The Gig Is (Not) Up.

Rock never die.

A friend of mine used to say that back when we were in school, hanging out at the 9th floor with his guitar in hand.

Last weekend I witnessed this fact when I went to watch my friend Nigel play at the Esplanade. It was a reunion of his old band, Steel City Skies, and also a set by his new band, If.

Now, the first thing I noticed when I got there was the crowd. There was Nigel, playing his heart out like he was rocking to a thousand-strong crowd at The Brixton Academy when in actuality, I could probably count the number of people there with my fingers and toes. What struck me though, was also the age group; there were men and women in their 30s and kids that were probably barely 10 years old. Granted, there were a few teens but not enough to constitute any sort of young-ish crowd.

Strange? I thought so.

In any case, I watched on as they played and then Bhaskar did a solo set, during which time I had a kid run past me being chased by his dad. Only difference? I knew the guy.

The dad, not the kid.

There he was, beer in hand, grunged-up berms and a Jason Newsted undercut circa 1989.

And carrying his kid in his arms.

His kid!!!??

I had definitely seen the dude before and I think we even moshed once at a Boredphucks gig at Moods back in the day. He still looked the same, albeit a little older, heavier and more creased (if ever a human being could be creased.)

But that wasn’t what scared me.

What scared me was that he seemed to be looking at me too, and what scared me about that was that it looked like he had the same thoughts about me I was having about him.

We had grown.

Old.

Yikes.

In that moment, we both turned away, ostensibly to revert out attention to Bhaskar’s singing but more, I think, to avoid the inevitable “meet, greet and talk shit about the old days thereby making us feel older” process.

As Bhaskar finished up and Nigel and the boys came out to play out their last few songs, I found myself getting back into the music and thinking – maybe it wasn’t so bad. I mean, we just went away and got older but the situation’s still the same, right? True, we weren’t crowd surfing at Moods but here we were, at yet another gig, listening to another local band rocking out another local set.

And we were enjoying it.

I had the pleasure of meeting one of my heroes once, a musician named Henry Rollins, and he told me that he wants to rock till he ceases to exist. He told me he’d stopped getting tattoos just so that when he’s 60, he’s still got space for more.

I totally dig that.

I guess whatever the age, whatever the situation, we should always find time to rock out. Nothing beats live music and I will continue going to gigs whenever I can, not only to support the local bands, but to be a part of the immortality of music; and whenever I’m a at a gig, all I need to see are the old familiars looking back at me and I’ll know my friend was right all along.

Rock.

Never.

Die.

(cue guitar solo)

A Classy Affair.

There have been many memorable firsts in my life. My first kiss. My first fighting fish fight. My first durian (and my last). Last week, I experienced another first.

My first beer in a cinema.

And like they sing in Sweeney Todd, “God, that’s good!

How’d I end up with a beer at the movies? Well, my wife (bless her soul), gave me a surprise on my birthday. She bought me tickets to a Golden Village Gold Class movie theatre. They cost 30 bucks apiece but boy was it worth the moola.

Now, we’ve all heard about the reclining chairs and the concierge service but have you heard about the blanket?

Yup, that’s what I said. B-L-A-N-K-E-T. Blanket.

As I walked to my seat, lo and behold, there it was. A nice, comfy blanket that covered you from head to toe as you luxuriated in the plush recliners. For some reason, cinemas in Singapore are always too cold and this one was no exception. But it had the blanket – and that made all the difference (my toes are curling just thinking of it.)

Now, I’m a big fan of the movies and going to the cinema but this was ridiculous. We ordered chips, sticky date pudding, ice cream and beer – oh god, the beer. Ostentatious? You bet your ass it was. Check out our table at the end of the evening:

I thought that I could never go back to the common seats ever again

However, midway through the movie, I had what alcoholics call, a moment of clarity (strange though, seeing as how I was inebriated.) I was thinking that this experience was kick-ass but somehow, it didn’t feel like a true movie going experience. The movie was great (Iron Man – wonderful) and everything was peachy but I found myself having a strange memory in my head that I couldn’t get rid of.

When I was eight, my uncle brought me to some of the dingiest movie theatres in Singapore and that’s where I got my cinema education. One particularly dingy one was in Hougang. It’s not longer there and a condo stands in it’s place now but back in the day, it was one of the dodgiest cinemas I’ve ever been to. The seats were made of stretched PVC and they creaked like hell. One time, I put my feet on the floor and stepped right into a puddle of piss. Occasionally during the film, the speakers on one side would crackle and the sound would disappear from them.

The strange thing was, there I was, in my recliner, in what might possibly be the most comfortable movie going experience of my life, and I was thinking about that stinky, sticky cinema in Hougang. Even stranger was that I was thinking how great it was.

I must’ve been drunker than I thought

In any case, regardless of my sobriety, my conclusion is this:

Gold Class is brilliant but nothing beats the feeling of being in a real cinema in joined-row seating, where you can literally hear how the person next to you is breathing. At the end of the day, I think cinema is a living, breathing entity and what infuses the experience with life are the people who go there. With Gold Class, although you get your arm space and leg room, the whole deal is not as communal an experience as cinema should be in my head.

And I’ve always believed that movies are communication from people to people and more importantly, shared by the people.

But of course …

… a little beer at the movies never hurt anyone either, right?

This is my first Gold Class experience but I assure you, it won’t be my last 🙂

Thanks, baby! You da bomb!

Do You Believe In Magic?

I believe in magic.

Not the David Copperfield, Criss Angel (Mindf–k), David Blaine type of trickery. That’s illusion. What I’m talking about is magic. Dictionary.com defines the word “magic” as “a quality that makes something seem removed from everyday life, especially in a way that gives delight.” 

That’s the magic I believe in.

Now, before you start thinking that I’m gonna go all mushy and gooey over the milk of human kindness or some such crap, I’m going to say this – that’s not magic. Hardly. That’s human kindness and goodness and although it’s magical, it’s nowhere near the kind of magic I’m going to talk about in this post.

The magic I experienced this week, happened in a small electronics store in Vivocity. While my wife and mother went wild, bonding over antique tiffin carriers at Tangs, I sneaked out to spend some quality time looking for a proper home theatre system for the new house.

As luck would have it, some roadshow at level 1 was drawing everyone onto the 2nd floor walkway and, fed up with jostling my way through the human sea, I ducked into the aforementioned electronics store and there It was.

Pure magic.

I know what you’re thinking – the dude has finally gone off his rocker; they’re just headphones!!

Just headphones? Oh, how wrong you are. These weren’t just any headphones (and to get real techie on you) these were Active Noise Cancelling Headphones.

Now, I don’t know if it was the crowd or the louder-than-life host or the drumline that was going on downstairs but the moment I put on those babies, everything faded away to nothing and all that was surrounding me were the sweet strains of Liz Phair. I swear, if I closed my eyes, it was like Liz was singing just for me, right into my ear. Nothing else mattered.

That, folks, is pure magic.

Now, I’d seen (okay, heard) Active Noise Cancelling in action before. I remember I was on a train and my friend J-Boss said to me: “Les, you gotta try this shit out. It’s amazing.” Then he slipped a pair of headphones onto my ears. There was no music pumping out from them. Then he looked at me and said: “Ready? Check this out.” He put his hand on my right earpiece and the last thing I hear is a ‘pop’.

Then I went deaf.

No, it wasn’t AFI blasting out at full volume as I had suspected.

It was nothing.

I couldn’t hear the train, I couldn’t hear the guy beside me talking to his friend. Hell, I couldn’t even hear J-Boss telling me how cool it was. I could see all this happening, but I couldn’t hear it.

Needless to say, I freaked out – as we all do when faced with the magical.

That was my first brush with magic. After that, there were several more occasions – at Jay’s shop with the Airplane Wind Tunnel Experiment (a long story for too short a time) and while shopping for Sennheisers with Periwinkle.

I don’t know about you but noise is something we take for granted in today’s world. Recently in the news, there was an article about how the noise level in the world is increasing and how it’s getting harder to find quiet spots anywhere. In our little red dot of an island, that’s almost an impossibility.

That’s why when a device comes along that allows me to have The Killers give me a little private concert in my ears on a crowded rush hour train, I’d say that beats David Copperfield walking through the Great Wall of China while David Blaine levitates over his head and Criss Angel bends a set of steak knives with his mind, hands down.

Needless to say, magic doesn’t come cheap and no, there is no happy ending to this story. Want it as I did, I didn’t buy the headphones. But I think that’s a good thing. Like the definition of magic, the headphones made the listening experience “seem removed from everyday life“. If I bought this piece of magic, it would be a part of my everyday life.

What use then, is magic when you can get it anytime you like?

So I will admire the magic from afar, like all great things. And I will continue to use my cheap-ass earphones and live in the ordinary. I won’t even try to figure out how Active Noise Cancelling works. I’ll just know that it’s magic and it’s there. Like the author Tom Robbins once said:

“Logic only gives man what he needs …

… Magic gives him what he wants.”

 

The Amazing Disappearing Man.

Life is a constant search for the missing.

And last Sunday afternoon, as I was searching for a missing warranty card in my mother’s house (why are these things never around when you need them?) I chanced upon some old photo albums. I opened the first one up and saw a picture from a long time ago. It was from my 3rd birthday party.

And there he was.

In a white short sleeved shirt, dark pants and black glasses. Skinny as hell, just like I have him in my head.

The Amazing Disappearing Man.

Grandpa. Ah Dad. Ah Hoots. He was many things and many names to many people – I knew him as Kong Kong.

I knew him but I never knew him well. I know he was there when I was a kid; there are photos to prove that existence. But in the horizon of my mind, I have only few memories of the Man.

And I know that when I was growing up, I would see him occasionally at my birthday party and some of my cousins’ ones, although I’m not entirely sure.

For the most part though, he was a true master of the Disappearing Act and that’s why I never saw him much.

I remember one occasion where I was in the backseat of my Dad’s car and he pulled to a stop at an awkward junction along Yio Chu Kang Road. Within seconds, a skinny man in a white shirt and dark pants came running. I remember him trying to sneak a glance in as my Dad handed him some money. And I remember a smile forming on that old face of his as our eyes met.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the Amazing Disappearing Man had done it again.

He disappeared. For the next 8 years.

Towards the end of ’96, the Amazing Disappearing Man made his final appearance. I remember seeing him in hospital during that time. My Father never encouraged me to talk to him. I think he was afraid that he would hurt me the way he had hurt them. It was the first time in a long time that I had seen him and probably the first time since I was a child that I had talked to him. He looked at me with an apologetic smile and a humble expression that made me feel awkward, especially with everyone else in the room. I felt like I was meeting a friend of the family, instead of the head of it. I remember the conversation. It was formal and he asked about my studies. Up till then, I had only known him from family photo albums and scattered memories at best.

After his discharge from the hospital, my uncles had a family meeting and decided that it was in his best interest for him to be put into a nursing home. A week later, the Amazing Disappearing Man pulled his final disappearing act.

I guess some birds were never meant to be caged.

Now, looking through the photographs, what’s amazing about it all, is that this Amazing Disappearing Man pulled off his final disappearing act perfectly.

To paraphrase Michael Caine in Christopher Nolan’s wonderful film The Prestige –

“Making something disappear isn’t enough. You have to bring it back. And that’s why every magic trick has a third act. The hardest part. The part we call The Prestiege.”

And that he has pulled off. Right now, the Amazing Disappearing Man is as clear as day in my mind’s eye. In life, he disappeared. But after it, I see him all the time.

I see him in the smile of my Dad as he digs in to a good meal. I see him in the way my cousin’s eyes crinkle when she laughs. And most of all, I see him in my own reflection in the mirror, all day, everyday.

The Amazing Disappearing Man is finally here to stay.

Like I said – life is a constant search for the missing. Sometimes you lose a warranty card, sometimes you find a Grandfather.

Isn’t life great that way?

Now where’s that damn warranty card?

Mobile Madness.

An article in an Australian newspaper this week reported that the government of the Austrian city of Graz has just begun to urge it’s citizens to put their mobiles to “silent mode” when they’re commuting on the train.

Following the the footsteps of France’s National Railway which has instituted “zen zones” in compartments in it’s TGV bullet trains, many welcome the idea while even more are up in arms about it. Some say it’s a violation of the freedom of speech rights. Others think it’ll make a more pleasant commute in an otherwise noisy and crowded bus or train.

In a country where mobile phones are said to outnumber people 2:1 …

… I think that public transport is the least of our worries as far as noise level is concerned. 

Sure, I think that long commute home where you can’t get a seat would be made more bearable if you didn’t have to put up with:

1) The auntie in the D&G knockoff gold pants yakking on her jewel encrusted mobile with the Chanel phone dangler about how she just queued up for 2 hours outside the LV store in Taka just to get in.

2) The wanna be hip-hop superstar with the baggy pants and the Moto RAZR, blasting 50 Cent out the side of his phone speaker for the world to hear.

3) The teenager on the phone with his girlfriend who just alighted at the last train stop – he misses her already (awww … makes me wanna frickin’ throw up.)

Those are just three disturbances I have when taking the train – all of which I can just slip on my earphones, crank up the Yeah Yeah Yeahs on the iPod and forget about them.

So restricting mobile chatter on the train? For the birds, if you ask me.

Now, if you’re talking about the cinema, that’s where I would stand up and say, let those cinema mobile users burn in frickin’ hell.

A few weeks ago, at a screening of Sweeney Todd, I was treated to a yakking bitch from hell who had a relationship with her mobile some would deem unnatural.

The movie starts and immediately, we’re in 18th century London, gritty, grimy, Tim Burton-style dark. I’m loving it. Then all of a sudden, I’m hit by the brightest light I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Remember the part in Independence Day where all those people are on the roof of the Chrysler Building and the alien spaceship opens up and revealing this great blue/white light?

That’s what this woman’s phone was like – I shit you not.

Anyway, turns out that Miss Yakkety’s phone is pimped out, complete with airplane landing strip lights that come on and blind everyone around her in what I can only assume to be an anti-assailant device. And that’s just when she got an SMS.

So fine – she messages furiously, blinds me seventeen times in the process, and then finishes, to my relief.

So another 10 minutes past and I’m getting into the movie again when all of a sudden, amid Johnny Depp’s opening number, I hear One Republic’s “Apologize“, drowning out all audio from the movie.

I hate One Republic.

This goes on for at least another 10 seconds while Miss Y searches frantically for her phone. With those flashing lights, why do you even need to search? I bet you can see that damn thing from space.

So finally, she finds it and to my extreme horror, yup, you guessed it – she answered.

What follows is an exchange that we’ve all heard before and I’ll replicate it verbatim here for the benefit of those who still don’t know what I’m talking about:

Miss Yak (whispering loudly):

Hello? Ya … watching movie.

(louder whisper) WAT-CHING-MOO-VIE! Ya … cinema.

(even louder whisper) CI-NE-MA!

I wanted to suck her eyeballs out through her nose and dangle them from her phone like some latest Lian accessory- why do people even insist on answering their phones?

I’ll never understand.

So if you ask me, I’m cool if you wanna talk in the train, however loudly you want. Sing, dance, bitch, moan, whatever – I don’t care. But my patience really ends when you bring it into the cinema.

So to whoever’s in charge out there, I say penalize the bastards who do that. Strap them to a chair and make them listen to Rihanna’s “Umbrella” as a polyphonic ringtone a thousand times over. Or maybe blind them with Miss Yak’s mobile alien landing site. Let’s have silence where it belongs and noise where it should stay.

Call me on my mobile if you disagree with this post – all you’ll get is a busy signal 🙂

Rude Rojak.

Everyday, a man rides in on a motorcycle to my void deck and stops in the middle. He then sounds a horn several times and before long, streams of eager aunties and the heartland like pile up around a large box mounted behind his motorcycle, waving their money at him, dying for their fix.

No, this is not some dope dealer or neighbourhood pirated DVD seller. He is, however, doing something that in the eyes of the Singapore law, is equally illegal. He is an unlicensed hawker and his food of choice is the quintessential Singapore creation – Rojak.

As far back as I can remember (and I’ve been living in this estate since I was 17, which makes it 14 years, which makes me … how old? Forget it) Mr. Illegal Rojak Man has always been peddling his stickily sweet creations under my block, managing to avoid the law for who knows how long as well.

On afternoons when I would come home from short days in school, I bought many a packet from him. I loved the whole DIY nature of his rojak. Basically, the ingredients would be would be stored compactly in the box on the back of his bike, which, when opened, formed a makeshift preparation table. On this table would be a ceramic mixing bowl in which he mixed in the sweet sauce, peanuts and everything else. And his secret ingredient would be stored in a non-descript plastic jar. It was some murky water that he mixed in with every serving of rojak. Many a customer has speculated as to the contents of this water and among the conclusions are limejuice, lemonade and even lemongrass water.

I shudder to think what it actually is.

Anyway, enough about his rojak. Let’s talk about the man who we shall call Mr. Rojak.

This guy is an asshole in every sense of the word.

Seriously.

I know people always talk about old people from their past and especially street hawkers that they’ve known for years and whose food they grew up on and they talk about them in affectionate and oftentimes enduring tones; for Mr. Rojak, that kind of talk is for the birds.

This dude is mean, surly and generally pissed off all of the time.

When I first met him, he barked at me when I couldn’t decide on what I wanted to add into my rojak. Subsequent visits comprised of him yelling at me because I was too specific and “difficult” with my orders, giving me grief for giving him money that was too old and sometimes, ignoring my orders with a vengeance. Now, lest you start thinking that this behaviour is exclusively reserved for me, I have seen him dish out this same crap to other customers as well, so you can be assured that it’s not me – it’s him.

In fact, it was with great risk that I took these pictures of him. If he ever found out about these pictures or, worse still, this blog entry about him, I have no doubt that he would run me over with his motorcycle and baste my lifeless body in sweet sauce for the birds to pick out of the concrete.

I believe that would put a huge smile on his craggy face. Sadist.

But then again, it’s been 14 years and everytime I’m at the void deck and he’s there, I have to buy a packet of rojak from him. Someone once told me that the higher powers that be are fair. If that’s the case, his flair for making rojak more than makes up for his being an asshole about everything else. The trappings of culinary genius? I guess so.

So next time you’re around Serangoon North Avenue 1 and you hear a motorcycle, a horn and a snarl, stop by for a while, swallow your pride and buy a bag from him. It’s sweet, it’s savoury, it’s rich, full-bodied, full-textured and Uniquely Singaporean (STB don’t sue me).

It’s Rude Rojak and I love it.

I’d like my coffee (Jack) black, please.

Since America dropped the bomb on the Land of the Rising Sun, Japan has increasingly been embracing them in ways that they could never have imagined.

Why do I say that? Well, I recently stumbled upon something in a Japanese supermarket that I frequent (yes, I am a big fan of cold soba noodles and the occasional green tea biscuit) which got me thinking about that. I was walking the aisles, trying to figure out the difference between the $6 and $5 bottles of Soba sauce when it struck me (the image, not the Soba sauce bottles). This is what I saw:

Jack Black Mocha Blend canned coffee.

How strange is that?!!

I must admit, it could’ve just been a coincidence of naming; I mean, it wasn’t like there was Jack Black’s mug posted all over the can – but then again, I’ve been to Tokyo – I know for a fact that if you look left and right in Shibuya – at the world’s busiest intersection – Brad Pitt can be seen peddling Softbank cellphones, Leo DiCaprio is hawking SUVs and Bruce Willis is a die hard Eneos petrol station supporter.

In fact, I’m so enamored by the Bruce Willis Eneos commercial that I’ve posted the YouTube link here for all of you to have a laugh at.

So what is it that makes American stars come to Japan to “bare/sell their commercial souls”?

I suppose it’s easy to explain when you’re a washed-out star like the character that Bill Murray plays in Lost In Translation. It’s obvious that stars like that come to Japan in search of the following two things:

a) A quick paycheck

b) Another shot at fame

Most would say it’s the first reason that’s compelling and not so much the second. I mean, let’s face it, most of the stars would rather be caught without underwear by Perez Hilton than ply the goods they’re unabashedly advertising in Japan. In fact, most of them think that the commercials are cheesy, tacky and generally in poor taste. Just look at Lost In Translation. Can you just hear Bill Murray going:

“For good times, make it Suntori time.”

Ugh.

So it’s the money that drives them to do it, then. It’s reported that Japanese companies pay millions of dollars to Hollywood stars to advertise their products. MILLIONS OF DOLLARS. Yup, I guess that pretty much explains the Bruce Willis fiasco you just saw.

Well, whatever the case for or against the stars, you have to admit, advertising is, in a large part, controlled by the public; in Japan, it’s obvious that America’s hold on them is still pretty strong. Just take a stroll through the streets of Harajuku and you’ll be struck by just how many teenagers have blonde hair / dress up like Elvis Presley / are dancing like Usher. I mean, they even have a statue of Elvis there for God’s sake!

At the end of the day though, you’ll have to admit that it works. It’s the only reason why that can of Sapporo Jack Black Mocha Blend made its way off the shelf of the supermarket onto my desk right now.

I could’ve got Nescafe. I could’ve drunk Pokka. I could’ve had a Coke.

But of course, I’d like my coffee (Jack) black, please.

God, I love the movies!

I remember as a kid, going to the movies with my uncle.

It was always a thrill, like an adventure of sorts. I remember the Star Wars movies or the Stallone action flicks or the inane Crocodile Dundee movies, how the hiss-filled Dolby Stereo sound bounced off the majestic Roman walls of the huge Capitol theatre on North Bridge Road and larger-than-life characters were made even bigger by the towering screen; I felt like I was in the picture instead of just watching it.

Back then, I always wanted to live the life that the characters were living on the screen. I wanted to be Luke Skywalker fighting the evil Empire or I wanted to be Rambo, verbally inadequate, but more than made up for by an arsenal that would put the fear of God into any army in the world. I wanted to be those characters and they lived in my mind long after we left the darkness of the movie theatre and stepped out into the bright sunlight.

Well, these days, everything seems to have changed. The theatres of old have been replaced by the cineplexes of the modern age. Popcorn has replaced Kacang Putih just as computer generated tickets have replaced china graft pencil seat markings on pastel pieces of paper.

In the face of all this technological advancement, has it really changed the way we watch movies?

The question popped into my head as I was watching a movie recently (okay, I was watching a DVD at home) called Someone Like You (it was the wife’s pick – I swear.)

A standard romantic comedy with Hugh Jackman and Ashley Judd, it was quite fluffy indeed. Now halfway through the movie, as Jackman and Judd were pacing about their shared apartment in their underwear, I had what alcoholics call, a moment of clarity.

I realized that I wanted the life they were living.

I wanted to be living in a rent-control, beautifully converted New York city loft apartment with huge windows, lots of natural light and tastefully expensive décor; I wanted a roommate who looked like Ashley Judd, who would walk out of her room in the middle of the night in her underwear and do a cheerleading routine for me while some other sultry nameless woman slept in silence in my room.

This revelation got me thinking – did the movies change? Or did I?

I went from wanting to save the world from the clutches of galactic evil to a spacious, 3 bedroom apartment with wood panel flooring and a modern kitchen and bath.

Did I lose my values somewhere along the way?

Thinking about it, I came to a conclusion – it’s a wish fulfillment thing.

A movie such as Someone Like You has no inherent social message and neither is it positively life-affirming (unless you count Ashley Judd bouncing up and down in her undies – I know some people would, you know who you are) but still I sit through them, entranced sometimes.

Let’s face it – all films serve a purpose.

(yes, even Boa Vs Python serves a purpose – it expounds the dangers of giant snakes, helpful if you ever meet one.)

Goes without saying then, that the same applies for movies like “Someone Like You”, which clue you in to a lifestyle you would like to have. Bad plots and contrived dialogue aside, they do have in them beautiful apartments with gorgeous roommates who prance around in their undergarments bending over fridges looking for day-old Chinese takeout.

So I have lost my values.

Or maybe it’s just my goals that have changed.

Well, I’d like to think of it as the “I-will-never-get-a-lightsabre-in-the-foreseeable-future-so-why-not-lounge-about-in-my-Ikea-nesting-instinct-in-the-meantime” syndrome. I mean, Ikea does exist but you don’t see Darth Vader doing his shopping there do you?

Don’t get me wrong, I still want to be Luke Skywalker and Rambo (okay, maybe not Rambo) all rolled into one but that is a memory from a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

So here are the things I know for sure.

I know I will never look like Hugh Jackman. I know I will never get a roommate as hot as Ashley Judd. I know that the possibility of a $90 a week rent-controlled loft in the Village is quite possibly a pipe dream. However, I also know that I will continue to be suckered into watching movies like Someone Like You simply for the possibility that someday, I might actually be, “someone like them”.

These movies feed your desires and wants.

But that’s what movies are all about right?

Suspension of disbelief is a powerful tool and yes, in the face of implausible circumstances, my disbelief is still suspended for that ninety or so minutes in the theatre. Maybe it’s my determination to milk the most out of the price of my movie tickets but I’d like to think that someday, I will have that New York loft, complete with the beautiful roommate (whom my wife doesn’t mind – just kidding, dear) who lounges around in her underwear and yes, if evil does come a-knockin’ at my lavishly wood-paneled door, I will have my trusty lightsabre ready to go at a moments notice.

God, I love the movies.

Happy(meal) Birthday!

As I crouch over in the carpark looking for the 4 damned dried leaves, a million thoughts run through my head.

I think about:

a) My place in life;

b) The 3 delivery boys in the corner, smoking and judging me at the same time; and

c) What a 31 year old adult male like myself is doing on his hands and knees, sifting through dried leaves in a car park in Kallang.

Of course – the weekend never started out like that – they never do. It started with an invitation to a MacDonald’s birthday party from my friend, Lydia Wong.

Now, mind you, the last time I attended one of these things, I was 9 years old and it was my party. My parents who had never given me so much as a Matchbox toy car for the past 8 birthdays, decided to let loose, throw caution to the wind, and throw me a party under those famous Golden Arches.

These are the 3 specific things I remember of that party:

1) A nice young waitress (MacDonald’s crew member, as they call them these days), teaching me that by sticking my straw into my Fillet-O-Fish patty to make holes in it, it would cool down faster and I would be able to eat it quickly.

2) A cool (okay, not so cool) Ronald MacDonald Birthday Boy cardboard hat that I wore around the house for a month after the party – huge bragging rights!

3) Emptying a coke all over Jing Shen, my then best friend, because he sat next to Wendy, my “girlfriend”, and refused to move. (We have not spoken to this day – Jing Shen, whichever therapist’s chair you’re on right now, I’m sorry.)

Aside from those 3 things, I also remember having a blast – hanging out with my friends, making lots of noise and playing musical chairs – it was a great time.

So, it was with these happy memories that I headed down to the Kallang MacDonald’s Restaurant; naturally, I was quite excited.

Upon arriving, I was struck by how much hadn’t changed since I was 9. The party room had pretty much the same layout, chairs and tables in a U-shape, boom box playing children’s tunes and stickers of Grimace, the Hamburglar, Birdie and Ronald MacDonald all over the walls. It was a blast from the past.

The only difference was that I was bigger – I felt like Gulliver in Liliput. But that was just the physical difference – the mental difference had yet to hit me.

We placed our orders and after some griping about how we’d all essentially paid $15 to eat a $5 MacDonald’s meal, the birthday girl finally arrived. Obviously, she was surprised – it was a surprise party and she’d always wanted a MacDonald’s one since she was a little girl – awww …

So everything was peachy, Lydia was happy and we were satiated with Big Macs and Cokes.

Until Top Cat came out.

And the games started.

(Yes, the games.)

Before we go into all that, I want to talk a bit about Top Cat. Now, this is a woman who’s name escapes me. I know she was Top Cat only because that’s what her nametag said. Being the smarty-pants that I was, I immediately begin quizzing her about how one gets to become Top Cat at MacDonald’s and if it meant that she had authority over Ronald himself.

I genuinely wanted to know.

Top Cat was not amused.

So, off to a rocky start with Top Cat firing MacDaggers into my back, we begin the games. First one was pretty tame – we all had to sing Happy Birthday to Lydia, as loud as we could – simple right? Second one was a slightly more involved version of musical chairs but with hula hoops placed on the floor – a bit like musical chairs meets Twister – we dug it. But the third game … you know how they say “3rd time’s the charm?”

I’d like the knock the teeth out of the guy who coined that phrase.

Top Cat handed us two lists and told us, in no uncertain terms, that we had to get all the objects on the list.

From people and places not involved in the party whatsoever.

Uh-huh.

Silence blankets the room as we all stare at each other – is she for real?

As if to answer our question, Top Cat chirps irritatingly: “So, what’re you guys waiting for? If you don’t do this, there’ll be no cake!”

So, like good, albeit inordinately large children, we head out of the party room to make complete fools of ourselves. Which is how I found myself on my hands and knees on the floor of the Kallang MacDonald’s carpark, scrounging for Item No. 16: 4 dried leaves.

To add insult to injury, I look up to the sky, as if searching for an answer and see a statue of Ronald MacDonald looking down at me with a big, fat smile.

Brilliant.

To cut a long story short, I managed to get my 4 dried leaves, the delivery boys got their laugh at me and with slightly bruised knees and battered ego, I went back into the party room and finished off the game.

The next half an hour came and went with some other peripheral activites like Lydia singing “Baa Baa Black Sheep” in front of bemused MacDonald’s counter staff and us doing an odd conga-line of sorts to a cover version of the Eurhythmics ‘”Sweet Dreams” – quite the surreal experience. To top it all off, we had birthday cake (a cleverly disguised Sara Lee chocolate confection with MacDonald’s characters pasted on the top) and all ate with a sigh of relief when Top Cat finally left the room.

 

So at the end of it all, did I enjoy myself? Yes.

Would I do it again? Maybe.

Am I Lovin’ It?

Only if Top Cat thinks I should be.

 

HAPPY(MEAL) BIRTHDAY, LYDIA!

And the years shall run like rabbits …

A poet named W.H. Auden once said, “And the years shall run like rabbits“. Watching my 2 furry house guests, I can just imagine how those years might run.

 

Yes, as you can tell by the picture, I am currently playing host to 2 rabbits, named Bright and Ginger. They were my wife’s pets before we got married and now, my sister-in-law (her sister) has inherited them. Due to an overly complicated situation which involved my sister-in-law heading out to China for a shoot (which never happened), we volunteered our rabbit-sitting services and bunny-napped the pair a week ago.

Now, I’ve known Ginger for about 3 years now and before I knew her, I was acquainted with her father, Rare-Bit, whom I also bunny-sat for about 2 weeks while his owner was saving the environment in Albania. As for Bright, I’ve known him for about 2 1/2 years, since the time we got him as a present / boyfriend for Ginger.

Ginger is a teh tarik-coloured bunny with a luscious shiny coat of fur, sharp nose and clean feet. She is athletic, wildly intelligent and highly curious. Having been fed off the milk of human kindness ever since she was a wee bunny, Ginger is a little bit of a princess and a prodigy at the same time. And she’s got the attitude to boot.

Bright, on the other hand, is truly a Mad Max of the rabbit world. According to the House Rabbit Society whom we got him from, he was found wandering around a carpark in Bedok Reservoir, his fur bleached from extended exposure to the sun and fending off random attacks from hostile grasshoppers gangs. He’s got a grubby coat of dark grey fur, a rounder nose and feet that won’t ever seem to clean up.

 

 

 

 

Both rabbits are toilet-trained (yes, they can be trained to poop and pee in a litter pan like cats and dogs) and are growing up on a diet of chopped vegetables, food pellets and rolled oats.

Observing Bright and Ginger for the last 3 years or so, I’ve come to notice that even in animals, there is evidence of human-like behaviour. One striking example is the fact that Bright always lowers his head as if to “ask” Ginger to groom him. In these moments, I swear, sometimes, Ginger has that look of “just because I groom you doesn’t mean I have to like it, you old coot” – but she grooms him anyway – just like an old married couple. Amazing.

The other thing I’ve observed about them is that Ginger has an innate sense of curiosity and always wants to leave the confines of the pen. Whenever we open it up, Ginger’s the first to dash out of there, eager to explore the big ‘ol wide world.

Bright, on the other hand, is more laid-back. He’s a rabbit after my own heart and he hangs back quite a bit, contented in the pen, chilling with his celery bites and oat bowl.

I’m not sure but I think it’s a case of that he’s seen how the world is – how the world can be – and he knows the good life when he sees it. In here, he doesn’t have to scrounge for food or avoid predators. In here, a grooming is just a bow away. It’s paradise. He probably looks at Ginger and her little “explorations” and thinks how she’s so naively wanting to get out – just because she doesn’t know what out is like.

As I sit here and watch the rabbits scamper over the kitchen floor, an old Eddie Murphy joke that I heard when I was 16 comes to mind in which a bear wipes his ass with a rabbit. I also think about countless rabbit foot jokes I’ve heard over the years, especially ones about how we can’t rely on them as lucky charms because they didn’t work out too well for the rabbit. And then I think about when I first got to know the little runts. And I think of the next ten minutes I’ll spend coaxing Bright and Ginger out of the dark corner between the wall and the back of the washing machine.

Auden was right – the years do, and will, run like rabbits.