Green Room

Spring Cleaning

2007-03-05T07:48:00.000+08:00

I just had a tooth removed yesterday.

It was to be an eventual thing anyway, this tooth that has been bothering me since January this year. However, I procrastinated and postponed and reasoned myself out to delay my decision to visit the dentist to have the whole mess extracted out of my life. My ultimate fear was to have huge gaping hole staring at me from the bottom of my gum. And the pain of it.

Upon extraction, pumped up with anaesthetic to the brim, I would expect to feel nothing for the first few hours.

But as reality dawns and anaesthetic wears out, I could already imagine the pain I would have to go through.

And the gaping void that was once filled. Even with a mess that had to be removed. My tongue would wander to the once-filled space and would miss having it there. The contour, the feel and the touch of it. I told myself it would take time to get used to this new-found space.

But well, might as well. My dentist was proud of me and so was I with myself.

Sometimes my mind would wander off and I would miss my tooth. I miss it dearly for the life of me and I cried for having it eventually removed. I have cried buckets of tears anyway for the pain it caused me but now, like a survivor accepting its fate, I cried tears of learning to come to terms with the loss and one day, one day I know I will forget of ever having that tooth in my life before.

La Promesse

2006-12-20T16:40:00.000+08:00

"I will meet her again and marry her one day," said he.

That was the ending of the film I've just watched. It's about a guy being ditched by his heroine. With glassy eyes he looks into the sunset and weeps before riding into the dusty town road on his faithful donkey. The ambiguity of the ending does not provide comfort as the audience is left figuring out will he or will he not sell off his donkey to the abattoir-owner to find the said-heroine in some distant land to fulfill his promise.

It reminded me somewhat of "Au Hasard Balthazar", a 95-minute Black and White filmed by the undisputed maestro, Robert Bresson. The whole movie was about this donkey, whose life was so miserable and unredeeming I felt like pelting stones onto his aggressors (read: human) and onto the director for having the audacity to make a film so sincere with its depiction of suffering and acceptance. Forget Disney feel-good schmaltz: this cinematic purity left me with escalating despair and numb sadness about the cruelty of the world. I came out of the cinema needing pints of alcohol badly to drown my jaded cynicism, the latter floated effortlessly to the surface every five minutes or so.

The story, that of a donkey's life who suffered in the hands of various humans is austerely filmed in agonising slow takes. I winced to think that I sat through the entire length of the cinematic experience watching martyr-like surrender of the character. I hate martyrs. I agree wholeheartedly when Nietzsche said that Man eventually, in the end, does everything out of his own vanity. Martyrs top that list.

Schopenhauer on the other hand painted self-denial and self-sacrifice in golden colours, idolising and etherealising these values. This coming from the same man who said that life is all but suffering, and that it is merely a mistake created through carnal desire. Oh whatever. Give me Sympathy for Lady Vengeance and Kill Bill anytime. Poetic redemption beats martyrdom. It does not indulge in self-denial and self-sacrifice. It exalts beheading gracefully with a samurai sword to whoever f***s your life.

I think Schopenhauer should've drunk more wine, have some good unadulterated sex and watch the sunsets more. Zen master Ikkyu would've gained a much more profound understanding of life from observing a flower petal than on sitting on misery of life. And he doesn't condone self-sacrifice.

Martyrdom. Spare me those. If you have to go down, go down in style and fury. If you burn bridges, burn them completely to ashes. If I have to wait for someone in the sunset, I'll pack my board and head to Sumba.

And that is why my mom is seriously thinking of disowning me.

How to Lose Fifteen Pounds in Three Years

2006-12-07T00:52:00.000+08:00

My ex-es are in trouble.

The first one told me this morning that he had just broken up with his girlfriend of several years. The second one told me tonight that he had just survived being hit by a motorcycle with his lips receiving four stitches.

I knew my ex-es for so long I felt like I had committed some form of incestual relationship with them in the past. I noticed also that as soon as I started seeing them, they'd start losing weight so instead of them being the muscular hunks I long to be with, I ended up with lanky pretty boys looking good in tight pink t-shirts and really low slung jeans.

In fact, I have coerced both of them into wearing tight body hugging t-shirts just so I could ogle at them at all time and having their arses admired by the gays at the same time. The weirder thing was that after I stopped seeing them, their weight continued to spiral down so much so that when I saw them again I started counting their ribs and wondered if my seed-eating habit had created such an impact on them.

I converted my first ex from a tartare steak-eating hot blooded Italian into a macrobiotic tofu-eating herbivore buddhist. I converted my second ex from loose baggy rock t-shirts aficionado into body-hugging knits erect nipples show-off. I think I did a good job. They came out of the relationship better citizens of this world.

When my ex-es are in trouble they often lament the good old days when they still had me. They forgot that I used to make them my punching-practice bag and that I would often force them to wake up at 2 am to talk about nietzsche and calvin and hobbes. They forgot that I would force them to listen to my singing since no one else was willing to. They forgot that I used to force them to let me pluck their eyebrows on their birthdays and would shove a handkerchief into their mouth as they cried in pain while I tweezed their facial hairs without mercy shouting at them to not be some sissy and to take it like a man.

The Fireplace Incident of 1998

2006-12-06T00:52:00.000+08:00

I came out of the surf yesterday with blood oozing down my knees and shins. It looked grave but I felt rather like a warrior. I gritted my teeth and thought of Mel Gibson in his Braveheart being tortured and still refusing to give in.

I was reminded of the year 1998 when I was hoovering my ex's living room and accidentally knocked my head over the sharp corner of the fireplace. When I looked up the mirror I saw blood all over my face pouring from that 1 cm hole in the middle of my forehead. My ex's friend, Cristopher, happened to be in the house reading some magazine so I called out to him because I suspected I was going to faint any time soon. Chris ran into the room and saw me with blood gushing out of my head, the thick red liquid covering my face like Sissy Spacek in Carrey. Any normal human being would have run out of the room then to grab some towels to stop my bleeding. Chris ran out of the room to grab his camera. "Look here," he said and snapped my picture. "That was cool," he said before running out again to look for a towel.

As there was no first-aid kit or any bandage in the house I had to run to Boots to grab the necessary bandage. Some unseen forces must have pushed me for as I was crossing the zebra-crossing I tripped and fell on both knees so I must then run to Boots limping with blood on both knees.

I walked with a bad limp for the next few days and a bandage across my forehead. I went in to clubs and bars and the bodyguards and fellow dancers thought I was this chick with some form of walking disability so they took pity on me but I could see the admiration all over their faces as I gritted my teeth and danced my night away and for that few days I was treated with sympathetic kindness from everybody as befits those in the less fortunate lot.

The Rationale of Irrationality

2006-12-05T16:26:00.000+08:00

Even though I do irrational things most time, there are times when I would question my own irrationality and ponder on it.

This was the surf yesterday at Cherating:

This was the cut on my right knee but I've got them on both knees front and back:

And this was my mates cleaning my wounds for me:

Yesterday, I came face-to-face with myself and questioned why on earth would I:

1. Subject myself to overexposure of the sun causing premature aging of my skin not to mention premature wrinkling of my face and hence having to spend tons of money in buying skincare products?
2. Risk cataracts on my eyes and sun-blindness being in the water when the sun is shining directly into my eyes?
3. Times and times again suffer painful sunburn on my cheeks and nose which took several days to heal?
4. Be willing to suffer fin cuts, rock cuts, reef cuts and bruises?
5. Be an unwilling offering feasted upon by sandflies and have their larvae hatched under my skin?
6. Have not enough sleep but still wake up at ghostly hours just to go into cold water when the sky is still dark and everyone else is sleeping soundly?
7. Suffer stiff shoulders, necks and arms but still have to paddle and can't allow myself to rest?
8. Be willing to gulp down sandy water and have tons of salty water up my nose that I feel sick?
9. Scare myself to death?

Is it like falling in love?

Guess Who's Coming to Town

2006-11-17T22:37:00.000+08:00

A friend just mailed me his halloween photos. I thought they were hilarious.

Terms & Conditions

2006-11-17T09:33:00.000+08:00

To be "in" in HongKong, a friend said, you must be:
1. Below 100 pounds (45 kgs), no matter how tall you are.
2. Have the latest manicure/pedicure (the latest trend being acrylic nail polish in purple).
3. Have the latest designer bag.

If you fail in any of these departments, be warned that your chances in snatching a man will diminish.

Do I care to fit in the "requirements"?

I think there are better and more important things to do in life.

Jingle Jingle

2006-11-17T01:53:00.000+08:00

Walk past any shopping streets and you can hear the irritatingly cheery and annoyingly jingly jingle bells and other christmassy tunes already. Well, considering we are only forty days away from Christmas.

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way..." I imagine bosses of department stores, fat and with cigars in between their lips, merrily jingling all the coins in their leather pouches. What's with all those tunes? Once again for another forty straight days we will be subjected to those torturous tunes. Not only are they repetitive and vomit-inducing after a while, in some instances it raises your blood pressure and makes you feel like stepping on the next person's shoes.

The tunes were supposed to evoke a christmassy feeling, hypnotising anyone within its reach into consumption-compulsive zombies, succumbing to marketing geniuses who hail christmas as a time for giving. Those tunes make you forget that you hated your boss and that you would really like to kick your colleagues in the arse. Instead you are filled with a frenzied need to give, give and be loving to all. I made that mistake once, years ago.

I think sometimes we all need to feel that lovey-dovey no war all peace sort of feeling. And all those non-stop happy jingles and people rushing doing their shopping does make one want to be part of the maddening crowd.

Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock
Jingle bells swing and jingle bells ring
Snowing and blowing up bushels of fun
Now the jingle hop has begun!

Scandals and Accusations

2006-11-03T00:19:00.000+08:00

Last week my mom and brother were in town. One evening after a lazy dinner they were rummaging through the DVD drawer when my sis ran up to my mom, pointed her finger at me and told my mom that I have in my possession, a sick, perverted and humanely deprived DVD whose rightful place should only be in a rubbish chute.

I had a hunch on which DVD she was referring to and quickly grabbed the said DVD into my hand.

My sis said, "It is so sick I almost threw it after watching it halfway!"

I stuttered, "Why did you even watch it? Didn't you see the cover?" By the cover I mean the cover depicting a group of males and females crawling on their knees, naked except for the chain collars and leashes on their neck. With a cover like that, I wouldn't expect a slapstick comedy or a touching human drama out of it.

"Well, you put it in the drawer so of course I was going to watch it!" my sis defended.

You see, in April a friend of mine lent me a Paolo Pasolini DVD that he managed to get his hand on when he was in Italy. He cautioned: there is no English subtitles. I said, fine, I think I'll do fine with the Italian subtitles.

The movie is based on a book by Marquis de Sade, whose name gave birth to the term sadism. Titled Salo' o le 120 Giornate di Sodoma (120 Days of Sodom), I thought anyone in their right mind would get an idea of what the movie is all about. Sade, sadism, sodom. You get the drift. In fact, the film maker was murdered after making this movie.

Of course with a movie like this, I couldn't have possibly watched it when my dad or my mom or my brother is in town visiting. I can't possibly pop the DVD into the player and watch some depraved S&M on the big screen with my dad and my mom walking past the living room every few minutes.

My sis has been taking a break from her job so she too is at home almost everyday. I couldn't have possibly watched it too when she's around. What would she think of me?

Also, I need to watch this movie with someone. The subject of the movie is too disturbing for me to watch it by myself and have no one to discuss it with afterwards.

Hence, I have been keeping this difficult movie in the drawer for months. The thought that my sis would pop it in the DVD-player like any other DVD never once crossed my mind.

"Mom," my sis continued, "That is one sick movie. People being tortured and treated like animals and all that!"
My brother looked at me,"What sort of sick movie is that you're watching?"
"How could you watch that type of movie?" my mom asked.

I tried to explain that that was my friend's DVD and I merely borrowed it but that I haven't even get to watch it. I tried to explain that the director made it based on a famous writing by a famous French writer. I tried to explain that I borrowed it out of curiosity.

But there under the glaring living room light my explanations fell on deaf ears.
My mom shook her head. My brother gave me a disapproving look. My sis kept repeating that the DVD should be thrown away. There under the glaring light I felt like a sadist who have just been found out. At the back of their heads my family think that they've got a sick daughter who is into sado-masochism and perversion. I felt like an accused.

That I have a pair of pointy knee-length black leather boots with 4-inch-heels in the drawer didn't help.

Let's Waste Time

2006-11-01T18:10:00.000+08:00

..chasing cars
around our heads..

Trolls and Ghouls' Night Out

2006-11-01T02:10:00.000+08:00

While the trolls and the ghouls were out on Halloween weekend night painting the club scenes red, there I was in my room packing my day bag and preparing for bed. Halloween weekend should mean a night out partying. Call me lazy but I couldn't give a damn. I'll trade a night out painting the town red in second-hand smoke galore with fresh ocean air anytime.

I had envisioned a quiet (okay: boring) Sunday ahead. Robby is in Bali, stranded in a deserted nusa dua beach. My mates were all up surfing since Friday. I thought I could just live out my Sunday in peace. But I had to be honest to myself.

So after waving innocent goodbyes to my mom and bro being whizzed away in a cab to the airport at the gates at 5.30AM, I quickly changed and by 6AM whizzed away in Keith's car. As we drove past the streets we saw the ghouls and trolls from last night, looking exhausted from all those fumigation; their horns crooked, their wings lopsided.

It was strange that as their days ended ours had just begun. I felt smugly superior that while they will spend their Sunday recuperating, I will be in the ocean riding waves. But I bet they don't give a damn.

The Trip Starts When You Pack Your Bag

2006-10-24T23:12:00.000+08:00

Sunday night 11PM. My mate Ian rang me up.
"Shall we go up tomorrow?" he asked.
"Forecast looks bad, it's probably going to be flat," I said.

Ten minutes later, he rang again. "Fuck it, let's just go up. Worst scenario we'll just go for a paddle!"

Fighting a cold that had started since morning, I started packing. The trip has already started!

My excitement prevented me from falling asleep, but at 5AM I was already up.

Monday morning drive on the hazy road, early morning carb-rich breakfast then the drive to the spots, my cold has vanished into thin air.

The salty tang in the air, the grainy sand beneath our feet. A secret spot, four of us in the water. Waist-high wall peeling left and right. It wasn't perfect but we were too happy to care. To have the boards on our feet, to have salt water splashing on our faces, to look far to the horizon waiting, that was a gift. Four hours and a sunburn on my cheeks later, the tide was going out and it was too shallow to do anything. Up we packed, contented and couldn't ask for more.

On the drive back, we stopped by the local market to pick up some vegetables, bananas, watermelons, and mushrooms before heading home, heads filled with nothing else but a dream of another day like this.

A Long Sad Weekend

2006-10-16T23:12:00.000+08:00

It's official.
There will be no surf this coming long public holiday weekend.
Flat as a lake it will be.

All the wait and anticipation! The bubbling excitement! The crammed work hours just so I can surf like heaven this weekend! Alas alas, Neptune king and the north-east swell! No gift for us this week!

No midnight six-hour drive to destination! No early morning eye rub jumping out of bed! My four days, what am I to do with them? I might just use them to go back to work! Cruel weather! Long has been my wait and now this!

An almost-flat but happier day from a year ago. When you can't choose you take anything.

My Bamboo Tree

2006-10-14T11:13:00.000+08:00

My last two posts have been rather mellow, dealing with the pain of loss. Blame it on my mother who threw away my bamboo plants that I have kept at the corner of my flat for more than two years. My bamboo which has grown from some 30cms green sticks to this foliage of flushed green.

The damage started when the National Environment Agency came to inspect my flat for the possible breeding ground of Aedes Aegypti mosquitoes. Both my folks happened to be around then and, worried about the possible $200 fine which will be imposed should larvae of Aedes Aegypti be found, they bugged me for the next two weeks to change the water where the bamboo resided happily to a pot of soil. From then on it all went downhill.

The new leaves started to withered and yellowed. When I looked at my bamboo daily I wondered if this particular type of bamboo would survive the harsh soil condition as they have always been spotted to be left in a vase of water.

Then my sis was infected with dengue. That was the guillotine for my poor bamboo. My family decided that my bamboo was the definite hiding ground for those damn mosquitoes and posed the ultimatum to discard the terror. My brother even pointed that it was my fault my sis was having dengue, that it was all because of my bamboo.

To avoid global melt down I let my mom get rid of it.

Goodbye my bamboo tree. I will miss talking to you.

Once Upon a Time at the Line-Up

2006-10-14T02:29:00.000+08:00

I used to know a surferboy. Long is his hair and burned by the sun is his skin. We first met while surfing side by side and he asked me my name. We surfed together for over two years: across the strait, in Bali's water, in China Beach, even in the chlorine water of man-made surf pool.

He came back yesterday. I sent him off early this morning.

It would've been so much easier to come home. Mais non. Je peux pas.

波はどこへ帰るのか

2006-10-08T21:16:00.000+08:00

Last night while I was on Messenger a long-lost surf friend started a chat with me.

She used to be my surf-buddy. I knew her on my first year of surf and since then we had gone for several surf trips together and countless surf trips across the strait. We had sat at the line up together singing songs of the sea and listening to whispers of wind and the crashing of waves. We have walked many miles, from one point to another, surfboards in hands and soles burnt by hot asphalt or sand. We have given waves to one another, laughed when wiping out, gave high fives for each good ride caught, ogled at surferboys, and got mad with the cab drivers for making us late to the ferry terminal.

She was a better surfer than me, just for the fact that she will not hesitate to go in no matter what the water condition is. I won points only on the basis that I observed the rule of right of way and I'd look left right front and back before taking any wave where she would've taken any wave and dropped in on anyone. She always have cuts and stitches because of this.

She told me then that we must have been sisters in our past life, borne to poor fishermen parents, where we would travel miles to look for fish. I thought she should've injected more optimism in her dream of our past life but she liked that story.

And then she started her dragon boat thingy. I knew why she did that. She was desperate to find her direction before it becomes too late. But instead of sitting down and have a proper look at it she started running around like a chicken with tail on fire. And then she never came to surf anymore. And then she only called me once when she needed me to be her visa guarantor. The last time I heard of her was from some other surf friend who said that she was going back to Japan.

So last night she typed to me.

She said that she had been thinking about me since she returned to Japan. She still said that she doesn't know what to do in her life and that she'd rather die. I have been wanting her to sit down and deal with this honestly with herself but she has always buried her head in the sand. She said it's hard for people to change so don't expect it. She said thanks for all the things I've done for her and she wished me happiness.

Two years ago we still talked of surfing together when we are old grandmothers. Last night I couldn't even ask her if we'll ever be at the line up together again.

I guess things just do change.

Where There is Smoke There is Fire

2006-10-08T02:58:00.000+08:00

The annual forest burning festival is on again. Year after year, Indonesia burns acres of her forest away, as the cheapest way to clear lands ensure the expansion of palm oil, wood pulp and other rubber industries. Come September-October every year, expect haze of different thickness and choke level to envelope both Singapore and Malaysia.

Last Friday I came out of the office at 9PM to fog-filled streets. Visibility was so bad it was reminiscent of London. Only that my eyes started to become teary and my lungs choked. It was like in a chamber filled with second-hand smoke, and there was nowhere to run. Later on I found out that the PSI (Pollutants Standard Index) was at 150 at that hour, which, according to government measure causes "mild aggravation symptoms among susceptible persons and transient symptoms of irritation in some of the healthy population." Increase the PSI another 50 points and it will cause "moderate aggravation of symptoms and decreased tolerance." Should it shoot up to 300, be ready for "early onset of certain diseases." It has also been recommended lately that the "general population should reduce vigorous outdoor activity."

The highest ever recorded PSI was in September 1997 when it hit 226, the year that forest fire released 2.57 gigatonnes of Carbon Dioxide into the atmosphere.

And the problem comes back year after year because it is very difficult to prosecute offenders, particularly the big plantation companies. Local authorities do not enforce regulations, and officials are confused about just which agency has jurisdiction over fire issues.

Like the saying goes "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different result, that is insanity."

Welcome to ignorance, apathy and corruption.

My dad used to say to us, "Go play outside where the air is fresh!". It seems now Glade Air Freshener vision has come true: "The air is cleaner inside".

Such Great Heights

2006-10-08T02:33:00.000+08:00

My favourite song, Ben Folds' cover. This was suppposed to be some impromptu performance where they just picked random instruments and jammed this out. I like the lead singer because he reminds me of Jack Nicholson. In spite of his bad hair.

Night of the Living Crawlies

2006-10-01T11:46:00.000+08:00

My friend told me her theory that every living adult has a worm or two in his or her guts.

I protested. I don't like the idea that while I'm sleeping, some slimy creatures of hideous monstrosity crawl inside my intestines roaming my guts, popping out its head out every now and then out of my nostrils or behinds. I don't like the idea that when I'm eating, I'm indirectly feeding that creature inside, and that it gets the best of the vitamins and minerals out of the food I eat, leaving my body the empty roughage for the bulk.

My friend insisted that it is true. She asked me , "Have you ever felt some tickling in your throat, one time or other? Or some indescribable tickle up your arse at night?"

I thought for a while before I said yes.

"That's your worm trying to come out," she assured me. "That's their tails you are feeling."

God, why do you have to create creatures such as worms and flukes to infest our guts? I can live with those poor earth worms crawling out of the earth after a night's rain, showing the world their pitiful pinkish segmented bodies wriggling away (by the way, earthworms are hermaphrodites). But worms crawling in human's guts, attaching their hooks and suckers in my intestines and dispensing their proglottids from time to time to accomodate their lengths inside me is a totally different matter altogether.

Why I started thinking about worm-infestation was because I suspected that I might just got my gastric flu from some raw fish salad I ate at the food stall near my work place. I hate myself for eating it. It was definitely fresh water fish, whose preparation and hygiene frankly escaped my mind. For all I know it could be the salmonella or some other rotovirus which got into me from those chunks of flesh. But it could also be some worm larvae now that my imagination has been fired up. The symptoms are the same: abdominal discomfort, diarrhoea, vomiting, and weight loss.

Check this out: That is one motherfxxxing tapeworm inside a carp, which is a very common freshwater fish eaten in Asia.

I read in an article in the Guardian years before about some girls who are desperate to lose weight swallowing 'diet pills' containing tapeworms. They would let the tapeworms suck every food items that they eat until they reach their desired weight, then they would swallow some anti-worm medicines to expel the worms. Ingenious. I don't know how true it is but I can't imagine myself doing that. Consciously swallowing tapeworms. It requires guts.

Of course my mother would ask me if I'd swallow one of those in the event that I was being forced to should I be in some kind of roman prisons. She loves these hypothetical questions where I would be subjected to various forms of tortures and I had to choose what to do. She told me the story from some olden movie she watched with my grandad, that of a roman prisoner being fed a burger filled with worms. Because the dungeon was dark the starving prisoner had no idea and would just chew on it. She told me that story while we were having dinner when I was about eight. But I thought, didn't the worms smell?

Anyway, back to the tapeworms. Here is an interesting story I found on this guy who suffered from some tapeworm infection. http://fray.com/drugs/worm/

I certainly hope that my friend is wrong, that those tickles are just some inexplicable bodily functions that humans have to experience every now and then.

Oh, and she said too, that sometimes when you feel those tickles on your soles, as if some small creatures are wriggling their way into your skin, well, it is of those worm larvae. In the tropics worm eggs are everywhere in the air and are just waiting for hosts to enter into. You step onto one of those and there they go burrowing themselves into your skin.

The Nameless Monster

2006-09-30T22:14:00.000+08:00

Chomp, chomp, munch, munch, gobble, gobble, gulp!

Blood Test

2006-09-30T03:01:00.000+08:00

My dad made me promise him to have my blood tested for dengue fever. He said if I don't he'll send my mom over. So I promised him that I would. That was on Tuesday. He's got my mom over by Wednesday anyway because being my dad, he knew I wouldn't honour this promise.

I kept telling my dad that it was gastric flu and that it has nothing to do with dengue. But still he called every few hours to nag me and my sis to go for the blood test. I did not. My sis did. And now she's being hospitalised as she had been tested positive for dengue. And now they are taking the blood out of her on a daily basis. And from the same spot over and over again.

I believe that what I don't know won't come true. I believe that if I bury my head like the japs, like the ostrich I mean, the thing ceases to exist. My family do not understand why I am being so stubborn. The point is I hate the idea of my blood being syringed out of me.

When I was still a poor college student, a nurse had tried to take some blood sample out of me. Being an intern, she had foolishly injected the syringe on some vein which caused my blood to spurt all over. I remembered I was sitting with a syringe stuck on my arm and my blood spurting out like a fountain 30 cm into the air for a few seconds. I wished somebody had had it filmed then, it'll make a good bedtime story for my grandchildren. That fateful day sealed my antagonism towards any syringe: they hate me and I hate them too, it's all very mutual.

(Shogun Decapitator. Check out the stylish blood spurting out of the guy's aorta. Aorta carries oxygenated blood, which explains the spurting and the hissing sound.)

So anyway now that the rain has stopped, I am still trying to cajole myself to go for the blood test. To go or not to go, that is the question.

An Overextended Seasick Holiday

2006-09-25T20:28:00.000+08:00

My weight loss program finally bore results. Over the last six days I have lost close to three kilograms of my weight.

Three years ago in a bout of extreme unhappiness at work I succumbed to gastric flu. It was hell on earth. Well at least for me. You definitely should not compare my plight to those victims of torture. The doctor told me then that I have to be careful from overexerting myself otherwise a relapse will occur.

One year passed. Two years passed. Coming onto the third year and my old nemesis Monsieur Sneaky Gastroenteritis aka Gastric Flu just had to pay me a visit again. It came in the middle of the day on Wednesday while I was at work. I shall not describe my ordeals but suffice to say that it involves many retching, throwing up, muscle pains, joint pains, eyeball pains and monstrous head pains. I have had zero appetite, and anyway whatever went in went out the same way, hence the weight loss.

I couldn't even make my ginger drink. So on Thursday I went to see a chinese doctor. Not the usual chinese physician that I normally go to but somewhere nearer my house. I figured since it is a branded establishment, I couldn't have gone wrong. But wrong I was. The chinese physician barely speaks english and my limited mandarin reduced my complains to something like "Me headache. Me threw up." She didn't ask me where exactly my headache was (which I could easily point out) and she didn't say anything else. After a one minute pause staring at the ceiling she wrote me a prescription for a seven day worth of powdered herbs. Thank you Dr Qi. I have by now thrown away your packets of herbs along with your name card down the rubbish chute.

So off I went for a shiatsu, hoping that it would cure me like the last time it did. But the masseuse was hell bent on murdering me. She pressed on my back until it turned blue black.

So off I went again to the nearby western doctor, hoping that this man might just cure me. What a relief to have a doctor really asking all the necessary details that inspire trust and confidence. And I must admit I enjoyed the shock on his face when my temperature reading registered a 39.5 degree Celsius. He said I looked well for someone running such a high fever. As always, I took that as a compliment and thanked him.

I left with three different packets of multi-coloured tablets, which I popped at regular intervals for the next few days. Still, my world only made sense from a horizontal perspective all the way till Sunday. I'd just need to stand up for more than two minutes and the world would start to spin and my knees would start to tremble, and I had to quickly lie down again.

Now I'm always in the belief that things happen for a purpose, that every event is supposed to be a teacher of some sort, that everything counts. But for the past five days I've been bedridden I still have no clue what this event can possibly teach me. That the earth is a planet spinning on its own axis? I knew that long time ago. That George Dubya Bush has extremely large nostrils? I knew that too. Still, if there's one good thing to be plucked out of this it is that I have lost quite a fair amount of weight. But my skin looks ghastly and sallow. Even looking at my own image in the mirror gives me headache.

Since it adds to my nausea I have not been reading and since bright lights pained me I had not been able to be in front of the monitor for too long. The amount of time spent lying down has made me notice several things, like:
1. Why do the upper halves and lower halves numbers on my clock faced inward and outward respectively?
2. Why do I have so many papers in my room?
3. What is so great about Crumpler bags? They're ugly and totally uncool and I hate their scrawny logo.
4. CDs when stacked together appear transparent when seen from the side.
5. Why does NTUC and Cold Storage stock only sour dragonfruits but Meidiya always manage to get good sweet ones?
6. The indescribable high level of noise pollution by the construction sites all surrounding my apartment.
7. Do mosquitos have willies?
8. Do snakes have willies?
9. How do chickens do it?
10. Why don't humans just lay eggs?
11. If Bach was still alive today, will he be as handsome as Jack Nicholson?

And then my friends had to tell me that there was a swell coming down on Sunday and that they were going up to Malaysia. That was it, I thought heaven was mocking me. Here I am down with pain and surf has to be up! I was almost so very tempted to go up in my state because hell, what is a fever after you get STOKED! But since I thought I might just die this time if I go in the water I had to abstain myself, otherwise my folks would blame me for dying a stupid death then I will never be able to forgive myself. Thus I was more than happy when I got the report that surf was barely there. Heaven is kind to me after all.

By Sunday I could bear it no more and booked an appointment with my usual chinese doc. I waited at his practice by midday. But he was on extended house calls and arrived only at 14:30. I waited for so long that subsequent patients needed just to pop their heads to see if I was still around to know if the doc had arrived. Thank god I am so used to waiting for waves for hours that two and a half hour wait for salvation was a short wait comparatively.

When finally the doc arrived I almost jumped to hug him. After checking on my tongue, my pulses, my ears, my skin and my eyes he immediately administered acupuncture treatment on me. Three needles on the head and three on my legs. I thought I was going to die when the first three needles went into my head. The needles were thin as hell but had felt so huge when entering the skin of my head. I imagined huge droplets of blood pooling on my skull already. I didn't dare move during the whole ordeal. But the doc reassured me that the healing process was at work. And when he took the needles away, not one drop of blood was spilled.

Apparently the doc was moved by my two and a half hour wait and had waived the acupuncture fee. I was more than happy to pay because he had been a great doc to me all these years and had helped me cure many strange ailments that would otherwise require surgical incisions as advised by some other western doctors. But he insisted so I just paid for my medicine.

After the acupuncture I could finally walk okay and finally today my appetite is back although the slight dizziness remains. I could sit straight as well. So I no longer need to watch television from an angle and look at my laptop monitor at an angle. The world starts to look right again.

What I started to feel though, is extreme itch. And that I started to get overly emotional over small things. The itch are all over my legs and hands. It could be due to my excessive perspiring but chinese medicine equates itch with toxin being expelled from the body and I like to think it that way. The emotional part was when I realised that I was laughing and crying over some cheesey Japanese drama within minutes of each other. I laughed when I saw how blue the sky was. I mean, I was not merely happy but I was laughing loudly for a minute or two.

I know some of you have told me that my sanity has been on the questionable side since I entered the wrong side of 17 but maybe this time the fever did it. Well, allow me to correct myself. Since I had been brought up to not blame myself, I shall pin the blame on that flared nostril Dubya Bush. He did it. He caused all these misery to happen to me. I feel better already.

Free Lunch: Lunch at $5 Only!!!

2006-09-18T23:12:00.000+08:00

I received an email from a couple of old acquaintances which is a forward forwarded with the oldest attachment dated back to 18 July 2005 which reads:

Dear Friends,
... Bill Gates is sharing his fortune... ignore this... repent later. ..... To make sure that Internet Explorer remains the most widely used program, Microsoft and AOL are running an e-mail beta test... Forward this e-mail to friends, Microsoft can and will track it (if you are a Microsoft Windows user) for a two week time period. For every person that you forward this e-mail to, Microsoft will pay you $245.00, for every person that you sent it to that forwards it on, Microsoft will pay you $243.00 and for every third person that receives it, you will be paid $241.00. Within two weeks, Microsoft will contact you for your address and then send you a cheque.

Thereafter followed a myriad of frenzied testimonies from people receiving their monies expressing their unbounded ecstasy.
One testimony read: "I forwarded this mail to three chaps just half an hour back and I just forgot about it.. then I saw my salary slip, checked my account in(sic) the net. I was wonderstuck(sic) to see $30000/- added to my account!! transferred from ms(sic) office thru western money transfer !!! Its amazing guys !!!

Hello? Knock knock. Anyone home? Is the light on?

The loopholes are as large as a gaping cavity (just read the above paragraphs again if you haven't found one) I thought no one would fall for it... but by Judas' toes, I scrolled down the mail and rows upon rows upon rows of people have been forwarding this message to their poor unsuspecting friends, who in turn will forward it to their friends and so on!!! Many of them justify this with the "Well, no harm trying...." statement.

Ahem, so I wrote back to these same acquaintances since they had pissed me off in the past anyway and this was to be my glorious chance to lecture them on their naivety and gave me a momentary high of feeling like a genius. I mean, c'mon, Microsoft is a public traded company with shareholders and board of directors and Bill Gates doing this impractical test is akin to admitting himself to a mental institute. Also, it is technically impossible to track forwarded email and no company does business this way. And third, look at the loopholes.

I have in the past received many more emails where people hoping to get free iPods (that damn gadget!), free monies, free hotel stays, and other freebies would fall straight into the hoax. Sorry guys, economists said that there is no free lunch!

Oft I wondered who these twats who started this brand of jokes are (Chain-letter writers fall under the same category). They ought to be ostracised and sodomised and made to do community service afterward to repent for their misleading behaviour. They, like the false prophets, have given the people false hopes of fortunes, diamonds and golds and I suspect that some poor souls had spent their entire salary three weeks too early hoping to receive that extra dollars from some big corporations.

Well, a year ago for a second or two I thought big windfall had befallen onto my lap as well. Some Nigerian dude wrote me an 'official' letter claiming that I had just won some obscure lottery in Spain amounting to hundreds of thousands of dollars. My imagination ran amok. I was already imagining quitting my job and retire for the rest of my life until a few seconds later my logic took over and made all the loopholes of the letter so apparent that my sweet reverie had to die a violent death.

According to Janet Jackson, the best things in life are free. Yeah.. still, I stick to the economists' view.

Do You Agree?

2006-09-14T00:25:00.000+08:00

Why do humans nod when they agree on something and shake their heads when they don't? Is it some kind of genetically inherited behavioural code handed down from long gone ancestors who might be some primates with hairy behinds? But the fact that there are certain race that would shake their heads even when they are agreeing with you wholeheartedly means that the first theory is not really accurate.

Then I read that it could be an evolution from bowing. So I imagine in prehistoric time before Man discovered the art of nodding, they'd bow everytime they agreed with each other (To sidetrack: what did they do when they disagree? Waving their spears?). So one day this guy who was apparently more intelligent than the rest of the group found out that instead of bowing which required you to bend your upper body forward at an angle - which could get pretty tiring, especially if you were seated around some bonfire and having a chat and everytime someone agreed with something the other said, he'd need to stand up and bow (they couldn't keep bowing whilst sitting down because then their hairy chests would get dirty faster)- you'd just need to do the same but only from the neck up. This he reckoned, would save them much energy and would make chatting around bonfire a much more comfortable experience. And so, nodding was born. (Japan was isolated for two and a half centuries so somehow they regressed to bowing but since nodding had been considered popular even before the sakoku policy was put in place, they couldn't help but to mix the two). On why certain races do not nod their heads, let me think of some kind of explanation and I'll get back to you.

Now, my Big Boss nods his head all the time. When he is doing performance reviews, when he talks in meetings, even as he walks down the office corridors and waves at us (yes, my Big Boss likes to wave at us) he would couple it with nodding. I suspect it is his way to make us subconsciously agree to his company visions and policies. And he likes to end his sentences with the phrase '... would you agree?' or its variables '... wouldn't you agree?' or '... don't you agree?' while nodding his head. Like being hypnotised, it was difficult for me to say no. So, I agreed.

I met a guy whom I discovered to have a propensity to ask for my agreement too. He would say for instance, "The sun rises from the east. Do you agree?" He would ask, "'Unfortunately' is counted as one crap. Do you agree?"

It is very hard not to agree with him. But because he did not couple his sentences with continuous nodding like my Big-boss, I did not agree.

Pop, Popped, Popping

2006-09-12T23:54:00.000+08:00

When I told Kyoko I like the J-Pop group called L'arc-en-Ciel (ラルクアンシエル) her eyes widened for a few seconds. I felt smug that she acknowledged my good taste in music, that was until she exclaimed, "Yadaaaaa!!!! How can you rike such a group?!!! The main vokarist is such a strange guy!!!!!" and looked to the side as if to spit.

Indignant, I asked her, "What's wrong with Hyde? He writes good songs and his voice is great!"
She said, "How can you rike someone who rooks rike that?!!!"
Since her reason did not stand logically I insisted that I still like the group anyway and had continued to sing their songs in karaoke until she banned me from singing them.

My infatuation with J-Pop started when I had a jap punkwannabe as the first guy to date me back when I was seventeen. I progressed from the high-pitched sickeningly cheery Kome Kome Club (米米CLUB) to Southern All Stars (サザンオールスターズ) and had since continued to expand my musical boundaries to include canto and thai pop, the latter which was insisted upon me by my then flatmates.

More recently I have included malay-pop, korean-pop, and les chansons francaises into my repertoire and was just dipping my toes into german pop until I listened to a Marlene Dietrich rendition of "Ne Me Quitte Pas" in german. I started listening to it in the dead of the night with my earphones on. The song started with some creaky violin and as soon as her voice entered my ears, my heart jumped. It had sounded so eerie, so creepy and so.. so.. bassy, like a low growling sound from some ancient black and white horror masterpiece. The clicky and nasal german pronunciation didn't help. I am not surprised if Murnau had used this particular song in his 1922 Nosferatu had it existed then. Naturally I stopped my musical exploration there and then.

Last week I brought my Zero Assoluto cd to let Gio listen to it since he said he's never heard of the group. I thought Zero Assoluto is good for the italian music scene standard, they definitely sound better than those strange old folk songs with weird tunes sung by the likes of Sud System, Eros Ramazzoti or Adriano Celentano. But the two italianos in the car violently protested against 90% of the songs in the cd. They asked me vehemently, "Do you really like these songs? How can you like these kinds of songs?!!" and proceeded to forward through most of the cd.

I had trouble sleeping the other night pondering on the popular saying that 'a man's meat is indeed another man's poison'. My late night sleeplessness had caused me to chance upon this hell of a gem of a music video from the above-mentioned Southern All Stars. This music video was made in 1984, which was like from 22 years gone. I don't know what the video was trying to say but I'm amazed that they can get away with stuffs like this. I am not even sure if today's MTV would allow this to be screened. Then again with the charismatic ultra-eccentric Keisuke Kuwata as the lead singer you can probably get away with most things.

Now, how can most of Japan, for the past 28 year, has been able to rike this guy who wears such ridicurous red cap with such ridicurous hair making this kind of weird videos? I don't know, I like him too. But if you don't, I understand.

The Bamboo Tree

2006-09-11T22:49:00.000+08:00

Once upon a time in China, a man planted some bamboos in his back garden. He would diligently water and fertilize the soil where he planted the bamboos. After a year a neighbour who passed by his garden saw him watering and stopped to ask him, "Can I ask you mate, what are you watering actually?"
The man said, "Well, I'm watering bamboo trees!"
The neighbour said, "Blimey but I don't see a bloody thing!"
The man kept quiet and continued watering.

At the end of the second year the same neighbour walked past and saw the man again doing his watering. He couldn't help but asked again, "Mate, are you still watering your 'bamboo trees'?"
The man looked at the neighbour and said, "Yeah, what else d'you suppose I'm doing?!"
The neighbour said, "Well I still don't see a bloody thing here! The land is still as bald and barren as an eagle's arse!"
The man kept quiet and continued watering.

And so it was for the third and fourth year. The neighbour would see the man watering and fertilizing an empty land and there was still no sight of the bamboo trees, not even a small shoot.

On the fifth year the neighbour couldn't stand it anymore when he saw the man still watering his "bamboo trees". He stopped and said to the man, "For jeez' sake mate, I think you'd better stop this crazy business of yours! You've been watering your 'bamboo trees' for the past five years and for cryin' out loud, there's nothing to show for it!" The man looked at his neighbour and said, "You can say whatever you want. Just come back in five weeks' time."

The five weeks passed and the neighbour went to see the man. And lo and behold, there the bamboo trees have all grown to the height of thirty metres!

The neighbour exclaimed in delight, "Blimey! I never knew these fXXXXXX bamboos can grow so fast in just five weeks!"
"Is it five weeks?" the man said to the neighbour, "Or is it five years?"

Back to the Attic...Ah!

2006-09-10T10:45:00.000+08:00

Last night I went back to revisit my old haunt, Attica, after a two month hiatus.

It is a club near where I live which was deeemed by the night life reviews last year as the place to see and to be seen and where the beautiful people go. The label stuck but over time I realised that there is a subheading attached to it too, which is: meat market. Welcome to the hunting safari park for white male expats where there will be plenty of extremely unwilling local girls to be hunted. Now that I think of it, it works the other way round too where the local girls become the hunters and the white expats standing around in crisp shirts are there waiting to be hunted. Most of my local male friends are so anti-attic because of this that they'd rather be thrown into the river than to step in there.

There was a time when I basically went there every living weekend ad nauseam and spend many a sunday just recuperating (remember it is non-monsoon period so surf is zero and there is nothing else to do). And then I stopped. I have had it up to my throat and I could feel myself retching to just think about it. So why on earth did I go there? First, it is free entrance for me. Second, my friend sometimes spins there so I'd like to give him support because I get invites to other parties from him. Third, the music is good. Fourth, it is one of the nearest to my place I can even walk home. Fifth, the age group of the crowd is just about right so there are no pimply teenagers prancing around trying to pick you up.

Thanks to Gio I was cajoled, dragged and pushed to enter that place again last night. Well, it was definitely way better than the hotel club we went to ealier where people danced to a bad Maroon 5 cover. All my three male friends proceeded to go about their hunting business and I was left trying to dance on the dance floor that was too packed for comfort. People trashed their bodies back and forth in reckless abandon, people trying to walk in and out, some sleazy guys eyeing you up. After two hours I decided to leave.

Lesson numero uno: don't come with only male friends here because they only want to hunt and it feels stupid dancing by yourself because then the other males who are hunting would think that you are there to pick them up too. It is pretty disconcerting when you are dancing and then some guy would snake their way to your sphere and started dancing with you. I never knew what to do. They would look at me and smiled so I would smile back but muttering under my breath, "oh just frig' off will ya" and then look up to the ceiling in the hope that they would disappear. Most of the time they don't. Instead they would throw hopeful glances at me which forced me to turn my body 180 degree away. I mean, what do they expect me to do? Chat them up and get their phone numbers? For pete's sake if they'd just start with a nice hello and ask first. But then again..

One of the male friends Pat told me that the science for any white guys to pick up girls over here is as simple as ABC.
A: Wear a (~~T-shirt~~) crisp shirt on your evenings out.
B: Put on a pair of nice slim-cut tailored pants.
C: Perch yourself in any bar and wait for result.
The last time he did that he got five phone numbers thrown to him without him moving a finger. God bless him though because he said he found the whole affair so stupid and the girls stupider.

Which brought me to the conversation I had with Gio last night. We were sitting at some cafe eating our chocolate cakes and whilst sitting we noticed how the passersby would walk past us with scrutinizing look. I knew what their thought bubbles read: "Ooh, another ang-moh (pink-faced man) with an SPG."

That's the thing here. That people would immediately label you when you are an asian seen hanging out with a white. They don't care if you are just friends enjoying an innocent cup of coffee. Do I blame the locals for being narrow minded? Do I blame the expats for sterotyping the asian girls? Do I blame the SPGs for bringing bad name to the female population here? Or do I blame the Blair the Bush the Howard and the Merkel? It irks me. The whites think that you are another SPG, the locals think that you are another SPG, the SPGs think that you are another SPG. It is no wonder that sometimes I think I am an SPG too (Okay, the last statement was not true). And because I don't know them I can't perform my aikido moves on them lest the police consider me a public hazard and proceed to handcuff me.

When I landed back here five years ago I was crossing the street and saw this fat-arsed caucasian crossing the street swaggering. I repeat: swaggering. I took a double look because I haven't seen anybody swagger in real lives before. Not in London, not in Paris not even in Sydney and excuse me, this guy here is swaggering? My mind immediately listed the following questions:
(a) Good looking? Answer: no
(b) Stylish? Answer: no
(c) Cool? Answer: no
(d) Smart? Answer: not too sure
(e) Rich? A: looks like some redneck just winning a lottery

I thought it was going to be a one-off incident unti I spotted many more of them dotted all over the island. Well, they mostly congregate at certain spots, for example, like the club above. I mean, these guys are probably invisible back home and upon landing on this exotic island paradise they are deemed god whose feet the tribe worships.

Maybe I should open a pedicure shop catered to them. I would then employ people to wash, pamper and beautify their feet so that they (the feet) will be more pleasant to be worshipped at.

All Style but Nothing Else

2006-09-08T14:48:00.000+08:00

Yesterday my iPhoto was officially declared dead. It went into coma about a month ago and since I thought it could easily be rebooted or restored to factory setting, I had left it in its coma state until yesterday when I finally had time to bring it to the Apple doctor.

The attendant behind the counter took a look at it, keyed in its serial number and told me, "Your iPod is past its warranty period."

I said, "Okay, so how much do you charge for repair?"

The attendant stared at the monitor screen and said, "Apple does not offer repair service for iPod. We can only order for replacement but it will cost you S$400-S$500 for one."

I said, wait, I got my iPod only a year and a half ago.

"Sorry ma'am, there's nothing we can do."

I had wished to hammer his head with my iPod but since I knew it was not his fault I abstained. I looked at him (angrily I hope) and said to him, "So basically you are telling me that Apple makes products that last for a year and that this thing is practically a junk now?"

He nodded, still staring at the screen, and said, "But some people have theirs for 3-4 years."

I forced a thank you and walked off in anger.

That bloody iPod of mine cost more than S$850 when I first got it and now it's dead. Just like that. If I knew that the manufacturer sees it as an annually disposable junk I would have settled for less. I've never expected it to last me to the golden age but three year durability is not much to ask. I've never trashed it around or have it submerged in water. I've treated it with care and considerable tenderness. And now that it walked out of my life it is just a piece of metal junk. Maybe I can reuse it as an expensive portable mirror or maybe I should just build a shrine to it.

On comparison, my panasonic CD Player has been with me for six years and my Sony Walkman, for as long as I can remember.

Obviously I am not the only one felt screwed and pissed here.

I find this comment on Engadget:

"Apple has an unethical hold on the flash memory market, and in doing so has created a monopoly, they create a product for nill and sell it for gobs of profit, and because other companies can't get those ball-bustingly low prices on Flash, they have to price equally to compete, selling at a loss even. There's nothing better about the iPod, limited formats, disgusting iTunes quality, a battery situation that has remained stupid and consumer unfriendly since its debut so many years ago, not to mention it has done almost Nothing to improve itself by comparison to the Zen."

To think that I was so in love with anything Apple.

I received this mail from the corporation too about a week ago. It reads:

IMPORTANT SAFETY RECALL

Dear Apple Customer:

Apple has determined that certain lithium-ion rechargeable batteries containing cells manufactured by Sony Corporation of Japan pose a safety risk that may result in overheating. The affected batteries were sold worldwide, in systems and separately, from October 2003 through August 2006 for use with the following computers: 12-inch iBook G4, 12-inch PowerBook G4, 15-inch PowerBook G4.

Issue: The affected batteries could overheat, posing a fire hazard. Apple received nine confirmed reports in the United States of these batteries overheating. Apple urges you to stop using your battery and to order a replacement battery immediately. After removing the recalled battery from the iBook or PowerBook, you should plug in the AC adapter to power the computer until a replacement battery arrives.

Overheating batteries that pose fire hazard? What am I dealing with here? Dodgy product disguised in sleek plastic shell?

I am disillusioned. My blind loyalty to all sleek and style had proved me an impractical fool. iPeople, I hereby tender my resignation from the club.

So Says Shins

2006-09-06T15:57:00.000+08:00

This video is from my favourite group The Shins.

In the movie Garden State the character Sam said to Andrew: "You gotta hear this one song, it'll change your life I swear." I first heard this song from the surf movie Shelter. It didn't change my life. But when I listened to the lyrics I fell for it. And for the Shins.

Sometimes I feel that music helps one get through life. I can't imagine living in a world without music. I know of a friend who hardly listens to music. I asked him once if he doesn't miss listening to music and he said no. For the last two years he's here he'd rather listen to CNBC news than a song. I think Man is inseparable from music. Prehistoric tribes have music. Even monkeys have been witnessed to beat on hollow logs. And don't forget that bird sings.

Then again I don't understand how some songs ever written can be passed as audible, let alone music. Songs that made me all cringe. I remembered listening to America's Top 40 years back and when some songs were declared top, I cringed and wondered how on earth some people listen to music. So when I watched on MTV the programme titled Worst Top 40 Hits I thanked god that at least I'm not the only one crying for justice here.

A few months ago I let a friend listen to my Kings of Convenience cds.

After a few songs, he enthusiastically reached over for his CD bag and told me that if I like KoC I would definitely love this particular group.

So he put his CD into the player and pressed Play. I waited.

The music of Gypsy King filled the air. I was astounded. He was looking at me expectantly.

I said to him, "Isn't this Gypsy King?" He said with wide eyes, "Yeah! Do you like it?"

I can't blame him. He's from North Carolina and he listens to Bon Jovi and the likes.

Salt Water Dreaming

2006-09-03T20:23:00.000+08:00

That's my friend Juan, the guy on the left. He just mailed me these photos which were taken when he was back in Zarautz last September. Notice the lack of conspicuous big brands or the latest patented-cut shorties, just basic boardshorts that do the job. Classic revisited, old school cool.

Funny to think how when I first knew Juan I knew all along that he surfs. But since I have not been acquainted with the addictive nature of wave riding yet, I didn't pay much attention to it. Today I found out that he had been surfing for half of his life. And manoeuvres and tricks so elusive to me are peanuts to him. Hit the lip? Easy. Cutback? Chill.

Looking at these photos make me sick.

I've had worse withdrawal symptoms before where I literally felt like a junkie confined in a rehab. Each time when I had to board the plane at the end of my surf trip I felt like clawing and digging my nails at the nearest person that offends me. Unfortunately no one had managed to offend me yet when such needs arise. Thus I would be made to contain the violent restlessness to myself. During such time I would feel within my own body the quiver of every inch of my muscles for that one more ride. It was a painful and unbearable period. I would have rolled from side to side if not for my fellow air passengers. The symptom would last for about a week or so until eventually my system is cleared of any salt water molecules and I would be able to operate normally as a good land citizen once again.

Four more weeks.

Four more weeks and I should be able to feel my board under my feet again.

Lightness of Being

2006-09-02T19:45:00.000+08:00

So I survived my weekend snorkelling trip a fortnight ago.

By allowing only raw food, ginger tea, and distilled water into my system I have cured myself in two days instead of the normal four to five days. Okay I did cheat a little, I went to have massage.

Chinese medicine stipulates Qi as the vital energy that goes round one's body and if this Qi is blocked or become stagnant, sickness sets in. I deduce that since my Qi is stagnant I would need some unblocking to do. A bit like a jammed sewer. Hence I dragged myself to the nearest massage parlour down the hill from my apartment despite the embarassingly drippy nose.

The masseuse lady did a wonderful oily balinese massage to me. It was great. But it was the following day's massage, where I opted for a shiatsu, that I felt all traffic jams in my system were finally cleared. It felt like green lights all the way to manhattan. I felt light as a spring chicken, ready to make little hops and run around in circles. In fact I felt as if I was ready to fly.

Fly I did not. But run I did, for I was running late for the 7.15pm meeting time at the Queen Street bus terminal.

Hence my very own personal recipes to cure a common cold:
1. Eat only raw vegetables and fruit. No soup no porridge.
2. Drink ginger tea sweetened with honey throughout the day.
3. When not drinking ginger tea, drink distilled water.
4. Pop vit c pills like there is no tomorrow.
5. Switch off the air conditioner, wear a scarf around your neck and sweat it all out.
6. Sleep like a pig, if you can.
7. Go for that massage/ reflexology until you feel well.

I know. It definitely costs more than those over the counter cold relief pills. But at least you are not shortchanging your body in the long term.

The Road Less Trodden

2006-08-17T10:45:00.000+08:00

I had to get ill last night when my weekend snorkelling trip is just around the corner. What do you call this? No rest for the wicked? It never rains it pours? Whatever. But it irritated the hell out of me. I thought hard of all my recent previous points of contacts to pinpoint exactly when and whom the virus was transmitted from . And I am certain that it must be from this innocent sip I took from Colin's drink just yesterday evening!!! Now I recall that he had a bad bout of cold just days before. No thanks to my own greed I forgot all about it when gleefully taking sips from the same straw that he used! Choices have consequences. Normally I should have been able to ride the storm but my lack of sleep the past few nights did not exactly foster my immune system to be a well prepared army. I must get well again, and since I shun the likes of panadol and its family, I will go the narrow, arduous and winding road of natural therapy to recovery.

On normal days I would have masochistically enjoyed being down with cold or fever: the wrenching ache of your fingertips, the torturous zing of splashes of cold water or that gush of chill wind that got onto you, the constant damp perspiration on the back of your tee-shirt, the spaced out head you get to wear all day, and I would have observed. I would have sat back and observed how my little immune system soldiers fought the raging war until four five days later I would emerge the undisputed winner.

But that is only when I have the luxury of time. Or when I was still under nine-to-five employment where I could take medical leaves so as to save myself from seeing my imbecile ex-bosses. Right now I don't have the time. I want my recovery to come save me, zap me out of this pain, pronto.

For the whole day I ate almost nothing save the few bits of raw almonds, one organic apple, two slices of water melon, a spoonful of korean kimchi and slices of ginger. I felt fine and surprisingly not at all hungry. I gulped copious amount of distilled water and downed cups of ginger tea. The revered ginger has been used by Chinese herbalists for generations to treat colds and flu, and it has been confirmed by modern studies that ginger helps kill the influenza virus and helps the immune system wage war on infection. I almost cried in gratitude for such healing powers this not very pretty and humble plant's willingness to bestow upon me its curative powers.

My mother would have said I'm crazy. Why all the bother when one can just pop by one's doctor and get a relief immediately. Or just purchase those over the counter cold relief. But she's missing the point here. To rely on your body's own power to heal is a liberating experience.