctory business communication. She took what she needed, thanked me, and said she had to go. Never mind that her voice unravelled stitches painfully sewn, and never mind the re-living of every poignant moment, staring at the ceiling, thereafter. I don't know what she thought she was doing; I didn't care. She called me. Naturally she vanished once again into the mist after.
I saw her one last time, in person, much later, in a chance encounter. She was with Gob and some friends, and I was in the arcade. Someone tapping at the glass panel - Couldn't be for me. I turn anyway, simultaneously piqued and mildly irritated at losing concentration in my frivolous activity. Chirpily smiling girl. Familiarity. Dawning. Realization. She gestures for me to come outside, and I do. This is when I see Gob and various unnameds at a distance, ceremonially waving.
She asks if I am well, and for the sake of argument, I reply in the positive. Well, yes, I am still smoking. I know I should quit -mock rolling of eyes, self-deprecating smile-. It was good to see you, too (really, really good) and yeah, I know they're all waiting. Take care, now.
I didn't ask for a number, or anything, and neither did she. Maybe we both understood. Maybe only I did. Definitely, and at risk of sounding like every moronic boyband out there, I'll never forget her. Her features, now, are indistinct. The things we did and shared, in that relatively short, intense time have vagued a little. But were Nea. J to walk in that door now...
That beat would definitely skip.
Monday, May 02, 2005
It's M-m-m-marvellous...
WHAT MILO, CAN DO FOR YOU.
You do not argue with Milo. Milo has been around since before you were born. Milo is peace, love, and understanding. More importantly, Milo, the way I make it, makes my face tingle.
None of that aiyo so sweet blah blah diabetes shtick, please. Ingredients for Good Cup Of Milo: 1/2 Cup of Milo. Spot of hot water. 1 1/2 Spoons of Sweetened Condensed Milk. Cold water. Yes, not typo. 1/2 Cup of Milo. Very important.
IT'S M-M-M-MARVELLOUS WHAT M-M-Milo can DO FOR YOU!
Bit of a skanky name, "Milo", but what the hey. Mmmm.
...What. We're all entitled to the occasional inane post, alright? Yeesh. None of those looks, now.
You do not argue with Milo. Milo has been around since before you were born. Milo is peace, love, and understanding. More importantly, Milo, the way I make it, makes my face tingle.
None of that aiyo so sweet blah blah diabetes shtick, please. Ingredients for Good Cup Of Milo: 1/2 Cup of Milo. Spot of hot water. 1 1/2 Spoons of Sweetened Condensed Milk. Cold water. Yes, not typo. 1/2 Cup of Milo. Very important.
IT'S M-M-M-MARVELLOUS WHAT M-M-Milo can DO FOR YOU!
Bit of a skanky name, "Milo", but what the hey. Mmmm.
...What. We're all entitled to the occasional inane post, alright? Yeesh. None of those looks, now.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
You Should Be Dancing...Uh, yeah.
So, the girlfriend finished her examinations, and as is customary enough, there are no two ways about it other than OMG WE HAVE TO GO SOMEWHERE AND CONSUME COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF ALCOHOL.
One of the sort of mentally stashed things I've been meaning to write about is the Dancing that goes on in clubs, and I guess, the part I have to play in it. As with all things, it boils down to a few simple factors: Some people have it, some people don't. While you cannot help but admire the sinuous grace and funk factor as certain individuals move to the music, their hypnotic factor often aided by copious amounts of cleavage; others, like myself, move like epileptic monkeys.
As for said cleavage, yes, it is my opinion that women are infinitely better suited to dancing than men; at least when it comes to the type that goes on at the dance floor in clubs. The woman can sashay and twist, slither and slide...and have you seen the look some of them can give while doing it? That look that instantly robs straight men of conscious thought and reduces them to walking penises. Not to mention, the total amount of cloth on some of them adds up to what goes into the making of your standard school sock. Damn.
This is not to say, of course, that men can't dance. I've seen some doing it really well, and inevitably, they end up the recipients of the look from the above group of women, and generally do not leave the club alone. Bastards. The other 99.5% of the male clubbing population, however, apparently all attend the same school of dance. They have one move: Twitch, and they're not afraid to use it. Bearing special mention here are the fresh National Service recruits out for the weekend. It gets so bad at some places that all you see on the dance floor are vibrating caps, the sultry women having already snapped up the guys who can dance and left to fuck them silly, or gone elsewhere in disdain. Friends, I understand that after a long week of training, you want to come out and get smashed, have some fun, maybe get laid (in your drug-fuelled dreams, bitch)...but do you have to make yourselves so obvious?
As always, there are the exceptions. Not every woman who steps into a club is a ravishing, smouldering, sultry siren who's just so unbelievably hot you just want to...um, nevermind. Presenting, in full Technicolour glory, extremely prejudiced profiles of Dance Floor Scum!
-The Fat Bitch.
Yeah, yeah, how could I, oh, heartless beast, they're not fat, they're just horizontally challenged, etc. Shut up. Look, I don't want to spoil anyone's fun, but -really-, fat bitches shouldn't dance. I mean, if they -really- have to, I suppose they could just stand in the corner and let the bass do the work for them. Ouch! =p You've seen it, I've seen it: The Fat Bitch that just LOSES HERSELF in the music and gyrates wildly in exuberance, often knocking over tables and maiming small animals in the process, and this is to mention nothing of the potential harm she can cause to your eyesight if you stare too long. Please.
-The Skinny Bitch.
Fuelled by supermodel dreams, you eat a stick of celery for breakfast and that's it. For the week. Where the dance-floor goddesses have curves to die for, you look like something might snap off if you shook too hard. Though not as dangerous as the Fat Bitch, do yourself a favour and just sit down. Gently, or you'll break something.
-The Female Twitcher.
Not as proliferate as their male counterparts, the Female Twitchers are the ones who got shafted genetically and just cannot replicate the temperature-raising moves of their peers. They don't dress as flashy or as little, and tend to be...well...drab. It's not like they look like they're enjoying themselves. Some are probably dragged onto the dance floor by their more skilled peers, who subsequently somehow always seem to abandon them, leaving them twitching sadly in a corner. Not to worry, inevitably, with the gender ratios and sheer amounts of alcohol and bad lighting in most clubs, they'll get picked up.
-The Ones Who Think They Can Dance. (Wow, it acronymizes as TOW TT CD. I'm good.)
Mostly male, and probably possessing really dense and obnoxious personalities, these pieces of shit think they can dance. Generally dressed to make some kind of statement, their backwards Cap, 34 wallet chains weighing down pants that they pull up every 20 seconds and also, sunglasses, because we all know the lighting in clubs is horribly bright, this statement often seems to be "I M RETARDED HAHAHA". Arms flailing wildly and legs swinging all over the place, they mangle people, furniture, aforementioned small animals that somehow got into the club, and the word "dance" in their attempt to show how coolx they are. Identifiable by the wide berth of space they're given, they sometimes mercifully knock themselves unconscious with a swinging wallet chain during a particularly cool and vigorous move.
These people should not be allowed on dance floors. Clubs should keep a list of people blacklisted from the dance floor and employ physical force to prevent the slightest attempt to sneak onto it, by these people.
Rising above the scum, and indeed, the better of her peers, however, we have that very special breed of people who, really, are what men go clubbing for.
-The Podium Goddess.
Not to be confused with the people some clubs employ specially to dance on platforms. The appearance of the Podium Goddess is rare, and often only happens in the mid to end range of the club's operation, after suitable amounts of alcohol have been consumed. Amongst all the hot, nubile, scantily clad women in the crowd, one, or a few, will decide to climb onto the provided elevated platforms and undergo an amazing transformation. Possessed by the spirit of the Podium Goddess, she sways. She draws one hand slowly down the side of her neck, along hair messed just enough by previous dancing to hold seductive power of its own. Lips parted slightly, the other hand beckons for people to join her, and while some do, none match her surreality as she continues to dance, dreamily half-lost in the music, with that look in her eyes to die for.
There are documented cases of spontaneous ejaculation by weaker-willed males at the sight of one in action. Ebbeh.
That said, as we run out of space before this post goes beyond Ridiculously Long, allow me to give you a brief run-down of the night.
11.20 pm:
We arrive, she, a male friend, and myself, at Rouge. The place is filled, though not crowded. We run into an acquaintance, and while the male friend talks to him, she and I stand and survey the place. The acquaintance is there with rather pretty female friends, who I surreptitiously check out.
11.30 pm:
We find a table, whoopee. Still sober and listless, we stare into space, having found out that 1-for-1 only starts at 12. Explains the lack of the usual crowd. Being cheap bastards, we wait.
12.00 am:
Beer! Male friend makes deprecating comments about my tendency to drink too much, too fast. Heck, like I said, I'm not particularly fond of the stuff, so I just toss back a glass at a time, usually.
12.30 am:
As the beer starts to settle in, we just kind of stone and smoke. I look at the twitchers, both male and female, starting to fill the dance floor, with disdain. They're playing sweet music, though. Old school R&B, with classics from TLC and Blue Cantrell, stuff you almost never hear anymore. And of course Maroon 5's This Love, the staple sampling everywhere. Mmmm.
12.40 am:
Still listless, but a bit better for wear from the beer, I begin texting people. First, my girlfriend's friend, to tell her my girlfriend just said her sister's boobs were better than the friend's, a running gag as both persons involved were, um, women of epic proportions. The friend is sleepy and irritable, and makes defamatory remarks about the length of my penis. I say "defamatory", but being Chinese, it wasn't that far from the truth and I let it rest. I begin to send sexually suggestive messages to the skinny Chinese guy who was on my bed the other day. He also happens to be out getting smashed with a buncha guys.
1.30 am:
Mmmm beeeeer. In a state of, uh, elevated awareness now, the music seems to keep getting better. In the midst of this, the friend who's helped me rediscover the anal bastard I used to be arrives with two female twitcher friends, having just finished some cult worship at the company. He proceeds to immediately run off to the dance floor. With my girlfriend. Outraged, I give chase, catch up with them, and bite him.
Yes, bit him. Taking offense to this, he proceeds to smack me around a bit, all 130kgs of him. Having established my dominance, and suffered only minor internal hemorraghes, we chuckle a bit at the bond between us, and I proceed to do my best epileptic monkey impression, pausing occasionally to continue sending sexually suggestive messages on my phone to said skinny Chinese guy. Time passes in this manner.
2.30 am:
The Podium Goddesses emerge. There were two, one in blue jeans and a white frock, and one in a black frock with matching pants. They proceed in almost exactly the manner described under "The Podium Goddess" (now you know why it sounded so vivid), and cause many lesser-willed males to mysteriously stand still, shudder a little, and collapse. I watch in rapt fascination. Girlfriend is too smashed to notice.
3.00 am:
We leave the place, and Skinny Chinese Guy calls me, asserting that he is engaged in a contest with his friend to see who can hold their puke the longest. Sick shit. We establish that we are not going to meet up for hot heavy goatsekz like we had vaguely alluded to over the course of our texting, and bid each other good night.
We all go home. I smack facefirst into the bed and sleep.
...Song bo.
One of the sort of mentally stashed things I've been meaning to write about is the Dancing that goes on in clubs, and I guess, the part I have to play in it. As with all things, it boils down to a few simple factors: Some people have it, some people don't. While you cannot help but admire the sinuous grace and funk factor as certain individuals move to the music, their hypnotic factor often aided by copious amounts of cleavage; others, like myself, move like epileptic monkeys.
As for said cleavage, yes, it is my opinion that women are infinitely better suited to dancing than men; at least when it comes to the type that goes on at the dance floor in clubs. The woman can sashay and twist, slither and slide...and have you seen the look some of them can give while doing it? That look that instantly robs straight men of conscious thought and reduces them to walking penises. Not to mention, the total amount of cloth on some of them adds up to what goes into the making of your standard school sock. Damn.
This is not to say, of course, that men can't dance. I've seen some doing it really well, and inevitably, they end up the recipients of the look from the above group of women, and generally do not leave the club alone. Bastards. The other 99.5% of the male clubbing population, however, apparently all attend the same school of dance. They have one move: Twitch, and they're not afraid to use it. Bearing special mention here are the fresh National Service recruits out for the weekend. It gets so bad at some places that all you see on the dance floor are vibrating caps, the sultry women having already snapped up the guys who can dance and left to fuck them silly, or gone elsewhere in disdain. Friends, I understand that after a long week of training, you want to come out and get smashed, have some fun, maybe get laid (in your drug-fuelled dreams, bitch)...but do you have to make yourselves so obvious?
As always, there are the exceptions. Not every woman who steps into a club is a ravishing, smouldering, sultry siren who's just so unbelievably hot you just want to...um, nevermind. Presenting, in full Technicolour glory, extremely prejudiced profiles of Dance Floor Scum!
-The Fat Bitch.
Yeah, yeah, how could I, oh, heartless beast, they're not fat, they're just horizontally challenged, etc. Shut up. Look, I don't want to spoil anyone's fun, but -really-, fat bitches shouldn't dance. I mean, if they -really- have to, I suppose they could just stand in the corner and let the bass do the work for them. Ouch! =p You've seen it, I've seen it: The Fat Bitch that just LOSES HERSELF in the music and gyrates wildly in exuberance, often knocking over tables and maiming small animals in the process, and this is to mention nothing of the potential harm she can cause to your eyesight if you stare too long. Please.
-The Skinny Bitch.
Fuelled by supermodel dreams, you eat a stick of celery for breakfast and that's it. For the week. Where the dance-floor goddesses have curves to die for, you look like something might snap off if you shook too hard. Though not as dangerous as the Fat Bitch, do yourself a favour and just sit down. Gently, or you'll break something.
-The Female Twitcher.
Not as proliferate as their male counterparts, the Female Twitchers are the ones who got shafted genetically and just cannot replicate the temperature-raising moves of their peers. They don't dress as flashy or as little, and tend to be...well...drab. It's not like they look like they're enjoying themselves. Some are probably dragged onto the dance floor by their more skilled peers, who subsequently somehow always seem to abandon them, leaving them twitching sadly in a corner. Not to worry, inevitably, with the gender ratios and sheer amounts of alcohol and bad lighting in most clubs, they'll get picked up.
-The Ones Who Think They Can Dance. (Wow, it acronymizes as TOW TT CD. I'm good.)
Mostly male, and probably possessing really dense and obnoxious personalities, these pieces of shit think they can dance. Generally dressed to make some kind of statement, their backwards Cap, 34 wallet chains weighing down pants that they pull up every 20 seconds and also, sunglasses, because we all know the lighting in clubs is horribly bright, this statement often seems to be "I M RETARDED HAHAHA". Arms flailing wildly and legs swinging all over the place, they mangle people, furniture, aforementioned small animals that somehow got into the club, and the word "dance" in their attempt to show how coolx they are. Identifiable by the wide berth of space they're given, they sometimes mercifully knock themselves unconscious with a swinging wallet chain during a particularly cool and vigorous move.
These people should not be allowed on dance floors. Clubs should keep a list of people blacklisted from the dance floor and employ physical force to prevent the slightest attempt to sneak onto it, by these people.
Rising above the scum, and indeed, the better of her peers, however, we have that very special breed of people who, really, are what men go clubbing for.
-The Podium Goddess.
Not to be confused with the people some clubs employ specially to dance on platforms. The appearance of the Podium Goddess is rare, and often only happens in the mid to end range of the club's operation, after suitable amounts of alcohol have been consumed. Amongst all the hot, nubile, scantily clad women in the crowd, one, or a few, will decide to climb onto the provided elevated platforms and undergo an amazing transformation. Possessed by the spirit of the Podium Goddess, she sways. She draws one hand slowly down the side of her neck, along hair messed just enough by previous dancing to hold seductive power of its own. Lips parted slightly, the other hand beckons for people to join her, and while some do, none match her surreality as she continues to dance, dreamily half-lost in the music, with that look in her eyes to die for.
There are documented cases of spontaneous ejaculation by weaker-willed males at the sight of one in action. Ebbeh.
That said, as we run out of space before this post goes beyond Ridiculously Long, allow me to give you a brief run-down of the night.
11.20 pm:
We arrive, she, a male friend, and myself, at Rouge. The place is filled, though not crowded. We run into an acquaintance, and while the male friend talks to him, she and I stand and survey the place. The acquaintance is there with rather pretty female friends, who I surreptitiously check out.
11.30 pm:
We find a table, whoopee. Still sober and listless, we stare into space, having found out that 1-for-1 only starts at 12. Explains the lack of the usual crowd. Being cheap bastards, we wait.
12.00 am:
Beer! Male friend makes deprecating comments about my tendency to drink too much, too fast. Heck, like I said, I'm not particularly fond of the stuff, so I just toss back a glass at a time, usually.
12.30 am:
As the beer starts to settle in, we just kind of stone and smoke. I look at the twitchers, both male and female, starting to fill the dance floor, with disdain. They're playing sweet music, though. Old school R&B, with classics from TLC and Blue Cantrell, stuff you almost never hear anymore. And of course Maroon 5's This Love, the staple sampling everywhere. Mmmm.
12.40 am:
Still listless, but a bit better for wear from the beer, I begin texting people. First, my girlfriend's friend, to tell her my girlfriend just said her sister's boobs were better than the friend's, a running gag as both persons involved were, um, women of epic proportions. The friend is sleepy and irritable, and makes defamatory remarks about the length of my penis. I say "defamatory", but being Chinese, it wasn't that far from the truth and I let it rest. I begin to send sexually suggestive messages to the skinny Chinese guy who was on my bed the other day. He also happens to be out getting smashed with a buncha guys.
1.30 am:
Mmmm beeeeer. In a state of, uh, elevated awareness now, the music seems to keep getting better. In the midst of this, the friend who's helped me rediscover the anal bastard I used to be arrives with two female twitcher friends, having just finished some cult worship at the company. He proceeds to immediately run off to the dance floor. With my girlfriend. Outraged, I give chase, catch up with them, and bite him.
Yes, bit him. Taking offense to this, he proceeds to smack me around a bit, all 130kgs of him. Having established my dominance, and suffered only minor internal hemorraghes, we chuckle a bit at the bond between us, and I proceed to do my best epileptic monkey impression, pausing occasionally to continue sending sexually suggestive messages on my phone to said skinny Chinese guy. Time passes in this manner.
2.30 am:
The Podium Goddesses emerge. There were two, one in blue jeans and a white frock, and one in a black frock with matching pants. They proceed in almost exactly the manner described under "The Podium Goddess" (now you know why it sounded so vivid), and cause many lesser-willed males to mysteriously stand still, shudder a little, and collapse. I watch in rapt fascination. Girlfriend is too smashed to notice.
3.00 am:
We leave the place, and Skinny Chinese Guy calls me, asserting that he is engaged in a contest with his friend to see who can hold their puke the longest. Sick shit. We establish that we are not going to meet up for hot heavy goatsekz like we had vaguely alluded to over the course of our texting, and bid each other good night.
We all go home. I smack facefirst into the bed and sleep.
...Song bo.
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