Drivel Drivel

I have moved

2007-08-01T23:25:00.000+08:00

And I’m not telling you where unless you ask. Nicely. Anyway, it really isn’t that hard to figure out. Just think about it.

I have been saved from myself

2007-07-23T22:33:00.000+08:00

Some of you might remember that, a few months ago, I was a regular jogger. I might even have described the act of running as being merely “unbearable” as opposed to being “only preferable to having nails pushed through my eyes”. By golly, I might even have harboured thoughts of completing a marathon. Clearly then, I was deluded and in need of severe medical attention which duly arrived because, after one particularly long plodding session, my back gave way.

Now, before all of you start pulling out your tissues for a good cry, I must say that that was a few months ago. I’m all better now. So much better in fact that, last night, I imagined myself once again pounding the asphalt, cleaving the night air in twain with my svelte runner’s physique. And all while stuffing my face with some fried chicken. Hell, just ten minutes ago, as I popped some nuggets into my maws, the thought of running was running around in my head.

It is with considerable gratitude, then, that I sniffle pathetically into this handkerchief as I have been doing for days now. Thank God for this divine flu or who knows what madness I might have committed.

Once again, unhealthiness of body has proven the remedy for unhealthiness of mind.

My hair is useless

2007-07-16T21:58:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, I had my hair cut by someone called Bay. As to why he named himself after either (a) a body of water; or (b) a deep, prolonged growl, I haven’t the faintest idea. What I do know, however, is that the more unlikely the name, the more unlikely it is that the person will actually be able to speak English. Quite naturally, then, he fluffed up my hair and started motoring along in Mandarin. This posed a problem since my grasp of Mandarin is about as firm as Britney Spears’ grip on reality, and I reacted as I would to anything I do not understand: by adopting a pleasant expression and nodding.

This, by the way, is how I got through philosophy class. The lecturer would ramble endlessly about how all renates are cordates or something or other and I would, despite not having the foggiest notion of what was going on, nod sagely all the way through. Note that this is much more commendable than what John did, which was try to mask his sleeping head with just an A4 sheet held discreetly in front of his face. And it might’ve worked too, had we not exposed his devious plan by guffawing.

Another secret to my pass grade was an ability to paraphrase absolutely anything. Except Heidegger, he was completely unparaphraseable.

But back to the salon.

After much Mandarin and nodding and smiling, the actual cutting began. I don’t mean to complain but I’ve lost all faith in hairdressers. No one so far has been able to tame the unruly mess that inhabits the top of my head. One guy came close but the only implement he used was an electric shaver and his “salon” consisted of a single chair which he moved from army camp to army camp. He gave me the sheep treatment but still, just two weeks later, I looked like a dandelion. Yes, my hair’s rate of growth is so rapid that it should, ideally, be measured in km/h.

Oblivious to all this, Bay started snipping. It was a long and laborious process largely, I suspect, because my hair was reproducing faster than he could cut. Still, by sheer force of will and ever larger scissors, he managed it, finishing off triumphantly with what looked like a pair of garden shears.

Then, he started styling.

Actually, I’m using that term loosely because a more accurate description would be threatening my hair with grievous bodily harm. He rolled up his sleeves and, with both hands, pushed up and down and sideways with such force that, at various points in the process, I thought to myself “that’s it, my head’s coming off.” Still, I was rather pleased with the results.

This was, of course, utterly pointless because everyone knows that no matter how good your hair looks in the salon, there is no way in the world that you are going to reproduce that look at home. I have walked out of salons looking like David Beckham (oh, you laugh) and then, just the day after, gone back to being Rene Higuita.

And it was no different this time.

I went home and analysed studiously the waves he’d somehow created on my head. I made careful note of the swirls and the crests and re-enacted the motion of his hands. And yet, this morning, I applied some wax onto my palms, rubbed it vigorously into my hair and miraculously achieved the helmet hair effect. I was distraught. There were no waves whatsoever. Just tears. There’re always tears.

I wish I felt differently

2007-07-12T23:56:00.000+08:00

I suppose I left that last post dangling a little. So let me elaborate. I haven’t really lost interest in advertising. But that’s simply because I’ve never been interested in the first place. It’s always been a job. Not a passion.

Now I know many folks in the industry who will say that passion should be our driving force. They will doubtlessly believe wholeheartedly in the power of ideas and their own creativity. They will demand that we constantly push the boundaries. They will proclaim that the metaphoric box is there just so that we can do our thinking outside of it. It’s the usual mumbo-jumbo you see splattered on the pages of Marketing magazine. But seriously now, come off it, why don’t you?

I’ve always wondered how so many smart and hugely creative people could be so enamoured with an industry that’s essentially a pest. A huge wart on the side of this capitalist beast we’ve nurtured. Surely, if you believe so fervently in the power of ideas, you can do better than to use these amazingly powerful tools to sell washing powder. And what about all this pushing of boundaries? The boundaries of what? Creativity? What does that even mean?

And by the way, who cares?

We in the advertising business are just so full of ourselves. We’ve got all our cosy award shows. A gazillion websites filled with ads for the world to marvel at which we then, almost always, proceed to massacre with a juvenile fervour that I am truly ashamed of. We buy and read endless books about our own industry legends, aspiring to be like them while simultaneously hating their guts for profiting from their peers.

Yet all this gloss does nothing to hide our niggling insecurities. The truth is no one outside of advertising gives two hoots about what we do because, in the larger scheme of things, advertising doesn’t come anywhere near the top. Or even the middle. We’re just the shit that’s settled at the bottom of the bowl. And we’re making hell of a din about it.

Silver. But so what?

2007-07-12T00:48:00.000+08:00

Despite doing absolutely nothing, I have found myself with a silver award. Look here if you don’t believe me. And get your damn jaw off the ground.

This is all thanks to Daphne who, after much tenacious cajoling, finally got me to put some words to her ideas.

Ah, sweet is the taste of victory.

How odd then that the urge to quit advertising has never been stronger. I’ve simply lost interest. Again.

Oh, fuck it.

Deleted

2007-07-03T00:56:00.000+08:00

There used to be a different entry here. But after reading it twice, it all started to sound somewhat convoluted. And so, since Pat also concurred, I consigned it immediately to the bowels of my dog.

Even though this blog is titled ‘Drivel Drivel’, it is, after all, still drivel from a mouth accustomed to making tooting noises at golden spittoons. One must be firm when there are standards to be upheld. And I was.

Hungover (slightly)

2007-06-26T13:23:00.000+08:00

They say that whisky is the water of life. So I had some last night. Now, my brain has been replaced by a brick and my stomach is trying to operate in reverse. I have never felt more alive. Lying bastards.

Cat chases bear up tree

2007-06-13T00:32:00.000+08:00

I don’t know why but this picture and story just got me right in the spleen. I now have sutures down both sides of my body.

It’s probably because I have a cat and a tiny white bear (that just happens to look like a dog) which gets chased around quite often by said cat. And this whole role reversal thing just makes for a great cat food ad.

Ulcer

2007-06-07T23:40:00.000+08:00

Once again, a gigantic ulcer has appeared on the right side of my tongue. Which means that I am now talking lye lis. Gaw, eez ees illilayling!

As always, I have been told that this is because I am ‘heaty’ and that I must drink more water and herbal tea which are ‘cooling’. But I don’t see how being heaty can cause an ulcer. Some say that heatiness causes your tongue to swell which increases the chances of you accidentally biting it. Clearly, this is rubbish. Jamie Oliver has a huge tongue but he doesn’t seem to be suffering from ulcers. (It was either Anthony Bourdain or Jeremy Clarkson who made that observation. I don't spend my time looking at other men's tongues.)

Also, I typed “heaty” into that tome of all human knowledge, Wikipedia, and got laughed at. So I typed “oral ulcer” and found that they are caused by such factors as “stress, fatigue, illness, injury from accidental biting, hormonal changes, menstruation, sudden weight loss, food allergies and deficiencies in vitamin B12, iron and folic acid.”

A deficiency in folic acid. Of course! Because of my condition, I take something called methotrexate every week which works by suppressing the metabolism of folic acid. Sure, I take folic acid supplements too but they’re hardly enough to make up for what’s lost. Hence, the ulcer.

Of course, another explanation could be herpes simplex but… uhh… no.

Cure your blues

2007-06-05T01:04:00.000+08:00

Depression. It’s something that afflicts us all. To deal with it, some people lie down on recliners while strangers inform them that sexual love for their mothers is perfectly acceptable. Others pop multi-coloured pills that make them think of multi-coloured bunnies. Still yet others jump in front of MRT trains to be turned into steaks. Frankly, this is all a bit too hardcore for me. I have my own ways of dealing with my down days.

Such as reading a particular blog.

I can’t name it here, obviously. Otherwise he would catch wind of my nefarious reasons for perusing his useless writing and shun me forever. And then I’d really have to jump in front of a train or gouge my liver out with a spoon to feel better.

Suffice to say then that he is a one-time colleague who, for various reasons, many of us disliked. “I can’t stand his face,” someone once remarked which I thought somewhat shallow even though I also wanted to punch his sorry mug in. “He looks like a chao keng clerk.” I held this view too because he was pasty white and walked like a limp dick. And then there was the fact that he proudly festooned his desktop with pictures of Manchester United players. That automatically set him apart as a pariah. Someone whose head and my shoe went together.

When I left that agency, I actually forgot about him and his pansy ways for awhile. And then someone decided that he had an ‘interesting’ blog which I might like to take a look at. I am sad to say that I have since become an ardent fan.

After all, with sentences like “wow... never realise tat it's been omost a mth since i last blogged...” and, as an intro to yet another lyrics post, “it's oso the theme song 4 the drama series (something or other)... bery nice~~~ hope every1 can find a (another something or other) beside him/her... :P”, who wouldn’t be? It is appropriate at this point that I stress that it is indeed a human male that I am talking about.

“Let’s jump him then go home and wait for his post,” someone suggested after I’d shown him this literary enclave. I had to decline because I am not one for physical violence. This is partly down to ethics and mostly down to me being utterly useless in a fist fight. Though you have to agree that it was a good suggestion.

And this is exactly why reading this loser’s blog is cathartic. It makes you feel alive. After just two sentences, you think to yourself, “Good god almighty, if there’s one thing I could kill RIGHT NOW, it’s him.” And just like that you forget that, just a few seconds ago, you were on the verge of sticking your head in the oven. Because you’ve come to the realisation that, compared to that scourge on the gene pool, your life is really worth so much more.

So to all manic depressives out there, if you’re feeling a little down or a little sorry for yourself, forget the shrink. Go find yourself a blogger to hate instead. Based on that, I will hereby be charging on a word by word basis.

On Butt Rests

2007-05-20T23:45:00.000+08:00

Recently, certain MRT stations have acquired butt rests (I don't know what they're really called so there), the idea being that you can relax in a sort of half sitting position while waiting for the train and then, once it's arrived, get up easily to mow down any passengers between you and a proper seat. Except that they don't work.

It is common sense that, for a butt rest to be useful, it must first of all be possible for the sitter's butt to actually stay on the rest. Unfortunately, the butt rests that SMRT have so graciously provided seem to be coated with Teflon. Plus, they're slanted. Plus, they're concave. So after falling off twice, the frustrated commuter, determined to wait in a relaxing manner, is forced to cling onto the back of the rest with his fingernails while his feet are engaged in a sort of constant scrabble to prop himself up. From a distance, this makes him look like a frantic prawn trying to swim backwards.

Just last week, I witnessed a lady commuter attempt to sit on a rest, fall off, and then comment to herself that it was really more of a bag stand than a seat. Oh, and her knickers were red.

And therein lies the secret to this mystery. Far from being a gaffe, these butt rests play a much more important role – they help to keep our train stations safe.

You know how it is these days. With bomb threats everywhere, everything needs to be kept under surveillance all the time. That’s why we’ve got those huge, spanking new cameras all over our train stations. And they’d work too if only someone could be bothered to watch them. To be blindingly obvious, watching people board and alight from trains is hardly nail-biting fun. Most people would rather entertain themselves by sawing their legs off. Clearly, SMRT had to do something to jazz up the show, to add that touch of excitement to the otherwise dreary monotony of eyeballing our country’s working class.

And that’s where the butt rests come in. Strategically placed, they lie in clear sight of all the cameras. Which means that in addition to keeping a vigilant eye out for our nation’s safety, SMRT personnel now have the joyous added option of betting on a game of “When will Joe land on his backside?” Or for the more sophisticated punter, “What shade are her knickers?” And all from the comfort of their control booths.

So you see, now we’ve really got foolproof security. Not only do we have a comprehensive network of eyes in the sky, we also have a dedicated bunch of eyes in Station Control. It works a little like Big Brother. Whether anything’s happening or not, you’re going to be glued to the screen anyway, because you never know when that hot Swedish mama is going to take a bath.

So kudos to SMRT. They’ve invested well in some butt rests that work, because they don’t.

Sick

2007-05-17T13:09:00.000+08:00

I have caught a flu of gargantuan proportions. My entire head is filled with mucus, all of which is cascading in torrents out of my nose. I have with me a handkerchief and a pack of tissue paper but that’s like trying to stop the Niagara Falls with a cork. It is very messy indeed. What I really need is a basin and a plumb. However, these are not readily available in an ad agency. No matter. I’ll use the vacuum cleaner.

Frottage

2007-05-10T10:06:00.000+08:00

To stay ahead in this rat race of ours, I’d gladly step all over your head and you’d be happy to chew my tail off. Friction is inevitable. So since we’re at it, we might as well get some gratification. Unless you’re a guy, that is. Then you can just go to hell.

Nothing much

2007-05-03T23:04:00.000+08:00

In the fourteen days since my last post, I have been swamped with literally one request to blog about something, anything. “Why the fuck haven’t you been blogging?” my lone requestor implored. “Because I haven’t anything to say,” was the simple reply.

And it’s true.

Oh, I suppose I could’ve written something about the excellent and entertaining film Fuck which I caught with my colleagues. But I really didn’t have anything insightful to add. I could also have written about the many excessive meals I’ve had in the past week with friends and colleagues alike, complete with pictures. But then I’d just have ended up looking like one of those blogs with nothing but food shots then some lame description of said food then some people-around-table shots with all their names from left to right followed by some more food shots. Getting an appendectomy would’ve been more fun than doing that.

There’s just been nothing happening. I’m not flying to New York like Yvonne. I’m not leaving for Beijing like Gavin. I don’t have to deal with the trials and tribulations of parenthood like Jean. Sure, I’m getting along fine at work but that’s nothing to go all gaga about.

If I’m honest, it’s been kind of boring. A bit like sailing on a pristine lake. Sure, it’s calm, relaxing and you're still going somewhere, but every once in a while, you just wish that the waves would hit you that little bit harder. You want to see a hint of danger on the horizon and head straight for it.

Unfortunately, I seem to be sailing my boat in a bathtub.

I need a happy dog.

2007-04-19T00:23:00.000+08:00

I suppose it’s quite obvious that I’m not a big fan of the family dog. Over the years, I’ve described her as stupid, noisy, smelly and a bit of an evolutionary mistake. I’ve complained about her constant bowel movement and the way she barks like a lunatic every time I enter the house.

Things were a little bit different, though, when I got home last night. Instead of the usual helter-skelter, edge of your seat rumpus welcome that I usually get, there was, well, nothing. My ears weren’t bleeding as I made my way into the living room and my ankles hadn’t been chewed off. This left me feeling pretty good. That is until I found her in a corner with her tail between her legs.

I’m sorry to report that, despite my extreme manliness, my heart turned immediately to goo. She looked so utterly miserable that, for no reason at all, I was beside myself with guilt. For the first time in years, I desperately wanted to cheer her up and proceeded to do so by carrying her around and rubbing her behind the ears. But still, her tiny tail refused to budge. I gave her a bone which elicited a mild response but after gnawing at it for a while, she crawled miserably under the bed. I was despondent.

What could have happened? Why wasn’t she her usual yappy self? I can’t possibly loathe a dog that looks this miserable. It’s no fun. No fun at all. In desperation, I tried to lift her spirits again with a bout of playful wrestling but it was hopeless.

So I gave up and trudged back to my room broken-hearted.

Thankfully though, she’s fine now. It might’ve been a mild fever or a stomach upset that got her down. But whatever it is, I just hope that she stays happy. If only just so that I can abhor her more.

They don't deserve a raise unless they fight.

2007-04-11T01:08:00.000+08:00

Today, I was listless at work. Nothing held any meaning. I got briefed on something, struggled with it for a bit then rolled over, a beaten man. I proofread an ad and didn’t notice that the “h” in StarHub should be in the upper case. This was later brought to my attention by a suit which should have been highly irritating but wasn’t because it simply didn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.

What, you might be wondering, is the cause of my despair, my utter dismissal of everything I hold dear? Well, this morning, I found out that the president earns more than I do which isn’t depressing in itself. But when you find out that he’s making about three million dollars a year which, incidentally, is about three million more than I get, that’s when you start chugging down the vodka and screaming “Oh God, why?!” Really now, for someone whose job scope consists entirely of shaking hands, sitting down at parties and nodding at a parade commander once every year, I think this a somewhat extravagant price to pay. Indeed, that pain gets even worse when I recall that I myself could have been in this very position if only I’d had the wherewithal to submit my application for the position of president. Yes, I know that I have mentioned this before, but I can’t help but look back fondly on the days when I actually had some ambition.

And then there’re the ministers, all of whom take home in excess of a million dollars a year. Yet, no matter how many parliamentary debates you watch, why they deserve this much remuneration never once becomes apparent. Where’s the disagreement? Where’s the passionate argument? Where’s the good old chair throwing? When I watch a debate, I want to see someone call someone else a no-good-pussy-licker. I want to witness a junior minister walk up to the prime minister and knock his teeth out. I want the womenfolk to make their stand by flashing us their breasts. No wait, I’ll pass on that one. The point is that we, the proletariat, wouldn’t mind paying our leaders exorbitant sums if only they’d give us a little indication that they cared instead of just muttering some unintelligible party-friendly drivel and then sitting back down again, satisfied that no one had understood anything.

Therefore, to ameliorate this problem, I have come up with a brilliant idea. I shall volunteer my services as a speechwriter to the highest bidding minister (or ministers – we’re all one big happy party after all) right now. With my vigorous, riling style making up for your somewhat dim delivery, there is no doubt that you will enhance your image as a man or woman with a passion for the people or, if nothing else, at least the enthusiasm for a good round of unarmed combat. It’ll be like the WWE but for intellectuals. And that’s all-important because, really, we’d be much more willing to pay for that.

Put down your microphones. Please?

2007-03-28T23:30:00.000+08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s true – karaoke will kill you. Or at least I wish it would, but it won’t. Still, there’s every reason to avoid it because, other than causing widespread deafness, hair loss and American Idol, it’ll also give you what’s known as “karaoke polyp” – a condition where an abnormal growth appears on the vocal chords due to the constant strain inflicted upon them by your over-imitating of Screamin’ Dion. You can read all about it in this severely overdue but life changing article.

Obviously, this is great news. Not since Nazism has the world seen a greater threat than that which lurks in karaoke lounges, all of which have horrible names like K this or Party that. It is an abomination that we simply must destroy or we will all suffer endlessly from a severe malady. Get it? Malady, melody? *Guffaws*

Ahem… yes. Actually, there’s a bit more to it than that.

Back in the old days, young men grew up drinking and smoking in billiard saloons where, if nothing else, they at least mastered the manly sport of poking balls with sticks. These days, youngsters spend their adolescence drinking and smoking while murdering some Taiwanese song. And what good does that do? Just an hour ago, I heard something that went “Woah woah, woah woah, woah woah” from someone by the name of Jay and from what I know, that’s a hit among karaokeists. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life looking like you’ve got a c**k in your mouth, I see no conceivable benefit of this.

To make matters worse, karaoke addicts are willing to pay ludicrous fees for the opportunity to drive each other insane. The lounges know this and charge upwards of $50 a session. $50! Really, that’s like paying to have your ears cut off. Still, what truly makes this whole obsession with karaoke scary is that no one’s safe. Even Pat – the most rational human being on Earth – is reduced to a warbling mess in the face of lyrics that slowly change colour. I know grown men who, when clutching a microphone, have suddenly believed that they are Mariah Carey. It is all just impossibly stupid.

So, in just a few short paragraphs, we’ve established that karaoke is harmful to your health, more evil than Nazism, damaging to our children’s future, devastating to families because it causes financial ruin and that it makes people behave like idiots. Why do I somehow feel that that’s not enough?

Finally, 300 has been watched.

2007-03-27T00:19:00.000+08:00

And since I am probably the last person on earth to catch it, I shall refrain from posting a meaningless review. I will say, however, that the last time I saw this many bare chests on a screen was during a documentary on apes. And that so much testosterone emanated from each and every scene that my testicles are now swollen and all I want to do is shag lampposts. In other words, it was great and definitely worth the wait. And the minor traffic accident.

300. Almost.

2007-03-25T16:51:00.000+08:00

It’s been three weeks since 300 opened and I still haven’t watched it. I tried getting seats last Friday but the only ones left would’ve given me a cricked neck. And so I waited till this Friday only to be surprised by a last minute job for a bank, which will remain unnamed, that held me back till 9pm. Still, I wasn’t too cross about that because in advertising, you get shit thrown in your face from time to time. Besides, there was always Saturday. Wrong. Yesterday, as I was driving in what can only be considered a leisurely fashion to my date with the most testosterone filled movie of all time, lo and behold, a motorbike crashes into the side of my car. Had this happened on any other day, I would’ve scrambled right out of my car and begged the rider to please be alive. Yesterday, however, my immediate reaction was “What the fuck is it this time?!” followed by “How can a man ever watch a film if he’s going to have things running into him all the time?” followed by “Good God, I hope he’s alive.”

And he was. A youngster who’d only gotten his licence three months earlier along with his pillion lying on their sides for some reason. Just to be sure, I ran out and asked if he was still alive. He answered in the affirmative and then asked me what I wanted to do about all this. I hadn’t a clue. So we made some phone calls, some relatives came down including my very accusing mother, and we all had a chat. This morning, I wrote my first ever Statement of Events, which my uncle informed me was rubbish. And so I rewrote it, slightly. Tomorrow, I will have to bring the car down to the workshop to have it unbroken. This, in itself, isn’t really daunting except that my mother insists on coming along which means that by the time I get there, my ears will be inside my head. But it doesn’t matter because guess what I’m going to be doing after that. Yes, that’s right.

Marathon

2007-03-16T13:14:00.001+08:00

I ran last night. And it doesn’t matter that I was overtaken by a snail or that I have now lost the use of my legs. The fact is that I finished 8km. Now, that may seem like a meagre distance to some of you but to me, the most sedentary human being in all of Asia, it is an achievement not unlike trekking to the North Pole solely on a pogo stick.

I might have intimated before that I’m running because I’m a vain pot. This is not strictly true anymore because I am now supposed to take part in a marathon along with three (or is it two?) other lunatics. There are, of course, certain obstacles in the way. Like my heart, for instance, which will almost certainly explode after 10km. And then there’s that steely determination of mine which is made up completely of feathers.

But the worries don’t end there. You see, with every running step, your body is forced to absorb up to three times your body weight in pressure. Over 42km, that works out to about the weight of a small continent. Which is fine if you’re Atlas, but you’re not. The result is that the average runner loses two centimetres in height over the course of a marathon. This is due mainly to a compression of the spinal column which means that my torso will be shorter while my limbs will still be the same length which means that I’ll cross the finish line looking like Gollum. Clearly, that is unacceptable. The whole point of doing a marathon is so that you can pay an obscene amount of money for a picture of yourself looking heroic at the end. And that’s ruled completely impossible if you turn up looking like you’ve just taken a few steps down the evolutionary ladder.

So then, a marathon is tiring, pointless and you’ll come back a midget. And yet here I am training for it. Maybe I really am mad.

Some religious stuff

2007-03-12T00:32:00.000+08:00

I just love this discussion. First off, Richard Dawkins is involved. Then there’re some moderate Christians who define God as love (sounds like a cop out to me) and moderate Muslims, all of whom are extremely eloquent. And finally, there’re the few token Christian fundies who, as usual, show no sign whatsoever of any level of intelligence. Love it when Avi Lewis gives it to one of them about 25 minutes into the interview forcing the fool to squirm around before finally, and in some desperation, coming to the ludicrous conclusion that “the bible interprets itself”.

Of course, you’ll have to watch the The Root of All Evil? first since this is a discussion of the issues raised in that documentary. That’s the Wiki link. Find the video yourself.

St Bernard

2007-03-11T23:13:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, at a pet shop near my place, I saw a St Bernard in the flesh for the first time. Which means that in addition to a dream car (the Golf GTI), I now have a dream dog.

The St Bernard, as some of you already know, is not a handsome type of dog. In fact, it rather looks like a brute. Its cheeks sag to the floor and its eyes are droopy, meaning that it bears a striking resemblance to James Earl Jones. But unlike other brutish looking dogs such as the pug and the shar pei, it’s got the size to match its face. I mean, weighing in at up to 90kg, this isn’t a dog you’d want to trifle with. The specimen I saw yesterday had paws the size of steering wheels and a head even more cavernous than mine. Any burglar who had the temerity to break into a house guarded by one of these would be remembered in the morning with nothing more than a burp.

And yet it must be said that the St Bernard is a gentle giant. The one from yesterday was running around quite happily with poodles and pomeranians though it could have quite easily popped them like aspirins. They’re good with children too. Which is actually something of a downer for me. I’d hoped that if my child should one day get out of hand, I could simply call upon the dog to erase it from existence. I’ll just have to stick with the mincer.

Of course, the sheer size of a St Bernard poses some problems of its own. For example, if the dog should decide to have a poo, I’d never be able to clear it out because I can’t fit a bulldozer in my living room. And if it should have a little wee, then I’d have to go and put on my snorkel. Therefore, from an early age, the dog must be taught to relieve itself around my neighbour’s front door. That’ll teach them to dump shit outside my house on the pretext of fertilising their plants.

There is one more thing though. St Bernards don’t like being left alone for long periods. Now that’d be ok with a small dog because they can’t do much harm to your furniture. With a St Bernard, however, you’d be coming home to a war zone every evening. And that’s assuming you make it past the mountain of manure and the rivers of wee. It just sounds too daunting.

I’m sad to say, then, that the St Bernard will have to wait. In the meantime, I’ll just have to make do with the (now bald) maltese.

Vain Pot

2007-03-02T00:45:00.000+08:00

I have just returned from a light jog around my estate and I’ve gotta tell you, the pounding of your lungs, the sound of your feet hitting the asphalt, the wind in your face; God, does jogging suck. Some people tell me that jogging is addictive and that I’ll soon grow to like it. Plainly, they must be mad. Jogging, to me, is the single most boring activity on earth. Honestly, I’d have more fun contemplating my own navel – a pursuit which, I have been reliably informed, is known as omphaloskepsis. If I wasn’t such a vain pot, jogging would be about as high on my list of priorities as getting murdered. Unfortunately, I am just such a vain pot. And in my pursuit of abdominals, I have resorted to plodding around twice a week in ugly shoes in the vague hope that, after a couple of hundred kilometres, I will have a midriff that you could crack your skull on. It’ll happen. Eventually. Still, don’t put your helmets on just yet.

The Return to Form Black Magick Party – Pop Levi

2007-02-26T13:41:00.000+08:00

I don’t usually gush over music but this… this is just epic. When I first put it on, I caught myself – Mr Make-Me-Dance-and-I’ll-Set-Your-Ears-on-Fire – bopping my head to it which, unfortunately, is like catching Madeleine Albright having sex. It’s a once in a lifetime event but that won’t stop you from turning away.

It must be said that I have no idea what type of music this is but I have gone on Wikipedia and it says that it’s “funky alt-rock”, whatever that is. It doesn’t matter. Buy this album and put on a neck brace as well because I’m quite sure that you’ll be bopping your head off.

I need a new pen

2007-02-06T15:02:00.001+08:00

I have lost four of them thus far and my last one’s gone all scratchy. Sure, I could easily snitch one from the office stationery pool but that would be like prancing around in someone else’s underwear – it would work but you’d somehow feel all dirty.

I used to write with old fountain pens which gave me an air of intellectuality. But in primary school, an air of intellectuality is about as useful as shorts worn up to the midriff, which I also had. And then there were the gifts from previous girlfriends with engraved messages such as “TYFBM” (no, I’m not gonna tell you what that stands for). Unfortunately, filled with love or not, they made writing about as pleasurable as scaling a fish.

So, off it is to Muji then for some of their Gel Ink Pens. I adore these. Every scribble feels like you’re autographing Maggie Q’s tummy – deliciously smooth and with just the right amount of tautness. No Pilot or Stabilo or Papermate could give me the same degree of pleasure. Why then don’t I consider a proper long-lasting pen like a Parker or a Mont Blanc? It’s simple. I’m not 45, still have a full head of hair and don’t have a Chinese mistress tucked away in some condominium. Then again, just give me twenty more years.

Children are a waste of time

2007-02-05T21:44:00.000+08:00

As I was listening to Tenacious D on the train this evening, another sort of scream pierced my Cresyn earphones, blew my ear drums out of my nostrils and then proceeded to bounce around inside my cranial cavity. It was a child. And I, along with a whole cabin of disgruntled passengers, wanted to kill it. And yet, its parents seemed curiously unaffected. I assumed that they must be deaf but then deaf people don’t talk on the phone. They must be stupid then because they didn’t realise that about fifty people were quite ready to forcefully wring the air out of their windpipes and then do the same to their offspring.

Frankly, children ought to be disciplined from as young an age as possible. Crying might be a child’s way of asking for a feed or some otherwise legitimate attention. But children learn to lie young and some cry just so that they can rejoice in some parental fawning. Plainly, we can’t have any of that. Crying for anything other than food or a nappy change should be rewarded by mashing the culprit’s head into a grater. If your child still fails to change its ways, then you should turn Christian. Because then you’d have an excuse to stone it.

I, though, wouldn’t bother with children. Certainly, looking at myself, I wonder why my mother ever bothered with me. And anyway, if you believe all the horrific predictions that are floating around the cable news ether, bringing more human beings into this world probably isn’t worth it. After all, in fifty years, we’ll all be swimming around in one huge ocean because the bloody ice caps have melted – if we make it that far. A far likelier scenario is that George Bush and his madcap rightwing loonies would have long ago condemned us all to hell in one huge nuclear inferno.

And besides, not having kids means that I’ll never face one of those “Yes, Daddy surfs porn too. Now get out!” moments.

Children, then, are a waste of time and we should all be content with having cats. They’re far less noisy, far less smelly and they won’t mind even if you spend all your time looking at naked women.

The comb-over. Again.

2007-01-31T00:33:00.000+08:00

Today, the comb-over visited once again. I was all smiles as I greeted it partly because I was being polite but more so because, faced with an entity of such comeliness, I couldn’t help but be all smiles. And the smiling continued all through the meeting, during which the organism on which this handsome comb-over was perched gesticulated a bit and said something or other about some copy that needed to be changed. Mere interferences in the cosmic network as far as I was concerned. I had more important matters to consider such as what life must be like, living forever in the shadow of such hirsute perfection. I envied the organism under because to exist in such close proximity to nirvana must be like staying next door to a pub. But then again, the constant stream of men peeing at your door would drive you insane and so on and so forth in an endless battle of good versus evil.

Alas, the meeting ended before I could come to any useful interpretation of this pub analogy. However, before the comb-over vanished once again, I had a chance to surreptitiously point it out to my CD who let out an “Ooooh” of such great intensity that I was inclined to take two steps back. “That IS a comb-over.” he declared after a few appreciative moments. No doubt, the comb-over has gained another convert. A new religion cometh forth.

2007-01-19T00:40:00.000+08:00

Just had the juiciest beef burger ever. Every bite obliged me to wipe my face with a towel.

What? You want to know where I had it?

But then I might just see you there one day – munching my cow and then wiping your face. Only I am fit to munch my cow and then wipe my face. That's quite enough of italics for today. Now shove off.

The comb-over of understanding

2007-01-17T17:17:00.001+08:00

Yesterday, at a meeting with a client, I witnessed a comb-over of the most awesome majesty. As I shook the proud owner’s hand, I found myself completely mesmerised. An object of utter beauty, the comb-over stretched languidly from the extreme left side of his head all the way to midway down his right ear, each and every strand whipped into total and unquestioning submission. Perfection is rare enough in itself but this was perfection achieved with merely a comb and some gel. The more I stared, the more I understood. The more I understood, the more the inner workings of the Universe became clear to me. Yes, the fabric of space time is indeed curved, much like hair combed over a bald pate. Yes, space is almost completely dark, interspersed only occasionally with little oases of light. Yes, this is why there is something instead of nothing.

Every movement of the owner’s head brought me closer and closer to nirvana. The only thing that could’ve torn my eyes away from such a magnificent entity would’ve been the Big Bang. Which duly happened. Twice. And on the ceiling above my head. And so nirvana was promptly screwed as I scrabbled out of the meeting room, ostensibly to find out what was going on but really to avoid dying. It turned out that a window pane had literally crumbled and fallen on the meeting room roof downstairs. Inexplicable, if you ask me. And so I went back to the comb-over and stared some more.

Just a scribe

2007-01-15T21:57:00.000+08:00

I have just gone through the FA of a serviced residence brochure and I don’t mind telling you that as I turned the pages, I wept with complete abandon. Every paragraph just screamed out for structure editing and, in some cases, a total rewrite. And yet I was completely helpless.

To think that it had all started so well with the client making it perfectly clear that we had won the business on the back of some sound copy. Why then did they insist on the tagline equivalent of “Because food is for eating” when we had options which, if not poetic, at least made some sense? And what’s with sentences that go “Stay with us… …and you’ll feel great”? Why have those dots? Are they supposed to keep the reader in suspense thinking “Hmmm, if I stay with them, I’ll (dot, dot, dot, hmmm, dot, dot, dot) feel great!”? Why!

For them to butcher so mercilessly the copy which they proclaimed they adored is like telling a woman you love her and then marrying her brother. It is just stunningly preposterous and yet these fools are perfectly happy about the whole affair. If I had the chutzpah, I would’ve punched them in their respective snivelling faces. Unfortunately, that is not the case. Which is why I am restricted to sitting here and ranting away at my keyboard. Such is the life of us advertising scribes.

Colbert Interview

2007-01-12T00:35:00.000+08:00

For Stephen Colbert fans, I richly recommend this interview. The interviewer is a bit stiff though. Shame.

Pardon this (short) rant

2007-01-04T23:36:00.000+08:00

Been busy as a fucking polygamist. No sooner do I have time for the pharma account than the IT account demands some attention and no sooner do I start touch-typing her than the investment account wants a piece of the action as well – at 3 in the morning. The bitches. If I had my way, I’d have them all stoned.

Oh, bugger all this.

Documentaries

2006-12-25T23:53:00.000+08:00

I watched two documentaries on string theory yesterday and the only two things I’ve learnt are that (1) the Universe is a wonderfully intricate and mysterious place and (2) I am incredibly stupid. Because I really had, and still have, no idea what all those damned physicists were going on about. Matter isn’t made up of particles but instead of tiny vibrating strings? What?! This isn’t something you can just shrug and accept. And while I’m still reeling from the discovery that I am basically one huge guitar, I get bombarded by the revelation that for string theory or rather all the variants of string theory to be unified, there needs to be eleven dimensions in what is called the M-theory, Eleven! The only thing I’ve ever known with that many dimensions is Pamela Anderson.

All this wackiness has made me suspect that despite their straight-laced appearance, scientists really do know how to have some fun. No one knows what the “M” in M-theory stands for. It could be magical or mad or master or membrane, but I know for a fact that it really means marijuana. Therefore a Big Bang is what you experience when you inhale too quickly and fall off your stool. A supernova is observed when you repeatedly use your lighter as an ashtray. And black holes are people who’ve suddenly quit and taken all their weed with them.

Having had my ego demolished, I then decided to watch a documentary on stupidity. Initially, this was fascinating in the I-like-to-see-people-crap-on-other-people type of way but, trust me, the fascination quickly wears off. And then I got asked the question: “What is stupidity?” whereupon my brain tried valiantly to fend off the inevitable with moves like “Huh?” and “Whassat again?” before giving up and yelping like a dog.

So I don’t know what stupidity is and I don’t know what string theory is. But then again, I don’t think you do either.

I'm old

2006-12-20T01:00:00.000+08:00

As of today, I am 27 years and two days old. This sucks. One day you’re a strapping young lad and the next you’re a geezer. Of course, I was never strapping but at least I was young. I remember a time when I could stay awake for eight hours straight without drooling into my pocket. Now I line them with cellophane. Oh, the humanity.

Still some people tell me I can pass off as a student. These are very nice folks even if they are utterly blind. The truth of the matter is that I am old. A geriatric in a sea of youth. I am the type of person delinquents will now try to mug as I cling feebly to my walking stick, cursing hoarsely for them to buzz off forthwith.

Of course, a few lovely people have made efforts to help ease me into my golden years. Pat bought me a sumptuous dinner along with a wonderful pair of jeans with which to keep the cold from seeping into my legs. My CD and Joanne gave me two voluptuous nymphs to help keep the old blood pumping and also, very thoughtfully, a booklet of MCs so that I could have an excuse to spend all day in bed with the aforementioned companions. My mother also chipped in with some money that will no doubt be stolen by those damned delinquents.

And now if only this accursed rain would stop. I’m feeling it in my bones already.

On newly-weds and bad breath

2006-12-07T23:23:00.000+08:00

A few days ago, I met SB on the train to work and we got around to talking about a couple, let’s call them K (the husband) and Y (the wife), from our JC days who’d just gotten married. After the usual “they’re gonna have ugly-ass children” comments which, in this case, will unfortunately be accurate, SB let me in on a theory of his.

“I have observed that newly-wed couples tend to have bad breath.” he announced.

“Huh?” I said, intelligently.

“It’s not just K and Y. It’s every newly-wed couple I’ve met this year. Their breath stinks.”

“I wonder why.”

“I mean, they can’t all possibly have decided to stop brushing their teeth after marriage, right?”

Which is when inspiration struck.

“Perhaps, it might have something to do with a number.” it was my turn to announce.

“Eh… what?”

“You know… THAT number. After all, what do newly-weds do the most?”

*nervous laughter*

“Don’t be disgusting.” he finally managed to mutter.

“That means that all the time you were talking to K,” I edged him towards the abyss “you were actually smelling Y’s…” and pushed.

“Fuck!”

“Exactly!”

An excerpt from the novel I couldn’t be arsed to finish

2006-12-05T00:57:00.000+08:00

With NaNoWriMo over, I guess I might as well publish some of what little I wrote. You might like to know that the story revolves around a whistler named Charles who somehow winds up trying to get laid in Africa. I don’t know if he’ll be successful or not quite simply because I haven’t written that part yet. This excerpt is taken from quite near the beginning where Charles is about to perform a gig with a rock band.

“The Dachshund is a pub five walking minutes away from where Charles lived. It was originally founded in 1936 as The Greyhound and occupied a whole terrace house along with a vast yard which was quickly turned into a massive outhouse. Wherever there was a tree, you could count on there being a man facing it, usually accompanied by the sound of running water. This was put to an end in 1939 by a massive fire started by someone who had the ill-conceived notion that a vodka fight would be fun. Naturally, The Greyhound was burnt to a crisp within three hours.

However, just two months later, it was reopened as The Weimaraner, the name of a German breed of hunting dog that also gave the pub the added distinction of sounding like a sailor with a heavy bladder. Ironically, this was ended in 1941 when a German bomb landed squarely on its roof which was, perhaps also ironically, painted with the Union Jack.

It then returned as The Border Collie which was killed by a lightning strike, The Pit Bull which was flattened when an oak tree collapsed on it, The English Foxhound which was bombed by the IRA and then finally The Dachshund, which the current owner hoped sounded too cute and, being a sausage shaped dog, too ludicrous for anything calamitous to befall it.

The band was just warming up when Charles stepped in. In their younger days, they had idolised Kiss and with the help of a thesaurus and an impressive lack of imagination had decided to call themselves The Smooches. It was the front man of The Smooches who now attempted to chest bump Charles, who promptly fell over.

And there. It’s crap, I know, but I had hell of a lot of fun writing it. Until the couldn’t be arsed part, that is.

Medical Appointments

2006-11-28T22:48:00.000+08:00

As some of you know, my AS condition demands that I go for a medical check-up every three months or so. What basically happens during these appointments is that I go to the hospital and wait twenty minutes so that my doctor can stand behind me, ask me to bend over and exclaim “Yes, yes. That’s very good.” Other than being a waste of time, this is also mildly damaging to my psychological health, what with me not being the type to bend over in the presence of male company. Actually, make that any company.

And then there’s the blood test or Procedure 12 as they like to call it. This actually happens before I go in to see my doctor but, hey, it’s always nice to start with a slightly gay-ish story, isn’t it? So anyway, despite the LED display, my number is shrieked out and I trot in to have my arm punctured while some middle-aged woman looks at my blood test forms, tells me what my own name is and then proceeds to expound on how many monikers start with the letter “J”.

“Joshua, Jimmy, Joseph, Jasper…” she rattles away as the first Vacutainer starts to fill. “Jean, Jackson, Janice…” and she seamlessly slots the second one in. “Jacob, Justin, Jacqueline, Jasmine, hmmm… Ok. Press and hold.” and she covers the wound with cotton wool.

It seems apt to point out here that I like watching my blood splutter into the vial. It’s fulfilling in the way that popping zits is fulfilling. Don’t ask me why. Do note, however, that this is different from the way one of my exes claims that she enjoys injections. That is just plain madness from someone who used to cut herself for fun.

And so, with the blood taken and the inspection done, it’s time to pay and there’s this one particular nurse whom I can’t stand. Not only does she refuse to smile, she insists on addressing me as “the patient” while constantly staring at her blasted monitor. “Would the patient like to pay by NETS?” “Would the patient like to have a morning appointment?” “Would the patient like to tell me to sod off?” YES, THE PATIENT WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOU TO SOD OFF!

And that’s about it really. Every thirteen weeks, I get put through this treatment so the next time any of you see me stumbling about all pale-faced and irritable, I suggest you be a pal and buy me some tea.

A Clockwork Orange

2006-11-24T13:17:00.000+08:00

I have finally finished Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman and started on A Clockwork Orange which really is like taking a jovial jaunt in a meadow and then running into a cliff. Compared to Murakami’s economical, simple use of language, Burgess’s writing sometimes feels obscure and impenetrable. All this is intentional, of course. A Clockwork Orange is written from the point of view of the protagonist/narrator Alex and his unique lexicon or Nadsat, as Burgess calls it, consists of various words derived from Russian. So droog means friend, litso means face, horrorshow means good, viddy means to see, devotchka refers to a woman and so on. A typical sentence would thus read:

“From inside this malenky cottage I could slooshy the clack clack clacky clack clack clackity clackclack of some veck typing away, and then the typing stopped and there was this chelloveck’s goloss calling: ‘What is it, dear?’”

And then there’s the sheer insanity of the violence. Rape and pillage just for the fun of it is quite unbearable and every time Alex’s gang encounters a would-be victim, my stomach tightens ever so slightly. Yet, despite this, and also despite the fact that I know the plot and the ending and the ultimate message, I still can’t stop turning the pages. Alex’s speak may be incomprehensible at first but there comes a point when it abruptly becomes almost second nature and all of a sudden you find yourself in his world, thinking in his terms; in other words, you become a brother, as he likes to call the reader.

Few books have gotten me so involved and this one is really something special. Alex’s indifference to the “ultra-violence” he inflicts on others leaves one both maddened and sympathetic. But beyond the emotional aspect, Burgess leaves little literary jewels scattered here and there. I simply cannot forget this line from Alex as he takes in a violin concerto, of all things, in his room:

“Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh.”

Of course, as he gets ever more entranced by the beauty of the music, the images that fill his mind get ever more violent. And therein lies the contradiction.

And that’s where I’ve stopped. More later. Maybe.

When novel writing fails, go buy some new ones

2006-11-19T23:19:00.000+08:00

My novel seems to have stalled. I’ve been stuck at the 6,000 word mark for the past two weeks and it doesn’t look like I’m gonna be writing much more. Charles, my professional whistler character, will remain unlaid in Africa. Which really is quite a sucky position to be stuck in but he’ll just have to be patient till the next NaNoWriMo when I get my act together.

Of course, I have my… umm… reasons. Like being caught in the middle of brainstorming for a major new campaign for 2007 for a major client. And the pitch that really wasn’t a pitch except that it was, just not in a creative sort of way. And the fact that I have been feeling somewhat enervated of late which has made me crave sleep more than anything else, including writing on this blog. Note that I am not giving excuses, I’m just saying that it’s not my fault.

On the brighter side, I did manage to make it down to the Penguin warehouse sale today thanks to a tip-off from Yvonne. As a reward, she got dragged down to the Expo with me where our eyeballs promptly fell out. The books were laid out on huge tables like so much fish at a market and everywhere people were picking and flipping and choosing. Beholding such a sight was, quite frankly, magical for people like us and we descended upon the rows of tomes with vigour. Until ten minutes later, that is, when I found my eyes telling me to “Stop soon or we’ll make a run for it" and Yvonne starting doing spontaneous jigs. The thing about two reading aficionados heading down to a book sale is that we both kept picking out books that the other party already had. So there was a lot of “Hey, I have this already” and “Don’t buy that, I’ll lend it to you” and “Oei, I brought this book for you today lar”.

Anyway, here’s my disappointingly short list of scores (all for just the mind-bogglingly miniscule sum of fifty bucks!):

The End of Faith – Sam Harris

Not Quite the Diplomat – Chris Patten

Long Way Round – Ewan McGregor & Charley Boorman

Most of Us Are Here Against Our Will – David Levinson

Making Friends with Hitler – Ian Kershaw

A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess

How to Be Good – Nick Hornby

Add to these Vanessa’s Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman which I have yet to finish and the recently borrowed I Am a Cat plus the recently purchased The God Delusion and I think I’ll have enough reading material to last well into the new year. With any luck, all this literature will give me enough inspiration to write a proper novel, and this time, let’s just hope it isn’t about a professional whistler.

Noodle Nazi

2006-11-17T00:26:00.000+08:00

The famous Soup Nazi as portrayed in Seinfeld. Well, I think I just found the noodle Nazi in Singapore.

Was feeling hungry during tea break and decided to get some lor mee at the canteen near my office (and yes, Joel, I'm still eating my lor mee with bee hoon). After she prepared the order, I proceeded to pay, and then added the chopped garlic that usually accompanies it. I didn't want to overdo it, so just added a smidgin. The hawker then said "You must put it daringly", to which i replied "It's enough". (Note: the conversation happened entirely in Mandarin). She then reached out, picked up the garlic spoon, and said "I help you put", after which she scooped a huge tablespoon of garlic and plopped it into my bowl. This was followed by another spoonful of chopped spring onions, and then an attempt to add fried shallots, which i managed to turn down. Being the courteous Singaporean that I am, I thanked her and walked off to my seat before she could garnish my lor mee any more.

At my seat, I recounted what happened to my colleagues before tucking it. It tasted quite good actually, but that's because I kinda like chopped garlic. I can imagine someone being totally turned off by the sheer amount she added to my bowl. After one mouthful, I decided that it needed more vinegar. So i brought my spoon back to the stall to get some. The girl who was behind me has just gotten her order of laksa and the stallholder offered to add Laksa leaf to her bowl. The girl rejected her offer, but alas, the response was "you must add this, it's nice". And she promptly spooned out a full teaspoon of Laksa leaf into the poor girl's bowl. While all that was happening, I managed to get the vinegar I needed and escaped before I was offered anything else. I have never seen a hawker so eager to garnish everyone's noodles at her own expense. I must attempt to make her say "No noodles for you" one day.

URGENT!

2006-11-02T23:09:00.000+08:00

Please send 50,000 words now!
Explanation here.

Funny

2006-10-30T18:06:00.000+08:00

My sides were rent asunder by this .

Go-karting

2006-10-16T22:26:00.000+08:00

As resorts go, Batam probably doesn’t rank very near the top. Its beaches are dingy and have the texture of cat litter. There isn’t much night life. And, though all the hotels have pools, they might as well be filled with tar because I cut through the water like a rhinoceros.

So what does that leave us? Well, go-karting, of course.

Throughout history, it has been shown that if you put a live human in what is basically a Krispy Kreme box, give it some wheels and affix an engine filled with boiling hot oil next to its right ear, it will be thrilled and pay you lots of money for the privilege. Which is precisely what the ten of us did just last weekend.

Of course, this being Indonesia where their most notable export is the haze, we were each fitted with old helmets and pretty much nothing else. Pat’s helmet was too large and sorta hung off her head which gave her a permanently bemused look. My helmet, as you would expect, was too small which made my spectacles pop out in a manner resembling that of a snail. The rest, whose heads were normal-sized, looked fine. The asses.

And then there were the instructions which can be summarised thus: “Here, no! Hot! This, brake. This, accelerator. Go!” And we were off.

The thing about kart pedals is that they really aren’t the sensitive instruments we drivers are used to. I depressed my pedal halfway and experienced… nothing. I pushed it three quarters of the way through. Still nothing. And so I went all the way and suddenly, my head was glued to the back of my seat, my snail’s eyes were flapping in the wind and that bloody vat of oil was popping deafeningly just inches from my face.

It was exhilarating.

Naturally, the instinct to chase the person in front kicked in. And I started to reel Bryan’s girlfriend in, the ultimate goal being Pat, of course, who’d started off first.

Until she crashed.

I remember ploughing through the home straight, almost killing an attendant who was (I thought at the time) daftly running across the track, turning around to call him a nut and then seeing Pat, still looking bemused in her helmet, inexplicably facing a wall of tyres.

Thankfully, she was alright. She later commented that her crash had actually been “quite fun” and that she wanted to “do it again”. I think not, darling.

By and large, we all made it back without anyone being set on fire or losing their limbs. Andy’s legs cramped up because they were too long. Some of the girls’ legs cramped up because they were too short. One girl spun out and somehow ended up chasing her kart across a field. It was most entertaining and I richly recommend it. Just make sure your head isn’t as big as mine.

Taxi ride of death

2006-10-11T23:11:00.000+08:00

Just endured the most harrowing taxi ride ever. In just 20 minutes, I was maimed four times and killed twice. The cabbie, whom I suspect enjoys watching Speed Racer, drove at speeds which I did not know a taxi capable of. He weaved constantly in and out of traffic, missing the cars in front and on either side by mere inches. The way he turned, you’d have thought that there was nothing between the clutch and the accelerator but another accelerator. Death waited patiently for me at every corner – until the cabbie ran him over. And during one particularly close shave, I even reaccepted Christ as my supreme divine saviour. (Of course, this was quickly rescinded – no one wants to go to Heaven as a hypocrite.)

Anyway, while I was busy changing religions, the cabbie hardly blinked. He just sped on and on, diving out of one lane and into the next with unflinching ease. Once or twice, he looked in the mirror to see if I was dead and, upon discovering that I wasn’t, went even faster to ensure that I would be.

Still, for someone who was intent on killing me, he was exceedingly polite, constantly referring to me as “Sir” and asking which routes I’d like to take. I probably would have appreciated this more if the G-forces hadn’t plastered my face to the window.

I knew he was having me on, though. While taking one bend about 120km/h too quickly, he reached for the handbrake and I caught him surreptitiously looking in the rear view mirror to see if I’d gone white, which I had. And then he smiled ever so slightly. “Is that fast enough, Sirrrr? Bwahahahahahaha!" The bastard. He might’ve had his moment of glory but I will have the last laugh because, tonight, he’ll be cleaning his backseat.

A relationship in binary

2006-10-06T12:30:00.000+08:00

I haven’t seen Vanessa for almost two years now. And though we’ve been talking regularly online and her MSN pics are always smashing, for all I know, she could have turned into a 50-year-old fat man.

We’ll meet tonight though. It’s the Russell Peters show and I’ve been handed a T-shirt with the lines “I need punani. Give me two.” printed on it (Thanks for the punani, Karen!) which she’s vowed to rip off my back thus exposing my “puny frame”. (I’ll go do some push-ups in the toilet right after I finish this entry.)

Oh, and I’m supposed to pass her my Jeremy Clarkson book.

Anyway, looking back, it’s rather amazing that we’ve managed to keep talking for this long. Back when we were colleagues, we hardly spoke a word to each other. I remember that she sat at one end of the office, I sat at the other and that was about it. I think that was partly cos she was doing finance/admin (I frankly don’t know what you were doing, Nessa) and we creatives always look at money people with suspicion.

But then she left and went back to Australia to study and, somehow, being separated by a few thousand miles persuaded us to start talking. I don’t know who started it (probably me, according to her) and it was... well… fun. Finally there was someone I could talk to about books. And she’s one of the few genuinely witty girls I know (I don’t know that many girls). Oh, and she actually had an interest in writing at the time which I was constantly encouraging (Now her job title has the word ‘fiduciary’ in it. Not good. Not good.).

And so it was weird that we didn’t meet up even when she returned to Singapore. I guess she was going through a rather tumultuous time back then so we never really pursued the idea. Or maybe, as a 50-year-old fat man, she was worried about my reaction upon meeting her in the (abundant) flesh.

And that’s continued till now! We’ve discussed this before and come to the conclusion that we’ll have nothing to talk about in person and that it’ll be the most awkward moment of our lives. Like when those South Koreans got reunited with their long lost North Korean siblings and discovered, much to their dismay, that after all the pleasantries and vigorous hugging, it was impossible to sustain a conversation about Samsung with someone who only wanted to talk about growing turnips. Even worse, I very much doubt that our reunion will involve vigorous hugging of any sort.

Still, a virtual friendship is good enough. I get entertained at work and she sometimes gets to give comments on my copy. Only a few people are bestowed with this most coveted of honours – their cries of “not again” and “please stop” are merely unique ways of conveying their modesty – and she is one of the lucky them.

But like I said, we’ll meet tonight just before the show. It’s scary and I hope I have something to say even if it’s just “Oh my, you really are a 50-year-old fat man.”

Supper one night

2006-10-04T23:32:00.000+08:00

Last night, the bunch of us – Adrian, Clara, John and a few of his colleagues – went down to Little India for a dim sum supper which, when you think about it, is like going to a fish monger and asking for a rack of lamb. People are going to think you are mad.

The place was along Desker (hur hur) Road and, to get to it, we had to drive heroically through throngs of people whose sole purpose in life it was to get run over. Actually, John was doing the driving. I was doing the trying-to-be-inconspicuous-in-the-back thing. I also politely requested that he lock the doors.

Digression: As my sister has informed me, the rules of traffic in Little India involve a hierarchy of sorts. In all instances, the cow comes first. If you hit a cow in Little India, the only thing that will save you from the angry mob is if you actually turned into a cow yourself. If, for some reason, you fail to sprout an udder, chances are that you will find yourself skinny dipping in an exotic Indian dish called soup tulang (if you don’t know what that is, you can find out here at this excellent food blog).

Naturally, after the cow comes the bicycle. Often with men in dhotis perched on them, these are regularly seen swerving into oncoming traffic in what can only be described as a charmingly carefree manner. Quite why they do this is unclear but it is speculated to be related to allowing one’s ding-dings to hang free for too long.

Last in line, and particularly hard to avoid hitting, is the human being. In this part of the country, walking in a straight line is unheard of and pushing your pal jocularly into the path of a speeding automobile is seen as a suitable way of reinforcing your friendship. If he survives, he can then further strengthen this budding relationship by trying to convert you into a speed bump. As is often depicted in Bollywood movies, they build strong bonds here. End of digression.

So anyway, we did finally find the place and tucked into some, well, mediocre dim sum. Normally, when you are sitting in a dingy back alley with your table right beside a big blue box labelled “HIGHLY FLAMMABLE”, you’d expect the quality of food to be at least as high as the chances of you dying a fiery death. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite worth the risk.

At least the conversation was interesting. Seems that our beloved SAF has replaced the old MILES system with something called TES. I’ve forgotten what it means but apparently it works quite well except that you have an antenna sticking out of your helmet which has the effect of turning any valiant NS man into nothing more than a gun-toting teletubby.

Actually, other than that, and some discussion on this wonderful Even Stepvhen clip (“First off, it’s not my logic, Steve, it’s God’s logic as written in the Bible, every word of which is true. And we know that every word is true because the Bible says that the Bible is true.”), I can’t remember what the hell else we talked about.

Still, I returned home in a rather buoyant mood and proceeded to not fall asleep. I think I’ll do that now.

Stop tinkering

2006-09-29T16:26:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, as with every other day, I was welcomed home by a cacophony of barking, slobbering and the pitter-patter of paws on wood. For some reason, the dog seems to think I enjoy going deaf. Or having my ankles chewed off. The noise is usually put to an abrupt halt when the cat gives her a good swat on the nose. And after the swatting last night, I picked the hound up, looked into her doleful eyes and said, “You… you are a proud descendant of the grey wolf. So why haven’t you torn the feline’s head off yet?”

It’s really the fault of us humans, though. 100,000 years ago, in a cave somewhere, someone toted the world’s first handbag and decided “Oh, how charming. Now all I need is a dog that’ll fit into this.” And thus, we pesky human beings, with our penchant for selective breeding, have reduced the majestic wolf into a sock-chewing bundle of fur.

At least we’ve left cats more or less as they were. My cat habitually leaves cockroach and gecko bits outside my door as his contribution to the family’s well-being. And then watches as I curse and throw it all down the chute. But you get the idea. Cats can hunt. You try asking a Maltese to catch its own dinner. You’d be lucky if dinner didn’t eat it first.

And we’ve gone even further with all this genetic tinkering. Already, we’ve made chickens that get so heavy so fast their legs break under all the weight. In cattle farming, there aren’t just ways to make cows gain more weight. We can even get them to fart less. And now, scientists are looking at growing meat sans the animal. They reckon that, in a few years, they’ll be able to grow meat in meat sheets and then use the stuff to produce ground meat products. Give them a bit more time and we’ll be plucking steaks from branches. All very smart but not very tasty, I’m afraid. The thought of lamb chops grown out of a Petri dish is about as tempting as having a romp with a blow-up doll.

And therein lies the problem. Things just aren’t natural anymore. I like cats in general because there’s something beautifully primal about the way they’re built. I’d like any large dog for much the same reason – they still retain some semblance of wolf-ness which I appreciate. But toy dogs, no matter how many bags you can stuff them in, are just an anomaly. Even if they’re so darn cute.

The God Delusion

2006-09-27T10:34:00.000+08:00

The latest from Richard Dawkins, this book is a must read.

More information here and here.

Seven months wasted

2006-09-25T23:30:00.000+08:00

A colleague mentioned this afternoon that he was at the Singapore Idol Final last night at the Indoor Stadium to which I remarked “Oh, I didn’t know you were a teenage girl.” Needless to say, this didn’t go down well and I watched helplessly as another bridge went up in flames.

It’s true, however, that your average Singapore Idol fanatic is female, between 12 and 17 years of age and in possession of a voice so shrill that they aren’t allowed anywhere near wine glasses. Then again, the fans of almost everything are shrill teenage girls. To make dog killing a hit with them, all you need to do is film a pooch being butchered and set it to music.

But for all their screaming and placard holding, I’m sure that even they know that this whole Singapore Idol thing is a waste of time. There really isn’t any market for English music here especially when it’s trite, commercial rubbish.

Sure, the winner gets his 15 minutes of fame, cuts his first album, gets forced to sing in all those roadshows, endures even more screaming fans and then what? To give you a clue, my boss’s suggested method of picking the winner is simply to see who looks best holding a Big Gulp. Because that’s all we’ve seen the previous winner do.

And why does 7-Eleven bother to advertise anyway? I don’t go there cos “It’s a store and more”. I certainly don’t go there cos some guy who can’t sing is holding a Big Gulp and smiling. I go there because it’s 3am and, dammit, I need a beer.

The bottom line is this – it doesn’t matter who all these screaming people vote as Singapore Idol. By this time next year, they’ll all be screaming for someone else.

To hell with the books. I'm getting a smartphone.

2006-09-13T14:36:00.000+08:00

It’s official. My mother is a geek. “But that’s impossible” you might say. Well, does your mother own a Dopod? And a Dopod 900 at that. Windows Mobile 5, QWERTY keyboard, WiFi connectivity and I can’t remember what the hell else that phone contains. Suddenly, my crummy old Nokia 7250, which I’ve been looking at with growing distaste the last couple of months, looks even older and crummier. Its features include the call function which I suppose is pretty modern if you look at it from the perspective of an anthropologist. What’s more, instead of surfing porn on-the-go, I can work my hands in much healthier ways with wholesome family games such as Bounce and Triple Pop. Or else I could choose to do vigorous arithmetic with the calculator function.

Of course, watching my mother use her new device, its drawbacks have become obvious. For one, it is far too big for any of her hands or even any of her handbags. I also suspect that the only way for anyone to use it successfully as a phone would be to have a face as big as mine. And it’s far too heavy as well. Weighing in at 285g, she might need to transport it around in a trolley.

Still, the undeniable truth is that my mother - a middle-aged woman who refuses to learn how to use an oven and who once ingeniously plugged a USB cable into a parallel port - is now more gadget-y than me. To hell with the books then. I’m getting a smartphone.

2006-09-13T10:21:00.000+08:00

This morning on the train, a girl wearing the exact same Fabrick T-shirt I had on walked in and stood beside me. It would’ve been the perfect opportunity for romance had I not thought “Man, that’s a nice T on a not so nice girl” and looked away.

Let's all be suits

2006-09-12T17:39:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, one of my colleagues suggested that today be “Client Servicing Day” which means that all the creatives had to come dressed like suits. My initial plan was to disregard this waste of time but I was told not to “outcast myself” and further warned in the morning via SMS (by my Creative Director, no less) that “If you aren’t dressed up, be prepared for consequences. Heh heh heh.” Hence, I am now glaring at my laptop decked in a black shirt, jeans and sneakers that don’t match.

I think shirts are one of the worst things mankind has ever come up with (along with the enema). Firstly, there are way too many buttons on the damn things. Invariably, I get all the way to the bottom and then realise that I’ve missed one out which means I have to unbutton and button everything only to realise once again that I’ve missed one out. Repeat ad nauseam. Secondly, the collar grates against my neck incessantly which leads to “Redneck Syndrome”. This explains the fact that every time I put on a shirt, I get the hots for my cousin. Lastly, shirts are incapable of absorbing sweat. And in the wonderfully humid-as-the-inside-of-a-pair-of-diapers weather we have here, that is a no-no because sweat dribbling down your back and into your nether regions is neither titillating nor hygienic.

Still, my colleagues have been very enthusiastic about the whole thing. The dude who made the foul suggestion came dressed in a full shirt, pants, tie outfit which was very impressive. This was compounded by the fact that he usually wears just a thin T-shirt, floppy jeans and slippers. We even took pictures. I won’t post them here because some of them show me with my finger in my mouth. Not good for reputation but, hey, they wanted a funny pose.

NUS Revisited

2006-09-12T15:55:00.000+08:00

Pat and I went down to NUS for a visit on Friday. Having not been back in almost three years, this was a momentous occasion that I wanted to blog about. Except that I’d already done so. Here.

Steve Irwin (1962 – 2006)

2006-09-04T22:10:00.000+08:00

Earlier this afternoon, Steve Irwin was killed in a freak accident while filming. He was 44.

I remember that when I first saw Steve Irwin on TV, I found him comical almost to the point of being irritating. He had the heaviest Aussie accent I’d ever heard and it didn’t help that he had to go “Crikey” every now and then. But then I saw him tackle crocodiles, snakes, spiders and lions – basically any animal that you and I would do well to steer clear of – and I found myself hooked because every time I turned on the TV, I’d be wondering “Crikey, what’s he gonna do now?”

Adding to the entertainment was the fact that, for a crocodile hunter, Steve Irwin wasn’t agile by any stretch of the imagination. I remember an episode where he jumped on top of a croc only to end up looking more like a hapless koala perched on an angry tree with teeth and claws than a trained wildlife expert. And the time he went thrashing after a snake in the marshlands and succeeded only in single-handedly displacing the entire river. But what Steve Irwin lacked in bodily grace, he more than made up for with his enthusiasm. There was the trademark bear stance he adopted when circling snarling crocs, that glint in his eye that the camera would catch ever so often and, of course, the way he could rattle off obscure facts about each and every animal he encountered while simultaneously keeping out of harm’s way.

In Steve Irwin, the world had its Crocodile Hunter and it’s almost impossible to believe that such a torrent of passion and zeal could be so irrevocably silenced. Perhaps that’s why I and countless others are so saddened by his passing. In his own way, he’d touched us all.

So here’s to you, Steve. Who’d have thought that catching crocodiles could mean so much?

Crocs

2006-09-01T09:30:00.000+08:00

Eric Cantona once said “When seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea.” The universal reaction to this was “WTF?” which is just about how I feel about Crocs.

If you haven’t noticed, people of all ages have been strolling around our shopping malls bedecked in these… well… foot-things. It’s as if ugly has become the new black. Everywhere, left feet are laughing at right feet and vice versa until they pass a shoe mirror whereupon they both start sweating despite the “breathing” quality of the Crocs they’re in.

And to make things worse, Crocs come in almost every colour. This would normally be a good thing if not for the unfortunate fact that no Croc-wearer in the world has any sense of colour coordination whatsoever. I’ve seen people dressed in black shirts, black pants and oh-my-god-are-those-yellow-Crocs. I once tried to help someone like that cross a street because I assumed he was blind.

And then there are those who like red Crocs. Frankly, they might as well be walking around in a pair of placentas because they rank almost the same on the scale of all things distasteful. Sure, red is a hot colour and on a pair of stilettos, it says “I’m so passionate, I could kill.” All it says on a pair of Crocs, however, is “I’ve got the fashion sense of Elton John. And I would like some hot gay sex.”

If nothing else, your ad should at least be funny.

2006-08-23T22:19:00.000+08:00

So cheers to whoever wrote this little gem and got away with it.

Via Adrants. Here’s the permalink.

2006-08-22T13:21:00.000+08:00

On Saturday night, I finally parallel parked properly, tucking Rodney expertly between two cars, albeit after some wriggling. Thus, it was with much anguish and a certain sense of injustice that I plucked the summons from between the wipers two hours later. So the car wasn’t actually parked in a parking lot. So it took up one lane on a two-lane, two-way road. So there was a no parking sign somewhere. Whatever happened to the appreciation of good motoring? How could the warden have failed to notice how dead centre Rodney was between the front and back cars? Or how he was precisely 8.1 inches from the curb? Or how the front wheels were shrewdly turned outwards to allow for an easier exit?

Little things count for a lot. And had the warden taken the time to just stand back and consider the artistic merit on display, I’m sure he/she would’ve had second thoughts. That’s what we need, Singapore. We need to learn to look at things for what they should be, not for what they are. We need to be able to look at the fat bird statue along the Singapore River and say, “this is an extremely creative impression of the result of too much birdseed” and not something like “Wah, bui jiao”. By extension, our traffic wardens need to see illegal parking not as illegal parking but as the culmination of the complex neural processes that make possible the hand-eye-mouth coordination needed to look between three mirrors while turning a plastic wheel furiously and yelling for everyone to shut the hell up at the same time.

Er… and that’s it.

Parallel Parking Shame

2006-08-16T15:00:00.000+08:00

Whoever invented parallel parking lots ought to be shot. Not because it’s a bad idea. But because I’m utterly hopeless at it. Over the weekend, due to circumstances that I cannot now remember, I was forced to park parallel-y. After seven minutes of the most furious wheel spinning and heavens cursing imaginable, I’d only managed to get the left side of Rodney into the lot. Which is where I left him.

I remarked to Nessa that in the time I’d taken to half park, some people could’ve had some sex. This led her to assume that I am an expert at quickies which I promptly denied only to have her jump to the conclusion that that must mean I am an expert in superquickies which I denied again only to have her hop on to the idea that the word “premature” can somehow be applied to me. Her brain is apparently a triple jump champion.

But no matter. I’ve done some research and parallel parking can be done in five simple steps which I will list here.

1. Stop parallel to the car in the lot in front and no more than one metre away from it.

2. Back up and turn the wheel full left when the back edge of the front car appears at the corner of your back window.

3. Look into your right wing mirror. Once both headlights of the car behind you appear in it, straighten the wheel.

4. Keep moving back till the back edge of the front car passes the corner of your front windscreen then turn the wheel full right. You should be in the lot by now.

5. Wriggle till comfy.

Pulau Ubin, here I come. Damn.

2006-07-28T00:45:00.000+08:00

Why is it that people are constantly surprised that I have never been to Pulau Ubin in my life? Is that a place everyone must visit at some point? Exactly what is the attraction of landing on your head after you’ve been flung off your bicycle or jumping off a quarry cliff only to be intercepted before you hit the water by a pleasant outgrowth of rock?

And yet, every single time I tell someone “Ah, I’ve never been to Ubin” their faces contort such that their eyebrows almost touch and they let out this wail of surprise as if I’d just told them that I like to spend my afternoons plucking bits out of babies. The asses.

And so what if I like to spend my afternoons plucking bits out of babies?

Alas, the day has finally arrived. Tomorrow, this blogger will be shipped together with a few other unwilling participants over to that wretched island. Oh no, we haven’t been enrolled in some OBS course. No, that would be unthinkable. We’re just going there to take some pictures and try to produce a nice brochure but that’s bad enough. Danger lurks everywhere on that island. All over the place there are bicycles careening back and forth, people jumping off cliffs and a certain breed of human for whom “belay” has some alternative meaning other than the past tense of “belie”. It takes a brave man to survive such a place. And God, or whatever supernatural being you worship, willing, I will. Wish me luck.

Of course. The past tense of "belie" isn't really "belay". It's "belied".

Backseat drivers

2006-07-27T17:07:00.000+08:00

We’ve had Rodney for about a week. And, yes, Jean, I have ridden him; the whole family has. This isn’t any lewd reference to a daisy chain though! Just thought I needed to clarify that. Anyway, ten seconds into my maiden drive, I managed to mount a kerb, much to the consternation of my sister. But what does she know about drifting, even if it’s just out of a carpark.

If there’s one thing I’ve learnt with all this driving, it’s that backseat drivers are, like genital warts, irritating as hell. I’ve been told to “go slower” while travelling at a measly 60km/h, banned from the rightmost lane because it is “stressful” to drive there (for whom I wonder), and commanded not to turn so close to the divider. The adjectives “scary”, “reckless” and “dangerous” have all been applied liberally when I’ve been at the wheel. Not a minute goes by without some warning being issued or some gory scenario being illustrated or someone telling someone else to basically shut up. You know how you often read about drivers who crash and only manage to kill the people at the back? Those aren’t accidents. They’re solutions.

Unfortunately, I haven’t yet mastered the fine art of losing my backend and swinging it into a tree. The last thing I wanna do is yell “Die, you vapid halfwits!”, twist the wheel and impale myself on a branch. So, for now at least, if you see a red Swift crawling along in lane 4 of the CTE at 55km/h, do me a favour and crash into my rear. Hard.

An Interview with Dr Chee

2006-07-12T12:27:00.000+08:00

Oftentimes, Dr Chee Soon Juan comes across as a raving lunatic. But this interview reveals his philosophy and his concerns about Singapore’s future, many of which are very valid. Whether or not Singaporeans will warm to his brand of politics remains to be seen but surely one has to respect his dedication to the cause. I certainly see him in a different light now, even if I still don’t think he should be quite as confrontational.

P.S. I don’t know how long this article will stay free but I have a soft copy which I’ll gladly mail to anyone interested.

Sesamin and Schisandra

2006-07-11T17:28:00.000+08:00

“Do you have the picture of Sesamin and Schisandra?” I overheard one of my colleagues asking someone else. Quite naturally, my brain started to fill with images of two beautiful women frolicking in a bathtub (I will accept no argument on this). And so I scrambled over to his desk in the hope of catching a glimpse of what I imagined would be May and Choy scrubbing each other down. Except that it wasn’t May or Choy or anything remotely feminine. It was a bottle of health pills.

And so I asked him why it wasn’t two women in the bath together and he said he didn’t know. Then someone else said he ate Sesamin and Schisandra regularly and I laughed heartily and said “Ate?!” and laughed some more. So he proclaimed me an idiot and that was that.

Ok. Back to work.

Daisy chains

2006-06-23T18:04:00.000+08:00

A daisy chain refers to sexual relations between three or more people, with each person both performing and receiving oral sex simultaneously.

I did not previously know the meaning of this phrase. What a marvellous concept. It’s the epitome of a win-win situation. Not some crummy old “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours” compromise. It’s more like “I scratch your back while you scratch, oil up and massage mine”. Politicians should think like that more.

“Hey George, you do me, I do you, and we can both screw France.”

Or something like that.

Of course, daisy chain has many other meanings such as…well… a chain made up of daisies. Or a series of connected events. But come on, what are you gonna be thinking when someone tells you she’s just made a daisy chain? Pistils? Such are the trappings of the human mind.

Career Limiting

2006-06-21T10:33:00.000+08:00

Here’s a handy tip. If your MD’s name is Earl, on no account should you ever ever start an email to him with “Hey Early”. I’ll start packing my box now.

Rodney

2006-06-16T16:33:00.000+08:00

We’ve ordered a red Suzuki Swift. For what we were willing to pay, it’s just about the only car that I won’t look like a prick in. And yes, I realise that the Swift isn’t really swift. It’s, at best, languid. But at least it’s got more horsepower than a Picanto. Actually, a shopping cart has more horsepower than a Picanto.

Anyway, since it’s a not-so-swift Swift, we’re gonna call it “Rodney”. Don’t ask me why. It just feels like one. You know… short, slightly tubby and with huge booming voice. Or something like that.

One more thing. Rodney will be a weekend car. Which means that you’ll still find me sulking on the train with my face in someone’s armpit. Gah.

2006-06-14T10:14:00.000+08:00

I slept at 10.30pm last night hoping to catch the Brazil Croatia game. At 3am, the alarm clock duly goes off. I lumber to the living room, turn on the TV, sit on the couch and fall asleep. At 5.30am, I wake up, look at the clock, yell “fuck”, lumber back to bed and fall asleep. Screw the World Cup.

Power quote:
(After Ahn scores for Korea against Togo)
“Cometh the hour, cometh the Ahn.”

Vote for us or vote for us.

2006-06-01T10:46:00.000+08:00

This was reported by Channel News Later on Tuesday.

PM Lee said: "Many of those who voted for the opposition in fact want a PAP government, but I respect their choice.”

Erm… and those who voted for the PAP in fact wanted a PAP government. I see where this is going. Whether you voted for us or not, you voted for us. And we respect that choice! Great way to earn a strong mandate, methinks.

By the way, mandate is such a gay word. And the government keeps asking for a strong one no less.

We won, finally.

2006-05-31T10:06:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, we officially won that serviced apartments pitch I was complaining about incessantly a few weeks back. And the client specified that we won it because of the copy. News like that, to a somewhat down and out writer, is as good as taking a puff of something special.

Now the work begins.

But first, I gotta watch some more Stephen Colbert.

Death is overrated.

2006-05-29T15:17:00.000+08:00

Saw this in the copy sheet from a freelance writer a few months back.

“A good insurance plan can help you deal with setbacks in life such as illness, disability and death.”

And all this while I’ve been thinking that death is the end. Silly me. Why, I should sign up for that very policy right now and then when I die, I’ll just grab the money, get back on my feet and continue living my life.

And then there was another one a few weeks back in a brochure of ours.

“Can cause serious and sometimes permanent disabilities including hearing loss, paralysis, mental retardation and death.”

Well, being dead can be quite troublesome, I suppose. The general limpness and lethargy followed by the stench. That also means that if I get the aforementioned plan, I qualify for double the benefits.

24 facts about me

2006-05-18T23:46:00.000+08:00

I’ve been tagged by Jean which means I’m supposed to reveal 24 facts/things/habits about myself then tag six other people. Here goes:

1. The circumference of my head as measured from 2cm above my eyebrows is 52cm. (Yes, you bastards can laugh all you want.)

2. I have nine toe nails. My right big toe doesn’t have one because it’s been kicked out too many times during football. At least, that seems the case.

3. My dad used to be a pastor. Fell to the ways of the world, as they like to say, then crashed and burned. No big loss to the Christian community, I can assure you.

4. If I spy a fish soup stall that I’ve never tried before, chances are that I’ll try it.

5. To me, the existence of karaoke is a scourge on our planet which should be eradicated as soon as possible. This is partly because I sing like a cow.

6. Of all my girlfriends past and present, only one didn’t wear specs.

7. I listen almost exclusively to male singers.

8. I staunchly support Newcastle United in the English Premier League though it has caused me much grief in recent seasons.

9. I still have no idea what I’m doing in advertising.

10. If I could choose an alternative career, it would be that of a deep sea explorer. Not the type that dons wetsuits and scuba gear, the type who sits in a submersible and goes around trying to catch weird fish with those crane-redemption-like appendages.

11. I don’t know why I blog.

12. I can’t cycle with one hand off the handlebar for any amount of time which means that if my nose starts itching halfway through a ride, that’s the way it’s gonna stay.

13. I won’t eat prawns unless they’re fried as fritters or used in dim sum.

14. The only time I’m not sleepy is when I’m sleeping.

15. I trip over my words at times. Not because my brain is moving too quickly for my mouth but because it’s not moving at all.

16. I would like to own a VW Golf someday.

17. Thunder and lightning. Very very frightening. So my vote went elsewhere.

18. I love live music. Except if it’s in a KTV lounge. See fact #5.

19. I suck at drinking games whether it’s 5-10, dice etc. See here.

20. I play the guitar and moo to myself whenever I’m alone at home. Softly, of course.

21. I can go for months without reading a single book.

22. My best friends are those I can spend hours with without saying a word. You know who you are.

23. As far as possible, I avoid touching food with my hands – I have perfected the art of eating KFC with a fork and spoon.

24. I don’t know myself well enough cos thinking up these 24 facts was an absolute pain!

And I tag the six others on my blog list other than Jean. They don’t read my blog though. I’ll have to text them. The assholes.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad

2006-05-15T12:59:00.000+08:00

I simply remember my favourite things (many of which are on Ananova), and then I don’t feel so bad.

Such as the priest they found in a strip club.

Or Wayne Rooney.

Or this dude who paints with his dick – I’m never using the phrase “broad stroke” again.

Ok. They’re not laugh out loud funny but they sure beat killing stuff.

Fuck Up

2006-05-15T10:24:00.000+08:00

This is brilliant. The moment I post that entry on typos, I miss one in our very own recruitment ad and it goes out to print. “Applications close 19 May 2005”. Two thousand fucking five. Oddly enough, that didn’t stop people from writing in. Just as well that we weren’t hiring copywriters though I suspect we might very well soon be. Crap.

Some Typos

2006-05-11T17:27:00.000+08:00

I like typos. They make proofreading rewarding. But they can also be costly. Thus, take note that:

One must never asses a situation.

There is no such thing as an accunt executive. At least, that’s what we like to think.

Gucci doesn’t sell posh handbangs. Those can be found near my workplace.

Most companies have no need for anyone’s martial status.

One should refrain from promoting the consumption of delicious Peking fucks.

The government sector should never be referred to as the pubic service. It makes the whole thing sound decidedly hairy.

Mobile phones do not often have a handy cock display on the front.

Some digital cameras ensure clear photos but not because of their anti-sock technology.

I suppose I should have more but the dredger in my brain only goes so deep. Blasted oxtail lunch is making things rather swimmy up there.

Sick

2006-04-27T11:26:00.000+08:00

Been sick as a donkey for the past two weeks. Not that donkeys are sick. But if they were, then I’d be as sick as them. There’s been a lot of coughing and sneezing and sniffling. So much so that I had a tension headache for five days straight and only regained the ability to think in the last half hour. And it gets worse. My AS decided to act up as well. Now it feels like there’s a razor blade in my left hip which, in turn, forces me to walk in a side-to-side waddle. A place in March of the Penguins II awaits.

My main peeve though is that this is all affecting my work. I spend hours on end staring at the screen or just trying to ignore the headache. And when I get up for a breath of fresh air somewhere, I’m forced to waddle around. Most irritating I can assure you.

But at least now the headache’s almost gone and the presentation for the pitch which I was fretting about is over. Hopefully, I’ll be able to rest up over the long weekend and get some energy back. Hopefully.

We have failed. Again.

2006-04-25T10:48:00.000+08:00

Right, yes. This is rather belated. Anyway, Andy’s still happily single. There wasn’t even a whiff of romance, no spark of anything remotely chemical. Which means that eighty chicken wings and a hundred satay later, we’re all back at square one. Toughie.

Get Andy Hitched #6

2006-04-10T11:01:00.000+08:00

I wrote about Phase 1 of operation Get Andy Hitched (or GAH) a whopping one and a half years ago. Since then we’ve had four other unsuccessful attempts including two trips to Kukup throughout which the bastard resolutely remained single. With some luck though, that’s about to change. The sixth instalment of GAH gets underway on Thursday night. This time we’ve gone full circle and planned another chalet for the asshole. As usual, Junwei, the resident pimp, has the girls lined up. I don’t know where he gets them from but I’m starting to think I should’ve become an auditor instead.

Anyway, the plan is foolproof or at least Andy-proof, we hope. After multiple planning sessions at HQ, otherwise known as A-star coffeeshop, we think we’ve got it cracked. What he needs is more chances to interact with the women. Hence, we’ve planned some telematch-like games which will, at least in theory, spark something. I, of course, will take no part in such nonsense which is why I’m slugging the PS2 along. While they frolick at Wild Wild Wet or wherever, I’ll be bashing my controller, and waiting for the inevitably bad news.

But I shouldn’t be pessimistic. After all, we’ve warned Andy that making a fool of himself isn’t necessarily a good thing. Once, in Kukup, we were forced to watch in horror for a whole fifteen minutes as he tried (in vain) to set off three firecrackers simultaneously. One of his potential mates turned to me and asked “is he always like this?” I couldn’t lie. “Unfortunately…” was the heavy-hearted reply for I knew that all was lost. Then there was the time at the last chalet where he tried (in vain, once again) to get a fire going. He did this while surrounded by five females, all of whom were egging him on but in a thoroughly motherly way. I had no choice but to drown my sorrows with other people’s Heinekens.

So there. This time, the warnings have been sternly issued and things are looking good. By Saturday afternoon, Andy should be married and expecting his first child. But, of course, we’ve also warned him against getting a model girlfriend. Because then, we’d have to kill him.

Two weeks in

2006-04-06T23:15:00.000+08:00

Ah heck. Since I’m on blogger, I might as well post an update. It’s my second week at the new agency which I’ll call spice place. So far, things have been going great. It began with a baptism of fire though. On the Sunday night before I was due to start, my CD left me a message saying that he was in hospital. Then on Monday morning, after the usual introductions, I received the horrible news that there was gonna be a pitch and that I’d be the frog to hold the fort, copy-wise anyway. “Great,” I thought to myself, “My first day and already I’m gonna get fired.” But the guys turned out to be a cool bunch. Everyone chipped in with ideas and there was a whole lot more laughter than I ever heard at the previous place. In the end, I think we came up with two pretty decent concepts which, fingers crossed, will get us into the next round. Then maybe we’ll have an excuse to hop up to KL for some binging. Oh, and the presentation, of course.

2006-04-06T22:55:00.000+08:00

I was really blown away by this guy’s portfolio. The design of the site is already amazing but the thought he gives to each and every item in his book is what really sets him apart from the rest. It was so inspiring that it almost became demoralising. So take a look and you’ll start to realise what it takes to be a true creative. I know I did. Which is why I'm gonna start taking cooking lessons.

A nice surprise of hair

2006-03-22T15:18:00.000+08:00

I finally went to the salon yesterday. My shock of hair has now been trimmed to a mere startle. In fact, I think it’s bordering on a nice surprise of hair. Which actually sounds rather bad. My mother seemed pleased though. “Good,” she approved and decided to start nagging me about something else. The only reason I cut my hair was cos it was flopping all over the place. Oh, and cos certain people were pointing at my head and uttering sentences with the words “jungle”, “overgrown” and “civilisation” in them. The bastards.

The end of this road

2006-03-22T15:09:00.000+08:00

Yesterday was my last day at work. If nothing else, I’ve made a few good friends in my time at the agency. Seven months may seem short but when you’re handling crap accounts and working disastrous hours, you make buds pretty quick. Buds who got me a $100 Kino voucher (thanks!) but also buds who toiled with me, cursed with me, laughed with me, partied with me and threw away my bag of puke.

But I guess there's no point looking back. Advertising is a small industry and I’m sure I’ll meet most of them again at some point or another. For now, I’m just gonna take a much needed rest. I know the next agency won’t be much different from this one. That’s just the way it is. The grass is about the same shade of green everywhere. But I’m looking forward to making more friends like the ones I’ve made here. It’s been said that even if the work is crap, the people you meet in advertising will more than make up for it. I’d say that’s true.

We entered the cage and panted like seals

2006-03-08T19:11:00.000+08:00

It was proven last night that if you put a bunch of males in an enclosed area with a ball and anything that passes for goalposts, they will skitter around gleefully panting like seals in heat. We managed this for roughly 10 minutes before one dude was squatting down and another simply lay on the floor, no doubt taking a closer look at the fake grass.

All this stemmed from Gavin’s bright idea of playing football in The Cage yesterday. It’s really a futsal pitch except maybe a bit smaller and with an artificial grass surface. Pretty cool for a relaxing game of five-a-side. Except that we only had six players which meant it was three-a-side. Hence the panting.

There were goals galore as you’d expect from two teams blessed with divine defensive ineptitude. And all of them were tap-ins since, to make the game just a little more challenging, we were only allowed to shoot from within the penalty oval. Gavin scored a few and now thinks he’s a Football King. I hasten to add “Kong” judging from the way he flattened a few of us.

So anyway, the point of this post is to let all two of my readers know that if you fancy a bit of a pant, let me know. We play Tuesdays from 8pm to 9pm. Bring drinks and coins for the vending machines. Oh yes, and babes if you have them. We don’t wanna be wheezing testosterone without some females around, you understand.

2006-03-07T15:53:00.000+08:00

My sides were split by this for some reason. Must be too much green tea.

Oh yes. And this as well.

Boots

2006-03-06T22:00:00.000+08:00

This afternoon, I was tasked to write a headline for a pair of boots. “These are meant for the unconventional man.” the suit told me. And so I looked at the picture of one boot. And I looked some more. And my brain did a sort of Irish jig in my skull and decided that it was all an illusion and that closing my eyes would make the pain go away. But when I opened them, there it was. And again, and again, and again.

It appeared to be some type of cast. Not much different from what they’d put on you if you’d just broken your leg in two places. It also appeared to be what you’d buy if you were into cosplay and wanted to show the world how cool you looked as Rockman. How ironically perfect then that this pair of boots (and I use the term lightly) was targeted at the daring man who wanted to make a fashion statement. As far as I was concerned, the only target audience it could appeal to was blind people. No really, if this thing had appeared when we were still single-celled organisms, no creature would ever have developed eyes.

But as it is in my line of work, one must learn to look past the faults of the product and bring out the gems. Of course if there are none then, dammit, you’d jolly well find one. I have done this for phones that remind me of enemas and now I will do it for the boots. At this point though, I have only five lines. One of them is “It’s like walking around on your head.” Which it is. Because if you wore one of these out, you’d be better off with your face in the dirt.

What to expect

2006-02-23T18:31:00.000+08:00

Went down to the new agency to sign my appointment letter today and the GM gave me a brief prep talk. It’s interesting to know that he used to be a writer as well before hopping over to client services. That’s already a good start. I’ve seen agencies run by advertising ignoramuses to whom the word “concept” is as fathomable as, say, the word “eleemosynary”. They’ve managed to survive simply by repeating “integrated maah-keting communications” ad nauseam in a fake American accent. And pricing themselves way below market rate, of course. Which means they’ve gotten hold of a bunch of elite clients with no money and the combined intelligence of a wombat. But, as long as they believe they’re going somewhere, peace be with them.

Anyway, the point I wanted to make was that a discerning servicing team is absolutely crucial. In my first agency, copy-led ads were a no-no simply cos they couldn’t read. And when they did eventually choose a concept to present, it was the one we’d all agreed beforehand was the worst of the lot. This led to much pencil chewing and ancestor cursing.

Of course, in this new environment, there’ll be pressure to produce better ideas. Probably even award-winning ones which is as exciting as it is unnerving. But that’s the way it should be. I’m there to get better at what I do and I’m very aware that, right now, I have all the creative know-how of a potted plant. Hopefully, of course, with the right guidance and exposure, that potted plant will eventually bloom and bear fruit and be home to pigeons which will crap on other people’s heads.

And then there’s the issue of money. The GM was very direct when he told me that he is under no illusion that any of us are in it just for the job satisfaction. It’s all about the money. I nodded heartily at this, which was probably uncalled for. Anyway, he went on to tell me that he believes in rewarding his staff. Apparently, the outgoing writer got four increments in the space of just one and a half years which I think is brilliant. I got two increments in a year at my first agency but that was only after I’d threatened to set the CEO on fire. Twice. And yet here, they’re giving increments out like candy. I know all this may just be the sugar coating on the dungball but at least there’s a sugar coating.

And so I signed the letter gladly. Then, feeling very pleased with myself, I made my exit, found my way to the bus stop and promptly hopped onto the wrong bus. Which meant that instead of getting to Peninsular Plaza, which was my original intended destination, I found myself fidgeting and muttering at Hougang Interchange. Somehow,and despite another brief setback in the form of a flash downpour, I eventually made it back to the office. So now I’m wet, cold, and smelling like a cow. But at least there’s something to look forward to.

2006-02-21T11:20:00.000+08:00

“We walked past cunts just now.” she said. “Er… well… ahh… Cunts? I suppose there were a few around.” I stammered, pointing at a few women. “Han’s lar! Not cunts!” she screamed and swatted me like a fly.

Boggle

2006-02-20T10:16:00.000+08:00

I know it's horribly boastful but look at this! The nick’s “I own a Bentley”, by the way. Hint: It’s at the top.

Yes, I am a boggling god. Or is it boggle god? Until the very next round, that is, when Jamie beat me flat and deflated my head. She’s the face type thing at number one.

Dilemma

2006-02-17T18:08:00.000+08:00

I’ve had my interview earlier than expected. He called me at three-ish and so I hopped down to this place called Sports Ballz. Yes. Ballz with a “z”. And we had a chat. He’s keen on taking me on and I, in turn, would relish working with him. The problem is that the salary he’s offering is substantially lower than what I asked for. So the question now is whether I should hold out for a better offer somewhere else or take this chance to work with someone I really believe can be a good mentor. Right now, I'm more inclined to take the plunge but still there's lots of thinking to be done over the weekend again. This time, however, I’d be more than glad to.

Two-line Friday

2006-02-17T16:09:00.000+08:00

It’s Friday and I have resolved to do as little work as I can possibly get away with. Thus far, I have written a grand total of two lines and am feeling rather pleased with myself. In fact, as I write this, I’m enjoying a steaming hot cup of tea. Very much in the English way except that it’s…er… xiang pian and not Earl Grey. And I have no crumpets or fresh cream.

Actually, tea isn’t the ideal drink for me. It goes in at one end and comes out the other in the space of roughly 6 and a half minutes. I’d be better off just pouring the whole cup down the urinal. But that defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? Besides, drinking tea makes me feel like I’m doing something good for my body. What with all the anti-oxidants and cholesterol lowering properties it’s touted to have. If I carry on this way, I’ll outlive all of my grandchildren who will doubtlessly grow up on a diet of fast food and soot.

Speaking of the future, this vid is cool stuff. With all those hand motions, though the next generation will still die young, they’ll at least be good fun on Mambo night.

Interview over a pint

2006-02-17T00:26:00.000+08:00

I have an interview tomorrow. And though my stomach is supposed to be filled with fluttery, colourful, six-legged things and my mouth should be twitching involuntarily, I am surprisingly calm. So calm, in fact, that I’ve just woken up in a puddle of drool with creases on my face.

I wonder why there’s no fluster this time. Maybe it’s cos I sorta know my interviewer. Or maybe I’ve simply had too many interviews, all of which have just been a matter of saying hello to the boss and then handing over my portfolio. But this one’s a little different. We won’t be meeting in his office, or mine, or the coffeeshop downstairs. We’ll be meeting in a pub.

I don’t know about you but I’ve never been interviewed in a pub before. It’s like eating duck with chocolate sauce. Just doesn’t really feel right. And how on earth is he gonna read my copy in that type of lighting? I have half the mind to go over all the words now in luminous ink. But that’ll just make him think my book’s a Halloween party or Boy George’s face.

One more thing about being interviewed in a pub – small talk. You order a Heineken, he orders a Stella. You pass him your book and you take a few nervous sips. He, being busy with your book, doesn’t touch his beer. When he’s done, he closes your folder and hands it back to you with a smile. You smile back and place it in your bag. THEN WHAT?! There’re two pints of beer to finish up, mind you. Talk about your “passion” for advertising? Ask him about his family? Tell him that you have a dog and a cat and that dog poo and cat poo are actually like chalk and cheese?

I am absolutely rubbish at small talk. Don’t ask me why. I just can’t do it which pretty much screws up my networking opportunities. I’m amazed at how some people can introduce themselves to you and not 15 minutes later reveal the size of their mum’s undies or some other obscure fact. It’s horrifying.

But wait. Back to my interview. Yes. I am totally unprepared but heck. If it happens it happens. If not, then I’ll just muck about where I am for a bit longer. Right now, I just need a good list of small talk topics.

Sense belongs in the bin

2006-01-20T13:08:00.000+08:00

Chinese New Year is coming and, as with every year, my mother has decreed that a spring-cleaning is in order. I, frankly, would rather be digging my ear and eating what I find than engaging in mopping, scrubbing, sweeping and wiping every single object/surface in the house. Heck, I would even rather be writing copy. Or listening to the Backstreet Boys.

But it seems there is no escape. The steely glint of determination in her eyes is already blinding me. Whenever this mood takes her, she gets her way sooner or later. And, this Saturday, she will.

But really, it’s not so much the cleaning that bothers me. It’s the endless quality checks. To me, a house is clean as long as there are no dustballs flitting around. To her, you must be able to eat off the floor and, even then, it’d require just another three rounds of mopping.

Even worse, she has been proclaiming that she is going to “throw a lot of stuff away this year” about once every 15 seconds since two weeks ago. This is deeply frightening. It means that my entire CD collection is in peril. And my MASK^TM toys. Then there’s my collection of dusty books and my Dragonball comics from 1-42.

Of course, I could counter this by suggesting that she throw away that ridiculously huge steamer that she uses once every decade. Or the dog (“we don’t need that dirty wet rug”), or all the furniture in my room which is the wrong side of 50 years old and creaks if I so much as breathe on it.

But no, those things will survive. Instead, we will be hurling stuff like the Barenaked Ladies or that Dragonball episode where Goku squares off with Vegeta down the chute. It makes no sense. But then, neither does tradition.

Football caused me to smell a cat's ass

2006-01-06T12:54:00.000+08:00

I played football on Monday. That means four days have since passed and still I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Literally every single part of my anatomy is hurting. Muscles I never knew I had have decided that it’s time they got in touch with good old Mr Brain up there. And so my grey matter has been inundated with messages including one from that muscle situated in the outpost on the underside of my fourth toe which simply read “Ow”.

It is utterly impossible to walk around without looking like a prick. As I stumbled to the toilet the other day, someone asked me in a hushed, sinister voice, “Are you on DRUGS?” I replied in the negative as best I could and then careened through the toilet door like a quarterback, no doubt confirming her suspicions.

My initial plan for the week was to jog on Wednesday. However, considering that most of my muscle mass now consisted of mango pudding, I decided to just think about it vigorously, which is more tiring than most of you might imagine. Last night, however, in a moment of complete lunacy, I attempted to do pushups. As I got down on all fours, my body did its best to remind me of my fragile state. My joints creaked like rusty swings and the mango pudding wobbled all over the place. Still, I persevered and with vein-popping effort, lowered myself to the ground whereupon everything gave way and, for a moment, I found my body supported solely by my face.

“No biggie,” I thought after detaching my cheek from the wood panelling, “Just a matter of trying again.” Which I did… to much the same effect. The only benefit that came out of all this were the assertions that (a) my floor needed cleaning, (b) that I could achieve this simply by rolling around and that (c) I had not the strength to do so.

And so I lay there in a heap of dust looking as spent as a horny donkey during which time the cat came to check if I was dead and, upon discovering that I wasn’t, decided that I would like to smell his ass. And then after that, things just got too ugly to describe.

2005-12-28T18:03:00.000+08:00

I’m writing this entry to take a break from… er… writing. Anyway, just finished tidying up some ridiculously prolix brochure for some ridiculously soporific IT client. I recently learnt these words (I’m sure you know which ones) so bear with me. This coming hot on the heels of a mobile phone brochure I had to work on over the Christmas weekend followed by some case study to be done over the New Year weekend. Apparently, in this agency, “holiday” simply means working from home rather than in the office. But like all profit-driven organisations, this is just their way of “maximising productivity” and “optimising cost-efficiency”. Ah… the joy of using words that have more than their fair share of syllables. In fact, I’m pretty sure that if I hadn’t been forced to adopt the IT tone of voice, and been allowed to use the words “cheap” and “good” more often, that damned brochure would’ve been half its length. But no point being bitter. What’s done is done. There actually came a point where I CTRL-Ced the word “efficiency” just so I could CTRL-V it in the appropriate thousand or so places. Now, that’s what I call true efficiency.

I just realised that this entry will make no sense to anyone who hasn’t read IT stuff. Good for you then.

26 and counting.

2005-12-20T17:46:00.000+08:00

Turned 26 whopping years old over the weekend so congratulations to me for surviving yet another year. Special thanks must go to Pat for the wonderful weekend and also the Borders voucher. I will now proceed to drive my mother crazy by adding even more books to my non-existent bookshelf. Thanks also to those of you who remembered my birthday and chose to wish me well through the wonderfully inexpensive means of SMS and MSN. And also not forgetting those of you who said I still look 18. Nice try. I will try to convince the lot of you of the same when it’s your turn. Right about now, I should launch into some philosophical rant about how I may be older but none the wiser etc but I won’t. I have better things to write; like this blasted brochure.

Dear cad,

2005-12-09T10:41:00.000+08:00

It could all have been so beautiful, you and her. But no, you had to go and screw everything up. Probably like what you’ve done to most things worth treasuring in your life.

It’s a simple fact. Gambling isn’t for the ill-disciplined. And it certainly isn’t for bums without an income. You didn’t realise that, did you? And so you went and blew thousands of dollars on something as trivial as a football match without any means of settling your own debts. Then what did you do? You went and begged her to bail your sorry ass out. She did. Of course she did. She’s always been there for you.

Sure, you’ve got a job now, you might argue. But where’s all the money going to? Paying up your debts to other people, that’s where. So much so that you’ve got nothing left for yourself and guess whom you’re living off once again. Guess who’s there to pay for your food, drink and entertainment.

But that’s not the real problem. We all make mistakes after all. The real problem is refusing to learn from them. The real problem is biting the hand that’s trying to haul you up from the shithole you’ve dug yourself into. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing, you dense bastard.

Alright, you’ve been betting in smaller amounts. I’ll give you that. But surely even you understand that unless the habit is stamped out completely, there’s always the chance that it will come back to take over your life once again. This is especially true for someone with a will as malleable as yours.

And to compound your general failure as a decent human being, there’s your treatment of her. So far, she’s been your safety net both emotionally and financially. But how have you repaid her? Is being a paranoid, possessive asshole your idea of gratitude? Is throwing tantrums when she stays out a bit later or verbally abusing her over the most trivial of matters your means of saying thank you?

All this just reflects your deep-seated insecurity. You know that just about any other guy on the street can give her more happiness than you can ever dream of. You’re worried that one of these days, she may just see you for all that you are. And then she’ll be gone. But so what? That just means you’ll have to find someone else to lean on. Not a problem for the likes of you.

You aren’t, however, solely to blame for her suffering. It’s partly her fault as well because no matter what you throw at her, she keeps coming back to fight another round. You can tell her to “fuck off” in the morning, make some useless apology in the evening and she’ll be back by your side only to endure another tirade a few days later. Perhaps she’s hoping that this time will be different. Perhaps she’s thinking sooner or later you will change for the better. But people like you don’t change, do you? It’s a personality disorder. All you do is leach off other people and leave them torn and tattered by the roadside.

There is a ray of light, however. And that is that, finally, she’s tiring. Finally, she’s talking of giving up. Every time you fell her with one of your nonsensical outbursts, she’s taking longer and longer to beat the count. It may takes months or even years but one day, she won’t get up. One day, she will “fuck off” like you told her to and never come back. And on that day, we will celebrate because it will be the best day of her life.

Sin City

2005-12-07T18:18:00.000+08:00

My agency’s D&D is tonight. The theme for this year is “Sin City” which means that all and sundry are supposed to turn up dressed as pimps, whores, sluts, gigolos and a range of other characters who habitually insert or have things inserted into them. Therefore, a large proportion of my colleagues will have to procure costumes that reveal various lumps of flesh while others will simply arrive as themselves. To further fan the flames of debauchery, we have each received a party pack consisting of a condom, a pair of handcuffs, a single latex glove (doctor, doctor?) and a pamphlet on some STD. Though really, copious amounts of alcohol is all it takes.

And the mirth continues.

2005-12-06T14:41:00.000+08:00

My colleagues still haven’t stopped laughing at me. I was reminded today that I had in fact produced TWO bags of vomit in the cab; one which I carted merrily home and another which had to be tied up and disposed of very carefully by Sabrina, to whom I am now dearly indebted. And apparently there are pictures. Man, do I hate technology now. The one I’ve seen so far is of a girl standing over my slumped-on-coffeeshop-table-self looking mightily happy, as if I was a deer she’d just shot. Don’t worry, there will be no posting of that shot here, ever.

Joe gets smashed.

2005-12-05T23:08:00.000+08:00

My colleagues have been making fun of me all day. The pricks. So I got somewhat tipsy on Friday night (Ok, maybe totally smashed is more accurate). So I fell asleep on a coffeeshop table. So I wobbled in the arms of another man for a bit. So I puked in a taxi. Still, that’s no excuse to start a briefing with “Rough ride home, eh?”

I have a vague recollection of what happened. It was a drinking game. I should have known better. Drinking games are to me what football is to Titus Bramble, what singing is to Celine Dion and what elections are to my dear government. In other words, I am not very good at them. And so, on Friday night, a causal relationship was conclusively proven, namely that drinking games = Joel gets comprehensively and utterly wasted.

I remember somehow making it to my room, plopping down my bag of vomit which I’d inexplicably decided to spend the night with, and collapsing gratefully on my bed. It was just as well that the dog was asleep or else, had she come charging out barking like a lunatic, I’d surely have defenestrated (Look, Nessa! I used the poseur word!) the vile hound.

Now, the only thing worse than being completely drunk is waking up the morning after, which I did with a start. Where was I? What were these colourful things floating all around me? Why did the whole place smell like the inside of a whale? All meaningful questions which were left unanswered because my brain suddenly remembered what the consequences would be if my mother found me in such a state of degeneration. She’d previously found me in a similar condition lying face down on the couch and deemed it fit to unleash a fiery full-lunged bellow not two centimetres from my ear. Needless to say, I barely stirred but there was hell to pay in the following days.

Wanting to avoid another such episode, I dutifully disposed of the bag of vomit which was beginning to resemble beer batter in its lumpiness. Must have been the carbonara I had for dinner. Then I went into the bathroom and stood under the shower for a long time. Not because I thought it’d clear my head, but because I’d fallen asleep standing up.

Having been thus cleansed, I needed a hangover cure and so off I toddled to NTUC in search of Berocca where I made the joyous discovery that I had lost the ability to read. I would have to try to recognise the packaging. You might know that Berocca traditionally comes in little green boxes as do about 40,000 other items in any given supermarket so my match-the-colours plan of action perhaps wasn’t the brightest. And why didn’t I just ask the sales staff? Cos I couldn’t talk, you idiot. What would’ve have come out would’ve been “Wah dah Bwa Bra” which would’ve gotten me punched in the face, though that’s how I already felt like anyway. Still, I somehow emerged clutching my thirty B and C vitamin pills like they were the most precious things in the world. Which they were. Barely an hour after popping one, I felt almost normal. Now I don’t know what to do with the other 29.

Krispy Kreme!

2005-11-28T20:57:00.000+08:00

Oh Joeeeee..... look what I've got!!! The most sinful, droolsome doughnuts you'll ever taste. It's pure heaven. Yum... Aren't you envious??? *burp*

Joe's secret

2005-11-15T21:29:00.000+08:00

Three months in.

2005-11-14T10:20:00.000+08:00

Today officially marks the end of my probation period at this agency. Three months – come and gone in a flash. I still feel green and yet I also feel like I’ve been here forever. The contradiction is hard to understand. Perhaps it’s because I’m just getting by on a day-to-day basis. I have no real attachment to this place. The work is numbing, the bosses don’t give a fuck and my seat makes my ass hurt (I know that’s beside the point).

So am I looking around for other openings? Of course I am. It’s part and parcel of being in this industry. The moment something better comes along, you pounce. But it’s hard to keep the scepticism down. As they say, different place, same old shit.

What I’m hoping for wherever I should go is a mentor – someone who actually has the patience to sit down and tell me where I’ve gone wrong instead of strutting around the whole day basking in his own creative brilliance. I know it’s unrealistic but there’s no harm looking. Maybe getting my grounding in a small agency is the way to go. I’m not sure at all.

On a slightly brighter note, there’s an ad I worked on going out in the papers next week. Sure, it’s a crappy property ad and the headline got massacred by the client but it’s an ad nonetheless. And the version with the original headline is going into my portfolio – a welcome addition to a book that’s scanty by any standard.