Things to do when you’ve nothing to do

There’s such a thing as terminal boredom, where you slowly wilt from inertia.

But I won’t die from that, because there are so many things to do online, like blogging with your eyes closed, ferinstance.

I was about to try that when a new msn messenger chat window opened, and it was my buddy the American-Chinese-Actor-based-in-Beijing-studying-Mandarin.

Dude!, he said.

Hey Joe, I said.

Dude, don’t call me Joe. I went to see a palmist and fortune teller and he’s told me to change my name, he replied.

So what’s your new name?

See my MSN nickname?

It says Li Zhaogeng (Joe Lee)

That’s it, dude. Call me that please.

OK, Li Zhaogeng (Joe Lee).

Yeah, it’ll bring me good fortune.

You bet it will. It means ‘your undies are showing’.

Are you shitting me??

Ask any Singaporean or Taiwanese, dude. But you’re in Beijing now, so it means something else, and you can always call yourself Joe again when you’re back here.

You’re full of shit.

I know.

You’re not gonna put it in your blog are you?



Surf stop: HostSara- Be heard. Be real. I just WANNA BE ME. (Sorry, someone said they wanted to see more celebrity blogs. So, via Re-minisce, here ’tis, lor. I also cough cough.)
iTunes’ party shuffle is playing a copy of: Margarita – Traveling Wilburys – Vol. 1, of which I have the original CD and therefore didn’t steal music.

Hot Goss and little else


Oh no. Things have gotten out of hand! What drama! So essiting!
FYI, Xiaxue has deleted and replaced the post that this entry links to, so don’t bother clicking there. But if you want to read what she’s made of Fiona ‘closing down her blog’, it’s here. Will Fiona close down her blog or not? Mr Miyagi takes no chances and cuts and pastes Fiona’s last post:

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

dear friends
this is seriously getting out of hand and out of line . i am shutting down this blog and moving it to personal emails . i am saddened by the fact that people have wasted so much time fueling such rubbish instead of using time wisely to improve on their lives . going to zouk or typing here is not a sin and i am answerable to god for my own actions not anyone esle’s . the sterotype of going to zouk , getting drunk and sleeping around or actresses sleeping around to get their roles , has to be broken .that is completely untrue . thank you very much for your interest but i think this has gone on too far and i wish for all of you to just concentrate on investing time in people you love and making a difference in their lives instead . god bless and keep you .

And no, I do not drive a Ferrari, and Xiaxue wasn’t referring to me when she mentioned a Ferrari, but I’m happy if it came across like that.

Alrighty, on with our regular programming…

Nothing like a spot of gossip mongering to liven up a sleepy afternoon.

So, go to it! Spread the love! Or lack thereof!

I logged on this morning to find the usual two to three early risers visiting this blog had the company of five hundred, scouring the archives for dirties. That could only mean either one of two things: I had been browned, or xiaxued. Turns out, I was xiaxued. (If I had been browned and xiaxued on the same day, this blog would essplode).

Xiaxue had read one of the posts here, and I am so flattered, but that’s besides the point, where she found one Surf Stop link that piqued her interest somewhat. After going through that said link, she’s verified (and who are we to doubt her) that it is, as I suspected, Fiona Xie’s blogspot blog. (My colleague Sherlock-san found it on her Friendster profile).

The gist of it is this: Xiaxue is mightily pissed at the blatant hypocrisy (or as Fiona calls it, ‘hypocriticism’) on display, and puts Fiona and, indeed, all of us, on notice. She says there is no room for hypocrisy in the blogosphere. Your readers will sniff you out no matter how tortured your prose and contrived your verse. You want to make a stand? Put your monkey where your mouse is, or something like that!

Me? I’ll just sit idly and watch the flame wars ensue. Or maybe I’ll just fan the flames a little, y’know, just so the satay can cook properly?

I’ll have Xiaxue know that I hold Fiona in the regard that she deserves, though I’m not necessarily hurt by her opinions of my one-time charge. But I’ll admit I did a very bad job of polishing her PR skills. But you know what they say, you pay peanuts, you get elephants.

But whatever aspersions that might have been cast, let me say this here once and for all, I did not have sexual relations with Fiona Xie. There. She can say what she wants, but it DID NOT happen. Once again, her blog is at

While we’re at it, I find myself agreeing with Xiaxue that the local press is way too nice dealing with media personalities, covering up their sordid dalliances all the time. If this were Hong Kong or Taiwan, once someone knew you were caught in flagrante with Robin Leong during a break in filming One Leg Kicking, well, you’d be doing it again because you’d be so much more famous.

And they also say that if you choose a life in the limelight, be prepared to die by the swordfish. All youse celebrities and media types, google yourself now, there is nowhere to pretend to hide. We are talking about youse! Yes, you too, Steph Song, you are 34 years old this year, was once married, and is now away in L.A. because you didn’t back the incumbent!

Watch out, starlets, wannabes, cannotbes and neverhasbeens, the Revolution is under way! We will champion our versions of the truth! We will be standing on top of Caldecott Hill burning copies of 8 Days and iZhouKan!

OK, I have to go. Frothing at the mouth is not a good look. … but there once was a menage a trois between…. two…. and one…. and then….

Lalala… Sunny Day, Sweepin’ the clouds away, On my way to where the air is sweet

Surf stop: You think leh?
iTunes’ party shuffle is playing a copy of: Yellow Roses – Ry Cooder – Chicken Skin Music, of which I have the original CD and therefore didn’t steal music.

Can’t get married this year

I have nothing to blog about, she has nothing to blog about, and she’s running out of things to blog about. And that’s partly because we have jobs which require our attention for most of the day, and we have lousy informants and sources who provide us with information only for us to find that Mr Brown has gotten the scoop already. Lousy lah, you friends. Email me stuff that’s so dated, what’s the use? How to be cutting edge blog? I feel like Straits Times! Reasonably pleasant design, but crappy content.

I wish I were Seymour Hersh. The bugger has damned good sources. (If you don’t already know who Seymour Hersh is, he’s the guy that uncovered My Lai, Abu Ghraib, and now, scarily, something that may already be going on next to Iraq).

But I’m no Hersh, and I don’t have Hersh’s contacts. Instead, I have a friend who calls me at a quarter past midnight to tell me to write about why so many people (her friends and acquaintances) are getting married these coupla weeks.

She says her friend’s mother says the Year of the Rooster is a very bad year to get married. It is also known as the Year of the Widow. The husband will die before the wife does.

There. Is that news to you? Was that useful? If so, leave a comment and say Mr Miyagi’s blog is very informative, and is the leading source of useful information, and Mr Miyagi shouldn’t even be suffering this bout of insecurity. Can?

So, don’t get hitched this coming Lunar year. And if you’ve started thinking about it, stop it. Don’t matter what blood type=character type your partner is, because my quarter past midnight and half-past-six friend tells me this year is a bad year.


Sim Wrong Who, the lions and the second leg in the tiger’s cup

I’d do a mock interview with Sim Wong Hoo if I could, but all that happened was he walked past me while I was outside the Grand Ballroom at the Hilton, and I said, ‘iPod!’, while he was still within earshot, and I was half afraid he might pause and turn around and give me a shellacking or something. Of course he didn’t. He wouldn’t, would he? He’s confident, he’s smug. His product’s got FM radio. He wouldn’t give an Elmo’s Tickle about an iPod lover because an iPod lover’s missing out on the best tunes played on Mediacorp Radio. He wouldn’t be caught dead wearing black skivvies and a three day growth, either. He was decked out in his Sim Wong Hoo outfit: sensible pants and work shirt with button-down collars. What an icon.

That’s what happens when I get the grumps. And I got the grumps today because nine of ten friends I called today to ask nicely to hang out with said they couldn’t, even if today was the only day in the week I could even contemplate hanging out. They all said something about the lion looking for a second leg in the tiger’s cup, and that’s quite a big thing, so I suppose I’ll wait till 6am for Channel Newsasia to stop looping their loopy music and broadcast some news, or read it in the papers later in the morning.

I did come into extended contact today with one friend, albeit in an online way, because he’s in Beijing, where he’s taking a year off his ‘acting career’ to learn Mandarin, so’s he can come back here and fulfil his lifetime ambition of appearing in a lead role on Channel 8. From what he tells me, he’s really immersing himself in the culture there, rediscovering his roots by engaging in the services of several pillow Mandarin tutors. It really works, he says. And this gets me thinking that maybe that’s why there are so many working ladies here from China who have somehow managed to evade deportation en masse. It’s good for our Speak Mandarin Decree Campaign, you see?

Oh, Steve did call me today as well, but that’s not counted. He said something about going rollerblading with the girl he’s not quite seeing. That’s the thing with Steve. Likes to adopt whatever hobby his object of interest is interested in.

Last year alone, he took up golf, pottery, creative writing, wakeboarding, diving, bungee jumping and field archery. And he invariably ends up listening to the same music too. Thank goodness he hasn’t tried his hand at rapping yet. Even if he does, what can you tell a friend who is so insistent on losing himself in a non-relationship? I suppose I should just be glad for him that he’s making full use of his SAFRA membership.

table debris
“This picture defies captioning, she said”

iTunes’ party shuffle is playing a copy of: In the Jailhouse Now – Soggy Bottom Boys, Tim Blake Nelson – O Brother, Where Art Thou?, of which I have the original CD and therefore didn’t steal music.

Thumbs up for selfish brats and their parents

Saturday was so jam-packed you wouldn’t imagine it were possible to fit so many things into a day. Then again, not many things happen on a normal day in my neck of the woods, so, it could possibly just be me.

First up, a tight schedule meant I had to be in two places at once at 9am in the morning, and I was so pumped up for work I almost achieved that. Then at one of my workplaces, someone hurt himself with a nail gun, and this is where it gets slightly bizarre.

I work Saturday mornings at ACS Barker Road’s sports complex (as opposed to sports simple for the poorer schools), and they have a big ass hall, a big ass movement room, a big ass swimming pool and a not so big ass gymnasium.

The facilities are partly managed by a private company (that hires my company to run courses for kids). Being a sports complex, it is a big ass place with an odd and labyrinthine layout. The glass doors leading to the swimming pool on the third floor are locked, and to get to the pool, you have to go to the second floor where the changing rooms are, go into them, walk up the very slippery concrete staircase to the pool on the third floor.

So as I’m talking to a customer, a well-heeled looking but visibly distressed woman barks at me, asking me where the entrance to the pool is. I tell her she has to go down to the second floor. She ignores me and tries to find a way to the pool from the third. I tell her again. She then tells me her ‘man’ has shot himself in the hand with a nail gun while by the pool repairing one of the water polo goal riggings.

So I go to the glass door on the third floor and see an Indian man clutching his bleeding hand (he shot himself in the thumb), while everyone else and everyone else at the pool is going about their activities as if the Indian man were invisible. The water polo boys, the teachers, the parents of the water polo boys, all, do zip, nada, nothing.

Meanwhile, the well-heeled woman is trying to use her special powers to pass a packet of tissue paper to the injured man through the closed glass door. I offer to go and fetch her injured employee but she doesn’t say anything, so I go and fetch her injured employee, who valiantly tries to indicate to me how he shot himself by showing me his thumb and pointing at the culprit nail gun.

Thumb up, nail gun. Nail gun good, he seems to be saying.

He doesn’t say very much else, and his tortured English could very well be attributed to the pain caused by his injury as much as the possibility that he’s a migrant, non-English-speaking, worker.

Thumb up, nail gun, and maybe that’s why nobody offers to help him, and not because they are a bunch of selfish, racist brats who’ve inherited a selfish, racist trait or two from their parents.

After fetching ‘her man’ (her own description of the injured man), the well-heeled woman doesn’t thank me. She says instead, “What about the tools? We can’t leave the tools there, somebody will steal them”, so I make another trip to retrieve the tools and bring both toolbox and injured man to the carpark, and she still doesn’t thank me. But she says she’s going to drive the injured man to the hospital, and she drives off with the injured man who still seems to be giving the thumbs up.

(I did say Saturday was jam-packed, so other things did happen. So many that I might leave them for another day and another post. Much too late in the night and too much effort trying to compose something that entails a kitten stuck in an air-con vent, a wedding dinner which was actually a pleasure to attend, and oh, bumping into Sim Wong Hoo and shouting iPod!).

iTunes’ party shuffle is playing a copy of: C’mon Aussie C’mon – Shannon Noll – C’mon Aussie C’mon, of which I have the original CD and therefore didn’t steal music.