Vartever it is, it’s werry good

iTunes’ party shuffle is playing a copy of: Even Better Than The Real Thing – U2 – The Best & The B-Sides Of 1990-2000 (Disc 1: The Best Of), of which I have the original CD and therefore didn’t steal music.

One of the things Diana Ser asked me which didn’t make the final cut of the Get Rea! interview was ‘where do you get your cues or topics to blog about?’, and I answered, ‘dunno, reading and watching the news’. She then pounced with a well anticipated ‘Ah hah! So! The new media still has to take its cues from traditional media!’

Yeah vartever!

But I do read and watch the news, trawl blogs, site counters and search engines, and on occasion, google my own blog for interesting references that turn up once a while (but only on occasion, because there’s only so much you want to know about Pat Morita). And this morning was no different.

From this blog, I read with much mirth the opening paragraph to this one entry from another:

…blame third world education for my terrible english (it seems like an idea for a bad sitcom: let’s throw in a bunch of brown kids, and have a brown teacher who has learnt english from ANOTHER brown teacher, teach all these li’l brownies some english. i mean really, it’s like a gora trying to teach another gora some urdu. do you know that we were never taught how to pronounce V or W? it was always wan and wery and vhere and VHAT?! i just got it right a couple of years back but i still trip over wanessa villiams – bitch came up with a name like that just to make life difficult for us brownies).

Hee hee! Let’s go to Welwet! Let’s drive a Wolwo!

In other news, Karen Cheng is preggers with baby #2! Congratulations! If ever you move to Singapore, free lessons for your kids!

Orange Mocha Frappucino?

Vaguely gay recluse

iTunes’ party shuffle is playing a copy of: Bonde – Ali Farka Toure with Ry Cooder – Talking Timbuktu, of which I have the original CD and therefore didn’t steal music.

Some angry young woman thinks I look vaguely gay on TV, and I wasn’t even having a double mac or an Orange Mocha Frappucino.

3) The only Blogger who claimed to address social issue [sic] looked suspiciously like a recluse.
4) Not only that, he looked vaguely gay.

In the post immediately prior, she’s just watched that Get Rea! episode and she’s very riled up by what she sees and hears, much like how other angry young women get very, very riled up when they watch Singapore Idol because the judges are so stupid and gay and the contestants so untalented how dare they even audition for the show et cetera ad nauseum.

···Yes, blogging in Singapura is a disappointment. Even the more well-known blogs here are nothing but a big fat flop. All they do is ramble about their personal lives, which to me, is all wrong. Nobody wants to hear the brain-numbing details. Sometimes, I’m tempted to simply take down my photo log because it dangerously adds personality to this blog. It makes it more human. Wouldn’t it be better overall if I was blogging without a face? If I had no human personality attached to me? I would be nothing but a voice. Somehow, I suspect that putting up my pictures attracts trolls. They’re able to attach a face to a voice, and face it, trolls are usually so stupid they can’t identify a voice without a face.

Luvvie, it’s a teevee show, and it’s called Get Rea! They shoulda interviewed you instead, because you have more of an agenda than anything I’d ever be able to muster. But what to do? I mingle with the glitterati and Diana Ser has my mobile number.

···Another Blogger told us that the quality of blogging here is seriously bad. Tell me something I don’t know, mister. And why didn’t he share his blog address? I’m curious to see how hot shot a social commentator he is.

Be curious no more, for I am not a commentator of any sort. And I tried my darndest to ‘share my blog address’, but it just so happened that the show had people called producers to edit the one hour interview and left the important bit out. For social commentary, go to Mr Brown’s. He’s well-known, big and a little fat (my age liao mah), but definitely no flop by any measure.

Still, thank you. Better to look vaguely gay than vaguely straight. Orange Mocha Frappucino for everyone!

(Nabeh… simi recluse? I have lotsa friends ok?)


iTunes’ party shuffle is playing a copy of: I Can’t Wait – John Hiatt – Walk On, of which I have the original CD and therefore didn’t steal music.

You go on a trip thinking it will recharge your batteries, and that you’ll come back refreshed and ready for work. No lor. I am crabby as hell. I’ve not figured out which is the right side of the bed to wake up on in the last three days, and judging by the way things are, I’m not likely to be as chirpy as a Valuair cabin crew member any time soon.

Unfortunately, the number of profanities I’ve been churning out in long sentences has increased dramatically as well. Especially when driving. Just now, I honked at a taxi and cursed him and three generations of his descendants, that they’d fucking end up fucking driving fucking taxis for the fucking rest of their fucking lives. [Translated and paraphrased from the Hokkien/Cantonese by Mr Miyagi’s long-suffering muse/secretary]. By the time I finished the rant, I had driven from Orchard Boulevard to Holland Village, where another taxi cut into my lane and caused me to brake hard and curse long again.

Feeling just as crabby was my friend whose pile of university assessment markings was finally toppling over. She sent me an SMS asking if I knew what one student meant by a ‘splittering [sic] and drastic sound’. I replied, pronto, ‘that is the sound your grandmother makes when she falls down the stairs’.

‘There is one thing that I cannot lend….’

Reviews of 2046:
Cowboy Caleb
So Oddly Dreamlike

Declining magic carpet rides

iTunes’ party shuffle is playing a copy of: Song Sung Blue – Neil Diamond – Stones/Moods, of which I have the original CD and therefore didn’t steal music.

Double Mac by Illy CoffeeA double macchiato and a club sandwich, not toasted, please.

A double Mac and a club sandwich. To have here?

Yes please.

Then I collect my food and beverage and plonk myself at one of the tiny round tables (known as a tablet) at Starbucks at the World Trade Centre Shopping Mall in Causeway Bay. I’ve got a couple of hours between the ex’s tea ceremony and the marriage solemnisation at Cotton Tree Drive, and I need to fire off work emails on my notebook.

This slowpoke notebook takes ages to start up, and even longer to log on to the PCCW wireless hotspot service. And when I’m finally logged in, someone is peering over my shoulder and asking me,

You’re not local, are you?

Erm, no. How can you tell? (While thought bubble is saying, ‘That’s cos I’m bloody speaking Engrish’).

‘Cos you’re different. Locals are not like that.


Where are you from? London?

Erm, no. Singapore.


No, Economy.



Thought bubble: Wah lao. Gaydar redline already still can make joke! Stop it! Later go toilet kenah molest!

The Starbucks barista could possibly just have been trying to be friendly, and maybe I was a little tired. Tiredness makes me a little paranoid. So maybe he wasn’t trying to chat me up, and the old gaydar could have done with a little fine-tuning.

Growing up in the company of gay men, and being generally gay-friendly still doesn’t make me comfortable with being approached by gay men. But I have to admit to being flattered when I am actually propositioned. (Being propositioned by either gender, however, doesn’t happen very often, you see.) Most approaches can be handled managed by a simple, ‘Dude you are barking up the wrong tree’. More aggressive approaches, however, require a more defensive stance. Especially when the approacher says something stupid like, ‘you sure you never been curious’?

There was however, one incident in a gay club (that is no more) in Singapore, where a very attractive woman approached me, announced she was a lesbian, and whispered in my ear that she always fantasized about having sex with a gay man, and asked if I was available.

All I remember was that my brain short-circuited, and it was possibly the only moment in my life where I contemplated selling out my fierce heterosexuality, even if it was just so I could get some straight sex.

Meanwhile, back at Starbucks:

Doing work?


OK, I’ll leave you and your double Mac alone.

Thought bubble: Jia lat! Is a Double Macchiato a gay beverage? But I like Double Macs. Fuck! Must change drink liao. Orange Mocha Frappucino. Hee Hee Hee!

Causeway Bay
It’s so crowded, you accidentally turn gay also you dunno.

Causeway Bay

iTunes’ party shuffle is playing: Feels like home – Bonnie Raitt – Michael: Music from the Motion Picture

I feel like the guy in Lost in Translation. I feel like the guy in The Notebook. I feel like the guy in In The Mood For Love. I feel like the guy in 2046.

There was a point during my stay in Hong Kong that I wondered if I would feel like myself, or some semblance of what I thought I was. Then I thought, wah lao, damn cock lah! And I went out of the Wong Kar Wai flat, took the lift downstairs and shopped, ate, walked around, and mostly felt un-lost around Causeway Bay, Admiralty, Central and Lan Kwai Fong.

There were things to do: Helping the ex buy her accessories for her wedding costumes.

There were things to eat: An aunt in Hong Kong took me to dinner, and it was one of those eat to death hotpot places.

There were people to meet: Cowboy Caleb was in town also, so we went and tried to drink Lan Kwai Fong dry, but the bugger cannot drink and neither can I; and there was Lucy my friend the bored housewife who doesn’t mind a drink or two.

Then there was the grandest, most beautiful wedding I have ever attended, and appropriately so.

Then in the cab on the way back to the ex’s apartment in Causeway Bay, everything looked like something from Chungking Express.

Rear Window
View from the shoebox apartment, Causeway Bay, Hong Kong. The ex held the lease for two more months so I could stay for six days last week and save money on a hotel room.