Al Gore expresses his views on the Bush administration. Something that’s needed to be done for a long time.

Chocolate Cake and American Idol

Put three women and a recipe together in a kitchen and you inevitably get a cake. Which is exactly what happened last night. A cake is all well and good of course. It’s the process of baking that’s a pain. And, as if three bashing, mixing and cleaning females weren’t enough, my sister had to go accost the only unfortunate guy present, me, to stir some stuff “till creamy”. Preposterous. Severe retaliation was in order and there would be hell to pay before I would be caught with a big mixing bowl in my lap. Hence, I stuck out my lower lip… and mixed. And I’d like to think I did a damn good job of mixing “till creamy”. At least I was watching manly stuff on TV like the Mosconi Cup.

After the menial work, thinking the worst was over, I flicked on the PS2 not knowing that it was American Idol night. Again. This is one of those shows whose popularity boggles me. Ok, so the first few episodes are entertaining. You get more than your fair share of screechy, fat, ugly, tone deaf, can’t sing-can’t dance-and-proud-of-it buffoons slugging it out in front of three less-than-receptive judges. But even this sole saving grace wears thin after 2 or 3 episodes. There comes a point when you’ve simply had enough of bad singers and hopeless dancers and screaming Dions and you start wondering why people like that have been allowed to live this long instead of being aborted upon conception. As if watching Americans embarrass themselves wasn’t bad enough, next month will see the debut of (shock shock horror horror) Singapore Idol… I wonder how many Malay rappers will try their luck. Maybe we’ll be treated to a few pock-faced 5566/F4 wannabe ah bengs. Or the ah pek selling rojak downstairs may decide that Elvis hasn’t yet left the building. The possibilities terrify me.

Anyway, my mom demanded that I let them watch the accursed program in the living room since it was the final and all, even though there’s a TV in my sis’s room. Needless to say, I grunted my disapproval. After all, they already knew who the winner would be. To this, I was subtly informed that I was a grouch (“You’re such a grouch”). The purpose of watching the show now was not to find out who the winner would be, but to observe the “reactions” all round. Yes, the unabashed joy of a fame hungry person fulfilling her fame hungry desires and the congratulatory die-you-bitch hug from the unfortunate runner-up. We love this stuff, don’t we?

Six days ago, I was stricken with the mother of all flu viruses. Six days later, having thrown the wife, the mother, the kitchen sink and most of my immune system at it, the bitch still won’t go away. And so it is that I’m sitting at my desk making sounds often associated with weed smokers i.e. snitching, snorting and spurting. Most unpleasant for myself and all my unfortunate colleagues.

I found out that the GP at the clinic nearby is a professional songwriter, which was rather surprising. I’d never thought of him as anything other than a doctor. He claims to have written songs for Andy Lau and a few other HK singers, whose names I didn’t recognise. To be fair, he was also surprised to hear that I, Mr. Only Sick Once a Year, had recently become a copywriter. However, despite the fact that we both relied on our creative impulses and I was in a life or death battle with a gazillion micro-organisms, I got only a day’s MC. So much for camaraderie! (Of course, I went back the next day and got another day off)

It’s Friday again. Another week gone with nary a thing for me to do. I’ve written probably one paragraph of copy for some online shit in the past 5 days and summarised some health product write-up. Otherwise, it’s been reading, surfing and taking way too many walks around Shenton Way. If only there was a library nearby…

Still fretting over the damn insurance ad ideas. Being forced to work with those visuals is like being told to swim with your hands and feet bound to your neck. And so, after exactly a week of half-hearted and thus half-brained “brainstorming”, I have produced exactly nothing. I wish I could just tell the short one that he’s been thinking with his ass, which isn’t too far from the truth since his head isn’t all that far from his behind. Corny… who cares?

Spotted 4 bottles/cans of a certain beer in the pantry. Alas, they’re all expired. On the bright side, that could only mean one thing. Pitch. At least I hope it means that. Sure beats writing newsletters and proofing datasheets. Haven’t had a proper brainstorming session since my first 2 weeks here, which is ridiculous. Still, my hopes aren’t all that high. What I’m dreading is the brief or, more accurately, having to decipher the many weird and wonderful interpretations which can be gathered from the inevitable cut and paste job that will be proudly mailed to us complete with broken English and, shall we say, eccentric spelling among many other irregularities. Accompanying this written brief will, of course, be a verbal one. Trying to hold one’s laughter during this session is a feat of almost impossible proportions often requiring a combination of self-torture, self-distraction and self-mutilation to accomplish. And we try. Oh how we try. Or at least I do. Clenching my toes. Glaring at innocent plastic plants. Biting my lips (carefully of course). Thankfully, all these have worked so far or I might already be out of a job. I must write down all the boo-boos I hear next time which will probably be soon. Sheesh.

In a fit of motherly indulgence (toward her cat, I might add), my sister purchased an array of toys supposedly designed for felines. This included a few sparkly balls, a rubber mouse, a ball of fluff which resembled a hamster and (this is the best one of all) a “high tech maus”. Yes maus. German I presume. This space age invention consists of a clamp, which you affix to any low hanging beam, from which hangs a furry maus on a string. Plus, the damn thing squeaks when it’s so much as jerked. Brilliant!

The cat, however, didn’t find it that cool or even remotely below room temperature. Even after repeated demonstrations by me, which involved getting down on all fours and pawing the maus and then lifting HIM up and putting HIS paws on the maus, he looked at what I felt to be God’s gift to cats with a sullen lack of interest, much to my dismay. Of course, I should have expected this after the scratching post debacle which involved the same sequence of events but never mind.

I don’t know how much that piece of precise German engineering cost but I couldn’t very well let it go to waste. Goodness no. And so it came to pass that Pat and myself, two grown, intelligent human beings, were spied trying to kick the furry thing at each other with as much force as possible, emitting high pitched squeals amidst the squeaking of the maus in the process. It was an epic battle between two determined (For Honour!! HIARRRRR!!) warriors but after 20 minutes or so of intense physical exertion, I admitted defeat. Pat kicked that thing like she’d been kicking mice her whole life (which is kind of disturbing) and I had no answer to it. Plus, risking a maus to the gonads wasn’t all that worth it even if one’s honour was at stake. So in a sense, I let her win. Of course I did.

=== "Done-ness, you say? I like mine 'RARE'" ===

Life is, quite simply, complicated.

We all want enjoy it, but we don't want to get consumed by it. Not that my current job would allow me to be consumed by joy. But you get where I'm going.

I'm back from what feels like a an entire week of outfield. Trust me, it was a mess -at least on my side. There's a running joke that I've been making that my career in the military is condemned, largely because I keep getting into sticky situations where it is usually not my fault. My nickname is "Murphy", after the "Law" that governs my career and existence. It has become so chronic that it actually funny.

I'm pressed for time now, and I'm very sleepy. In spite of that, I've got to do one of those things an officer has to do - ensure safety. I've got to plan for it, see; I've been made to do safety "officer-ing" so often that its painful. I think piss-shivering would be infintely more interesting than this.

Well.

~A

Before my life is done, I would like to be enlightened on the following things:

1. What is the meaning of life? (of course)

2. What the hell causes the phenomenon known affectionately to us males as piss shiver??

That is all.

I don’t know. I just found this copy on the back of Boddingtons cans amusing. For those finding it awkward teaching their sons about the birds and the bees or simply how to have a good time by themselves, perhaps this might be of some metaphorical help.

“Since 1778, the Boddingtons Brewery in the Strageways district of Manchester has been famous for its unique, pale-gold ale.

In English pubs, Boddingtons is served using the traditional hand pulled method, producing a distinctive creamy head and smooth body, with little gassiness. Ordinary packaged beer cannot match this quality but the new DRAUGHTFLOW SYSTEM does.

DRAUGHTFLOW cans give the creamy head and authentic fresh taste of Boddingtons Pub Ale.”

For award-winning copy, press 1. For not-so-good-but-I’ll-take-it-anyway copy, press 2. For asswipe copy, press anything else.

Staring at a visual of a bloody leg in a cast for 2 hours has produced a sum total of nothing. No lines. Zero. Not one.

That’s the thing about being a copywriter in this agency. I don’t know whether to feel thankful for the job or just downright pissed off sometimes. I don’t get proper briefs for one. Most of the time they’re verbal and when they finally do come in hardcopy, they’re inevitably hopelessly vague leaving us, creatives, to flounder around in the mud and crack our skulls on hidden rocks. What’s worse is when someone or other gets some stroke of inspiration. For example, “I think it’s a good idea if you could come up with award-winning lines for these visuals”. (Proceeds to get ridiculously excited over some stinking visuals, one of which is said leg in cast, splattering the left side of my body with spit in the process) No brief, no nothing! Just an order for award-winning lines. Gah…

Had my chest prodded by Anita and Suyi today which left me feeling somewhat defiled.

[Anita: They're bigger than mine. (I don't know if she was insulting me or herself. Hmmm...)]

I need to scrub myself with some industrial grade detergent now.

Dinner with John, Adrian, Xinyun and Pat brought back memories of the good old days. You know you’re old when you refer to anything in that way. It’s been almost a year since we, the guys, graduated and, to state a cliché, time has really flown by. And so it is that we find ourselves forging our individual paths through our respective careers, worrying about a whole new set of problems compared to our time as students. It’s amazing that just a year ago, I didn’t know what a copywriter was and John wanted to go to prison (as a warden). As for Adrian, well, nothing suits him more than big guns and, more recently, big needles.

Saturday night reminded me of our lives in NUS where inordinate amounts of time were spent slacking around in the canteen, making fun of other people and then remarking that one day we’d get our retribution. Of course, there were the unforgettable, often comic, references to the size of my head (yes, one day retribution will be heaped on the two of you!), the clever comments on Adrian’s propensity to attract members of the same sex, and of course John’s habit of ordering ghastly looking food and then proceeding to make them vanish from his plate. There were also the odd philosophical arguments we engaged in from time to time just to remind ourselves that we were actually philo students and not uncles sitting around at the neighbourhood coffeeshop. Or else we really cared about what we learnt as philo majors, but let’s not push it. As an aside, what’s the name of that bug-eyed guy again?

We really were slackers, weren’t we? But with a requirement of only 93 MCs, who could blame us? *sneering looks of envy from Pat and Jolene should ensue* Looking back, I see only the canteen and nothing else. No LTs, no tutorial rooms, no exams, no library, no revision stress etc. This is terrible. My whole 3 years of university life condensed into slouching over a plastic table, spouting rubbish while munching, all too often, on a chicken chop/cutlet/fish and chips/laksa yong tau foo and sipping iced tea.

The only 2 projects I remember are the social variation one on comedy (thanks to John’s brilliant suggestion) and the sociology project on homosexuality on the Web (subcultures?) or something like that (I dare say that Adrian provided much inspiration for this particular breakthrough). Indulge me in my boasting when I say that both projects produced grades which were inversely proportional to the amount of effort put in. (15/20 and an A- respectively, if memory serves me right)

Essays. The bane of any Arts student. Writing these profound pieces of literary dung inevitably involved procrastinating till 11pm the night before they were due, panicking, and then splurting and spluttering to find a suitable opening line. This thinking process was, I might mention, often disrupted by a constant stream of ICQ messages bemoaning our tendency to procrastinate. Somehow or other though, we managed to hand in our essays mostly on time. Interestingly, despite the chaos, we often finished in a certain order i.e. me first, followed by Adrian and then John. (Correct me if I’m wrong) I’d finish up at about 4am, followed by whoever it was in 2nd place at about 5(?) and then the next at say 6.

Exams went along roughly the same vein. We’d read what we could or were willing to, sit for the paper and then hope for the best. More often than not, presenting our arguments clearly made up for our lack of depth in understanding though this clearly didn’t work for MCQ exams such as the one for engineering materials where John and I ended up with big fat Fs. What a waste of time that was.

University was, by and large, an enjoyable experience. We definitely learnt a lot in the Arts faculty. Who can forget Frege or Kant (no relation to the first body part that comes to your filthy minds) or Kierkegaard? Just being able to remember their names makes me feel like an intellectual. Then there was Chomsky in English studies for whom “googoo gaga” was more than just baby talk but the basis for a whole theory on how language evolves in human beings. There was, memorably, Durkheim for sociology of deviance. Was it him who claimed that women were born liars because they could fake orgasms? I can’t remember. All rubbish of course, along with phrenology and all its crackpot conclusions.

And so we spent three years of our lives being imbibed with such wonderfully named theories as Whorfism and... er… I can’t remember the rest. Metaphysics? Our reward being a Bachelor’s Degree in Arts and Social Sciences, which, incidentally, is the exact same degree you can get at any fast food joint, with or without cheese. On the other hand, it got me a job so no complaints there.

I’ve run out of stuff to write. Damn.

Zatoichi. Just the name of the movie itself promises so much. And, of course, Takeshi Kitano doesn’t fail to deliver. If you like gory swordfights that look really painful, this is the movie for you. If you like side-splitting slapstick comedy, this is the movie for you. If you like tap-dancing (I’m not kidding), this is the movie for you.

The story revolves around a sighted, acting like he’s blind, behaving like he’s sighted swordsman who spends his days wandering around Japan. [Ed: Upon further reflection prompted by a pointer from a friend, I realised he was really blind after all.] Eventually he ends up in a town torn apart by gangwars and finds himself at the center of it all.

The only weak point, perhaps, is the predictability of the plot. Zatoichi is invincible. Opponents are slashed to ribbons almost routinely and after a certain point, it becomes a question of how and not if, the bad guys will get shredded.

However, that does nothing to lessen the enjoyability of this movie. And all that blah blah. I’m too sleepy to come up with a proper conclusion for this pseudo-review. Time for a nap. Don’t miss this one. You’ll regret it.

==== I Like Simple ASCII ART ===

I do like titles. It's like, nice and stuff.

A rejoinder to John's rejoinder: 2002 statistics would state that in Chinese "Chen" (and all its variants, like "Chan", "Chin", "Tan", etc) is the most common surname in Singapore. Maybe I confused when I said, "most common surname in Chinese" when I should have said "most common surname when converted to Mandarin".

Just yesterday, I got stabbed viciously in the arm with a 16-gauge needle that resembles a "Yakult straw", as Joel had appropriately put it. It does look like it, and it is partially plastic. It is not fun having it dug underneath the dermis at all.

The man who stabbed me was Hoe Yeen Teck. He's a GEP (pronounced "jeep" by the GEP students) which means his IQ is higher than the average man. There are quite a few of them at the camp where I work. After penetrating the skin and finally my vein, he pushed the straw mercilessly against the wall of my vein and broke it. It's still swelling.

It was my turn next, and I boo-booed pretty badly. I forgot to loosen the tourniquet and the pressure that built up caused the blood to spill all over the mat and eve the floor. It's a longer story made short, but trust me, it looked like a murder scene.

Okay, I've got to sleep now... I really want to talk about the dinner I just ate with the guys here, but I'm really bushed. Tommorrow then?

~A

Work comes in peaks and troughs for me. Either I’m exceedingly free or terribly busy. Hence, I am either found surfing aimlessly for hours on end or else typing furiously with fevered brow and quivering lip. So I’m exaggerating a bit but it’s come close to that before.

What’s worse, though, is that work most often comes in at or just after 6:30, when I’ve packed my things and am in the process of shutting down the computer. It is at this time, when my mood is lifted and there is actually a smile on my face, that I will inevitably hear, “Joel leh?? JOEL!!!”. What follows next can only be described accurately as “that sinking feeling”. Half an hour to go… One can only hope for the best.

No more "=== title ===" Adrian

Added the title bar especially for Adrian. No need to play around with those = signs anymore!
Partly also to force myself to think of a title for each entry though I doubt it'll work.

Apparently some clients think that coming up with lines that “enhance” their brand is a very simple affair. In just one day, they expect the humble (junior) copywriter aka me to come up with some brilliant tagline that will burn the impression of their brand into the minds of each and every consumer. It’s just one line they say?? I’d like to fill the space between their ears with my foot.

This is the impression I get of how things work around my agency. At presentation, client looks at initial ideas. Nods head. Client hears costing. Shakes head. AE tries feebly to sell idea and finally also shakes head. Client thinks a little and comes up with revolutionary, cutting-edge, world-changing, life-saving suggestion i.e. lets go cheapo! Get your copywriter to come up with a line that enhances the brand by, say, the day after tomorrow. To which AE blinks twice, nods, and marches out of room.

Back in office, AE shuffles/tiptoes/trudges to copywriter’s desk only to find him writing copious amounts of copy for his blog. AE goes “Ahem” which prompts copywriter to quickly alt-tab to MS outlook. AE continues, “I need you!” Copywriter wiggles nose. Undeterred, AE perseveres, “Client wants a line that enhaaaaaannces their brand… (Copywriter starts counting sheep…1,2,3,4,5) by Thursday.” And suddenly all the sheep go bleating back to their pen. “THURSDAY?!? That means it’ll have to be out by tomorrow!” AE triumphantly replies, “YUP! That’s right” and then shuffles/tiptoes/trudges happily away.

Okok… so tight deadlines are part and parcel of the job. So cracking your head overnight while recovering from a yakiniku buffet is a necessary hazard. But still, you’d think that clients could be a little bit more reasonable with their demands. Anyway, the line’s out and the designers are working on the layout. Time to start counting sheep again.

Managed to catch Kill Bill Vol. 2 yesterday with Jolene. The movie was disappointing. I went in there expecting blood, gore and amazing music. What I got was a love story interspersed with cheesy Chinese kung fu scenes and hardly any music to remember. It was hilarious at times but lacked that punch the first instalment had. Too bad.

With that out of the way, onto the important bit. As movie-goers here will know, under the recently revised movie ratings, Kill Bill Vol. 2 is listed as M-18. This means that only viewers above the age of 18 are allowed to view that movie. I am telling you this just in case you happen to be a bleating idiot who has no access to TV, radio, print or any other form of mass media. Now, why exactly Kill Bill Vol. 2 is rated M-18 is disputable. There really isn’t that much violence, sex or foul language in it.

But that isn’t important either. The important thing is that as Jolene and I walked up to the ticket stub tearer (usher?!?) and passed him our tickets, he looked up at both of us and in a stern voice asked to see our ICs. What the hell!? I’m gonna be 25 this year and I can’t pass off as being over 18?? Cut me some slack man. Of course, being the civilised gentleman that I am, I merely turn to Jolene, shrug and show him my driver’s license. He gives me that damn-I’m-gonna-get-you-next-time look and returns the card to me which leaves me bristling even more. The nerve of the guy. He glares at Jolene as she fumbles (must be those pudgy fingers) with her matric card and IC before over-elaborately examining every detail followed, again, by that same dastard look. Of course, in her case, I can understand why a check would be necessary, she looking so kiddy and all. But anyways, we walk past stiffly after which I start to rant wildly about how I can’t believe that I, a 25-yr old, had to suffer such an indignity etc and promptly walk into the wrong cinema. Well, it was actually the right one, but I didn’t know it. So I had to endure the embarrassment of darting out, checking the cinema number and darting quickly back in again. Bleah… at least the movie was… well… bad.

Waiting for lunch and I can feel the dual processor that is my stomach revving up. At this point in time, I find myself once again in a familiar quandary. The question that is so relentlessly nagging away at my starving brain is of course, “WHAT THE HELL AM I GONNA EAT TODAY?!?”

While this question may seem trivial to some, we worker bees know better. Lunches are precious. It’s the only hour in the sun we get. Prison inmates get more than we do. An hour out of the freaking office to replenish our energy supplies with food, glorious food, only to have our brains turn into syrup the moment we step back into that shithole of a workplace. Hence, this priceless hour must be wrung dry as the Sahara desert or at least the way my eyes are feeling right now. Therefore, while I could be trying to improve my portfolio by writing brilliant copy or sneakily trying to surf porn on the office PC, I have decided to list the various food places we, the Shenton Way crowd, can reasonably decide to visit:

1. Amoy Market/Food Center (I can’t even remember what it’s called!?!)
2. Maxwell Market (If eating fried fish soup in stifling heat is your cup of tea, this is your place)
3. Ocean something (serves economic/curry/vege/ rice and a delicious looking fish head curry)
4. Burger King (BLEAH)
5. Shenton House (the Japanese food here is brilliant. Fork out $5 and you’ll be laughing)
6. Lau Pa Sat (not the best food around and it’s pricey as well. AVOID AVOID)
7. Hans (The food’s ok I guess. But not the type of stuff I’d wanna eat on a regular basis)
8. Some Indian place down from Hans (Tasted authentic and the fella dumps a mountain of rice on your banana leaf before asking “more?” to which you are advised to vigorously wave your hands and shake your head)
9. Nonya Express (Never tried)
10. Soup & Bread (I think that’s what it’s called. Never tried too)
11. Some bread place. (I believe they serve sandwiches. The whole place looks too sterile for my liking though. If you can imagine eating in a laboratory, this is what it’d be like)
12. A Japanese Karee Place (Not bad… but Japanese curry just doesn’t taste right)

LUNCH!

[Ed: Written before lunch, posted after]

Romance. I’ve never been good at it and I never will. In fact, I think it’s something I pride myself in not being. Yes, romantic gestures show how much you care for someone. Yes, they’ll make her happy (which may bring about other assorted rewards that I won’t elaborate on). Yes, she’ll tell all her friends that her boyfriend is such a sweet guy and all that jazz. And of course her friends will go “ooooooh”. I’ve always felt that romance is just a show. It means literally nothing. A mating dance of sorts, if you like. I thought I was beyond romance, that I could express my affections in more meaningful ways. Particularly in ways that didn’t involve presenting women with dead or rapidly expiring flora.

But last night, I realised what a fool I’ve been. Don’t get me wrong. I still believe that romance is a load of crap. But now I’ve come to the realisation that I’m not beyond it, I’m beneath it. I’m utterly incapable (ok… so this may be a little of an exaggeration) of expressing to the people who matter just how important they are to me. Even more unforgivable is the fact that, sometimes, I just take them for granted. I live in a world of my own and everyone else just falls by the wayside.

With this new job and the accompanying lifestyle I’ve been thrown into, things have gotten worse. Every evening I’m tired. Every morning I’m tired. Everyday revolves around eating tired, working tired, sleeping tired. I’ve lost interest in so many things. I don’t play pool anymore, I haven’t touched the PS2 in weeks, I’ve given up CM, I don’t watch soccer on weekends with the voracity I used to, I hardly read, I’ve stopped playing the guitar. To think I yearned for financial independence just so I could do these very things without feeling guilty about being a burden to my family. I don’t care about much these days because life just seems to be the same tedious cycle repeated to infinity and I don’t see a way out.

I’ve lost too much since I started working. And I almost lost the very person who’s made it all bearable. The one who was by my side every step of the way when I was stricken with A.S. The person who didn’t want to bother me with her own troubles cos I was so damn tied up in mine. The one who cheered me up despite her own nagging fears about the state of our relationship. The one who endured my irritability, my constant fatigue, my snide remarks, my total lack of interest in what she had to say. I almost lost her without even knowing it and that scares me. It chills me to the bone.

I’m so glad we had that talk last night. It was painful but it had to be done and I believe things will turn out for the better. The fault lies with me. I’m the one who needs to change, who needs to take into account your feelings more. I’ve been too caught up in this mess I find myself in and I’ve dragged you down with me which just isn’t fair. I’ve been insensitive and unreasonable, immature and shallow and yet you were unconditional in your support. You deserve so much better and I intend to give you that. But yet I don’t want to promise too much because I’m don't know if I can deliver. All I can say now is that I’ll try. You know I will.

PS: (to any unfortunate reader) Sorry for all this soppiness!

Chan is so NOT the most common Chinese surname in Singapore, Tan is. Chan is somewhere mid table of the top twenty, right above Koh, the two differing by merely a few hundred. Don't take my word for it look at the 2002 statistics. Of course, Kang doesn't come anywhere into the picture, though it has been in the news a lot more than Chan or Koh recently.

got a set of three limited edition stikfas figurines today from the Navy, thanks to a recruitment game thing they did on a web site. Navy diver, weapons specialist and officer. These are made in Singapore, non-Hasbro sets, shiok! tempted to put them up on ebay just to see how much some american would pay for it. but then I have an obligation to sell once they're put up for auction, not prepared to do that.

==== Singing a Preamble to the Prologue ====

Pain is funny.

It has to be, because it's the stuff slapstick is made of. The tough part is getting the sufferer to believe that.That'll be me.

Enough whining; I just needed to blog the fact that I went for an MRI today - it's quite an experience. It's every claustrophobe's worst nightmare, and worse, it makes loud clinking sounds that gives you the impression that its collapsing around you. I wonder how they get magnetic waves to make an image of your innards.

Yeah... I was hoping that Joel could come up with a brilliant line that would be the next "Just Do It", or "Think Different". I know coming up with stuff like that gives a guy a warm fuzzy feeling of accomplishment. And you know you came up with a good one when people spoof you. I can think of 3 spoofs to the unforgettable "Got Milk?" - One of them is Monica Lewinsky with a whitish moustache, and the brilliant tagline went, "Not Milk."

John's name is common, but not as common as "Muhammed" and it variants. It doesn't help that his surname is Chan, the most common surname (at least in Chinese) in Singapore. Maybe if his name was Wachowski or Seto-Wen or Tjiou, "John" could be a perfect first part to a very exotic name. Anyone remember "Jon Irenicus"?

Lombong sounds like a malay dish, don't you think?

~A

So I’m sitting here at my desk killing time again. Or getting killed by it. Whichever tickles your fancy. There’s absolutely nothing to do. I’ve written 6 lines..ok..ok… 7 lines the whole day and proof read some newsletter. Not exactly the exciting creative stuff I thought I’d be doing when I started.

It’s been quite a mundane working experience so far. I’ve been using my technical skills more than my creative ones (whether I have a creative side or not has yet to be determined) and I feel more like a disillusioned grammar teacher with his almighty red pen in hand rather than a copywriter. Adrian said he’d like me to come up with lines like “Impossible is Nothing” or..erm… I can’t remember the other one so he can boast that he knows the guy who wrote whichever great ad. But all I work on are teeny tiny products that no one cares about anyway. So that’ll have to wait.

And just as I’m writing this, I receive another email requesting me to proof another *bleeping* newsletter. Can’t these idiots spell?? Why do they, bloody, like to use commas, so much? Skim through and throw out… That’s fast becoming the routine. And suddenly I find a freaking mistake in my own copy! Extra comma which has doomed poor Eileen to toasting the damn thing a third time. Yes, life is ironic. A thousand apologies my dear friend.

Somehow, the words “middle finger” and “Lombong” seem to go hand in hand. Witness the following example.

“I raised my middle finger to his face and cursed vehemently, “Lombong!!” to which he replied with a withering glare…”

To quell any doubts, I don’t know who John Silver is. But if John should so request, I could refer to him as Long John from now on. However, that would almost certainly extinguish whatever minute lingering political aspirations we might still harbour. Hence, naaaah.

Damn! I actually have to write some copy now. The injustice of it all.

Seized by the testosterone-driven urge to ogle at scantily-clad females, Bryan, Kun. Siang, Andy and myself decided to take a trip down to Sentosa on Saturday under the ill-disguised excuse that we needed to tan our tofu thighs. Having endured a long train ride, an hour’s wait cos of rain, and 2 packed bus rides, we finally arrived at Siloso Beach where the four of them promptly put on their sunglasses, leaving me the only exposed eye-wanderer. Asses.

But anyway, we proceeded to do what all guys do in the presence of such a flesh parade with only small triangular pieces of cloth preventing a full blown orgy. We decided to play soccer. And we had fun. Which, somehow, seems wrong.

Needless to say though, those testosterone-driven urges that brought us to this sun soaked island in the first place soon caught up and we found ourselves wandering up and down the beach, taking in whatever that was on display and groaning at the sight of the odd walrus or dugong. It was kinda like window-shopping where sometimes you just see a badly designed piece of something. Yes… shallow I know. But hey, we’re guys! However, as a testament to the depth of our character, we did eventually tire of all the roasting boobs and butts after maybe four hours or so.

The hour being early and all, we headed down to Prinsep Street to catch whatever soccer match was on. Arsenal v Birmingham as it turned out. Bleah. Sterile affair which ended goalless. Watching snails mate would’ve been more interesting. At least I got my first taste of Heineken. No more of that Tiger piss for me from now on. At $20 a jug at that Turkish place, it’s a little pricier but definitely worth it. Plus, Heineken’s got better ads. No crappy “loyal supporter” or “streaker” TVCs. Not that this is new to anyone out there I’m sure!

Next match on was Blackburn v Man U. Having guzzled all the beer, we ordered another round of drinks, going non-alcoholic this time. Got myself an apple tea which, instead of the usual reddish yellow, came to me green, complete with foam, cappuccino style. Was tasty and refreshing though pricey at $4.50. The match was another dull event with both sides lacking any sort of cutting edge. Andy Cole had a goal ruled out for offside though, which brought a smile to the faces of the 2 Man U (scum of the earth) fans in our group. Of course, those smiles turned to tears when they got home (we left at half time) when they found out that Blackburn had snatched the points with a late winner. Suckers!

My name's too common. Joel mentioned it twice so far, and neither occasion were references to me (<-- dubious grammar - "was a reference"?) Of course, there was really no reference at all to any person in the 2nd instance, that is unless Joel actually knows who John Silver is. and if he did, John Silver is possibly a fictional character.. can one refer to a fictional character? that is debatable.. i can't really rem the arguments for and against that. Anyway, the point is, my name fits right in to the title of this blog. but then again, if you are thinking "John" = "the person who typed these words and whose name isn't really John", then my name to you may not really fit into the category of being common. To you, I may be "Virgil" or something like that.

realised that my left middle finger injury has nothing to do with my console. it started to hurt even more, couldn't bend backwards. should have known, i hardly spend more than an hour each time on the xbox anyway, one just doesn't RSI from holding the controller 45min each time. Even though it has been like fifteen 45min occasions and still at the 3rd boss only... frustration! couldn't they have made it easier for the international version, like what Konami did with WE.

anyway, went up lombong with that bad middle finger, made it. the waterfalls there still as nice, time has been kind to the ole' mount, can't say the same for myself though. not as surefooted as I used to be, felt unsteady at times. important thing is that i made it to the top and back, even though it was raining on the way up. can't wait to go back in June. actually saw someone i recognised on the way down. this reporter from Women's Weekly.. small world. met him at a Siemens event.

===An Uncommon Appearance by A Common Person===

Note the time, please. I really shouldn't be here, but I am, because my boss decided to be nice. Right now, if someone finds out I'm not where I should be, I'm going to be spending the next month or so in detention. Not nice at all.

I'm entirely new to this "blog" thing - yes, it's my virgin post. This being a digital realm, and this realm needing a unique handle and all, I'm thankful that I didn't end up having to use a ridiculous name like "aDrIaNkOh" or "Adrian27" or even worse, "tzem".

This place must be new.

I'll keep this post short; I need to go attend to a bloody looking eye.

~A