Wanna Die?

Forgive me as I try to review a movie I have watched 6 years too late.

Even more so, when I am a little tipsy from a 6-pack of beer. Although I am seriously contemplating driving out to get myself some Shochu. In the spirit of this fantastic 2001 Korean love story I suppose.



I won't give you a lengthy discourse on its merits though. Suffice to say that three things became apparent to me as I oogled the lovely, and I mean lovely, Jun Ji-Hyun strut her sassy (some say bizarre) stuff that made the world fall in love with her. For those of you who have caught the movie way before me, you will perhaps have an inkling of what I mean.

Firstly, you can never get rid of memories of a lost love. Closure sometimes eludes you forever. Often, looking for and finding the traits of that lost love in another person is, in equal parts, both blissful and bitter. It takes courage to walk away and reflect. And the concept of fate in reel life always supercedes our expectations in real life. If only destiny were that conveniently fulfilled and glossed over.

In the movie, the words 'Wanna Die?' when mutterd by that Sassy Girl to her cute boyfriend actually bizzarely means 'I Love You'. Such poignant hilarity (for lack of a better oxymoron) shows us how sometimes, we all hide behind our fiesty facades of violent contentment.

Why, I don't know.

Flies From Heaven

It was a veritable United Nations of sorts today at the Novena.

The both of us were flanked by 2 Negros. At the front pew, there sat a French family with their fidgety boy who was doodling in the hymn book. Behind, we thought the Cantonese accent sounded unmistakably Hong Kong. And everywhere outside, spilling over from the main Church hall, there were hordes of Filipinas. Undoubtedly pious domestic help on their day off.

Father Whatshisname was Indian. He said so at the beginning of his short sermon on the Parable of the Pharisee and Tax-collector. And because his voice reverberated throughout the cavernous hall from a lousy microphone, she nudged me and whispered, I can't catch a word he's saying.

Sometimes, you meet someone you haven't seen in ages and somehow, the conversation just picks up where it was left off years ago. The talk comes easy. The banter, familiar. You sit there, after everything is over, and smile to youself. Content in the knowledge that somethings never change. Even decades later.

Apart from attending 4 Weddings and a Funeral, I haven't stepped into a Catholic church for mass in the past 22 years. And yet the ritual repartee the congregation shared with the Man-in-charge at the altar today seemed so yesterday. It was as if I knew, instinctively, how to respond with a well-placed Amen or This is the Word of the Lord. Standing, kneeling, cupping hands in prayer, on cue.

We slipped out when the rest left their seats for Communion. With the question, Will God let me live till I am 50 ?, somewhat left un-answered.

Perhaps deservedly so.

Nir Mana?

I think this is a nice photo of a seated Buddha at Ayutthaya’s Wat Yai Chai Mongkol Chedi.



A cloudless blue sky.

The iconic juxtaposition of ancient stone.

Next week, I hope I get this in my viewfinder.

Uh Oh

Two of hearts, lace and satin, something in the air
Feel like another crook that's been captured by your stare

Uh-oh, uh-oh
Falling in love, falling in love again
Uh-oh, uh-oh, and I don't wanna no, no, no
Uh-oh, uh-oh, falling in love, falling in love again
Uh-oh, uh-oh, falling, falling

Jealous feelings, reappearing, such a wicked dare
I'm just so damned confused and I wonder, do you care?

Uh-oh, uh-oh
Falling in love, falling in love again
Uh-oh, uh-oh, and I don't wanna no, no, no
Uh-oh, uh-oh, falling in love, falling in love again
Uh-oh, uh-oh, falling, falling

Like walking in the park
Or dancing in the dark
Just wanna hold you
Throughout the night

Prince of fire, sweet desire, with your Devil may care
Release me from your spell
I don't want this, love ain't fair

I'm falling in love again
Uh-oh, uh-oh
Falling in love
Uh-oh, uh-oh, falling, falling
Uh-oh, uh-oh, falling in love, falling in love again
Uh-oh, uh-oh, falling in love, falling in love again
Uh-oh, uh-oh, falling in love, falling in love again uh-oh, uh-oh
And I don't wanna no, no, no
Uh-oh, uh-oh, falling in love, falling in love again
Uh-oh, uh-oh, falling, falling....

Unkster Unwound - CD of The Week

Stacey Kent has become somewhat of my secret weapon.

The New Jersey born, England-resident, Jazz vocalist will be whipped out for those sad occasions when a soft, plaintive voice is needed to set the mood for some self-pity. Listen to her bittersweet Little Girl Blue and tell me you won't be flushed with melancholy.

But lest you think Stacey's all 'Tears For Fears', she's not so one-dimensional lah. Which is more than I can say about the other Jazz-diva, Diana Krall, who, from certain angles, resembles a Klingon maidservant.



Ms Kent's lastest offering on newly-joined Blue Note Record's Breakfast On The Morning Tram, features more cool, American-Songbook-like tracks written by her hubby, Jazz Tenor-Saxophonist Jim Tomlinson. Interestingly, 4 tracks from the album were also co-written with Japanese-born, British novelist Kazuo Ishiguro (He of The Remains of The Day fame) who I think contributed with the lyrics.

And like Mr Ishiguro, Stacey's got me hooked, not necessarily now when I only feel like wallowing.

Because she makes even a Louie Armstrong classic sound good.

There

She cried
When no one would take her side
He knew she was bare
And so had to be there

She faltered
Sometimes when it mattered
He tried to be fair
But then again and again, was always there

As time went
Feelings gave way to vent
Under the glare
Of the persons closest, who were rightfully there

Then she went away
With nary a breath or a sway
T'was painful, that tear
Strangely, he would still be there

Her sudden words today
Ought to be kept at bay
But can one not care?
When not so long ago he promised, I'll Be There

987 Stripped

Geez has it been 18 years?

Since 98.7FM has rocked the airwaves. Gawd for a radio station that plays Top 40 stuff for teenyboppers (and, ahem, young-at-hearts), its a little ironic that they're so Jurassic. I remember Say It With Music keeping me company throughout my O's man. Way back in 1989.



Anyway, I have been tuning in to '987 Stripped' with Shan Wee lately on Saturdays and Sundays from 4-5pm. No the kewt boy doesn't strip. He just plays excellent Unplugged stuff in all their naked, soothing, melancholy-ness.

This one, on UnkFM now, nearly made me collide (with a lorry) yesterday.

Keke =)

The D.C

Statisticians call it Sampling.

You know, randomly picking out a few individuals from a big group and looking out for a particular trait, which, if present in adequate numbers, is deemed to be a representation of the population in question.

I joke that if the Ministry of Community Development, Youth and Sports (this Sports thing is a stupid, Wannabe appendage added on as a conveniently vain after-thought) were to take a particular circle of my friends as a sample of Marital Bliss in sufficiently successful 30-somethings, I think the dear Minister would have his work cut out for him. There are 6 of us. And by some cruel stroke of fate, not divine intervention (but a couple would beg to differ), we are all divorced. Yes, a Divorce Club if you like, the D.C. Not to be confused with the other D.C straddled in between the states of Maryland and Virginia. My D.C wanted to plan a trip to visit D.C. But that was a month ago and I am being really corny.

Its an unspoken support group of sorts. Where thankfully, there is no pitiful reminiscing of the good 'ole times or lots of Wallowing Whisky. OK I take that back. There is some Scotch involved but always in a happy, drunken stupor kinda way. Geddit? Instead, we concentrate on biking, trying to fill our dull Saturday evenings with makan at new places or a night out clubbing and generally try to be there for each other when the going gets, err, lonely.

We are thinking of expanding, since we need 5 more to start a football team. But recognise that that would not be in line with National objectives. We're all for Make-Ups, not Break-Ups. Although we giggle that we have the latter to thank for bringing us together. Oh yes the irony.

And now, one of us is down. Like a fallen platoon mate shot in the foot and who can proceed no more into this Jungle we call Life. It is as if fate has not been sufficiently unkind, so it has to deal another awful deck of cards to the sextet of sorry Poker losers. Just for kicks.

The D.C is sad. But we'll rather be shot ourselves then to leave one of us out there alone with a festering wound.

The Chinook is on its way. We're sure of it.

Me Too

There is a scene, in the 2003 British movie Love Actually, where Karen (Emma Thompson), breaks down privately in her bedroom after opening a Christmas present from her husband Harry (Alan Rickman). Instead of finding the expensive necklace she had earlier stumbled upon in his coat pocket, she tears away at the packaging to reveal a copy of Joni Mitchell's Both Sides Now. For your continuing emotional education, he says. She now knows that Harry is having an affair.

Karen weeps briefly but the pain is really palpable. Emma's a wonderful actress. She then manages to compose herself sufficiently to attend the kids' Nativity school-play with Harry. He is none the wiser. But she's an emotional wreck inside.

I imagine a friend having gone through the same scene this afternoon. Expecting some good news from the Doctor's office, only to discover that the gynaecologist has something else wrapped up in mind. I imagine the same feelings of shock, sadness and numbing pain. And I would imagine the tears flowed freely too, in secret.

You'll never see this in here. But I want to tell you everything will be OK girl. Don't hide behind that facade of composure. I know you're scared.

Me too.

Unkers & Vino - Label Me This, Label Me That

Idle hands are the Devil's workshop.

I am thinking of getting one of these Wine record books where you can paste the labels off the bottles you have finished and write some details about the vino that has already been processed and excreted.

Quite cool I suppose to flip the scrapbook 5 years down the road and remember you had that fantastic Bordeaux at Les Amis on your Anniversary or a fruity Reisling in office to celebrate the demise of that mean boss. Some of the artwork on these labels are actually quite interesting and exquisite too. Perhaps when I have collected enough, I can do a Wine Label Mosaic and have it framed up and displayed.



A couple of niggly things though.

1. Is it a little nerdy to be doing something like this? Hell we used to laugh at Stamp Collectors.

2. I'm pretty sure I'll make a mess out of peeling the damn labels off the bottles. Don't want to be doing a jigsaw do we?

3. How do you get the wine cafe to actually pass you the label of a bottle of which you had only ordered one glass? You know a great tasting House Pour for example and when you don't want to drink too much before driving.

Hmmmm...

Unkers@TheMovies - Lust, Caution

As I sit here, having just returned from the movies, I'm finding it a little difficult to churn out a decent review of Ang Lee's latest tale of Erotic Espionage, adapted from a novella by Eileen Chang.

Mesmerized by the beauty of Lee's textured story-telling, the romantic views of late 1930s Shanghai, and his very, very sensuous leading lady, Tang Wei, I still have random, recurring images of the seductive story in my mind, making the task of weaving the visual tapestry together into coherent sentences quite impossible.

But try I must.



Like a subjective work of art, Lust, Caution has received mixed reviews from critics the world over. Some of whom are still pretty hung up on Lee's 2006 Oscar-winning Brokeback Mountain. Unfortunately, the movie has generated alot of buzz simply because of its supposedly gratuitous sex scenes. Something my fellow Asian audiences would be disappointed to know, is severely lacking in the cut meant for local consumption. Indeed I was told that Lee personally made the snips to appease the Conservative Bigwigs, so that the version I saw today was really, technically speaking, 98% Caution and 2% Lust. And no, you do not get to see Tony Leung's butt-cheeks or Tang Wei's tits.

So with the Sex out of the way, lets get down to the crux of the story.

Set in WWII Shanghai, Lust, Caution is really about finding one's true Self. The underground Chinese resistance against Japanese Occupation just serves as a poignant backdrop for a tale of 2 people finally coming to terms with who they really are and their sexuality. Those tumultous days, ironically, made it easier for inner feelings to be exposed and hidden desires, manifested. If you were with the right person that is.

Tang Wei plays Wong, an anonymous Chinese undergraduate who unexpectedly finds herself recruited into a clandestine student uprising against fellow countrymen who have become collaborators with the enemy. The most powerful of the new Japanese lackeys is Yee, played by the increasingly gaunt Tong Leung. The man is not a classic pretty boy per se but one helluva good actor. Wong soon transforms, from relative student obscurity, to a mahjong-playing, high-class Shanghainese tai-tai, and manages to penetrate the fortress that the extremely cautious and wary Yee, now head of the Secret Police, has built around himself. And also where he routinely brings his fellow countrymen for torture, interrogation and almost certain death. The plan was to seduce Yee into bringing his guard down, long enough for the Resistance to kill him.

Through a heady cocktail of clever seduction, believable innocence and a killer bod in stylish Cheongsams even Vera Wang would be proud of, Wong manages to trap Yee into her web of patriotic deceit. She plays the role of the tai-tai only too well and soon finds herself invariably caught up in the euphoria of acceptance and romantic recognition when Yee can't enough of her. In his eyes, she is a somebody, spy-actress or otherwise. And this somehow gives Wong new meaning in life. Yee, on the other hand, finds in her, a release from his latent guilt as Consummate Betrayer and uses the torrid sex he has with the young, comely tai-tai to remind himself of his fast eroding humanity. Their love-making is very passionate and intense, even sadomasochistic, perhaps reflecting the flames of war that surrounds them. And would eventually engulf them.

Joan Chen and Lee Hom put in credible performances as Yee's Mahjong-addicted wife and Resistance Leader respectively but the true accolades must surely go to newcomer Tang Wei who at once, keeps us spell-bound with both her girlish vulnerability and chic-conniving ability. Its hard to describe, the peaceful gravitas she exudes onscreen with those almond-shaped eyes, porcelain skin and perfect poise. But one thing's for sure, this 20-something will go far.

However, more emphasis on the oppression during the time and the resistance movement created to fight it could have been better explored and woven into the plot. Surely a movie spanning nearly two and a half hours could indulge us in this little piece of ugly history.

But at the end of the day, excellent stuff. And highly reccomended if you're in the mood for love, not lust.

8/10

Unkster Unwound - CD of The Week

Yes, I know.

In the middle of a sweltering Sunday afternoon. Perhaps a little too early to toss back that Veuve Clicquot, put the feet up, and let the Bose envelop you with some Stephane Pompougnac.





But with the blinds drawn down low, Hougang does look a little Parisian...a little...

UnkEats - Day Of Being Wild

When once I used to be an evolved Homo sapien doing the savvy restaurant circuit, I am now reduced to being a Kopitiam Neanderthal attempting my dinner-time runs around the coffeeshops near home.

So it comes as a pleasant surprise, nowadays, to stumble upon a nice place to makan and chill-out. Where the old men at the other tables are not guzzling their Carlsbergs and tossing watermelon seed shells on the floor as they engage in bawdy, boisterious banter. That's so cheena weekday.

I've heard about Wildrocket for about a year now. Located at the groundfloor of the Hangout Hotel up on Emily Hill. Opened by a 35 year old ex-lawyer turned restaurateur. And a place to go to if you're a weary urbanite looking for some tranquil good food and yet shiver at the thought of straying too far from the comfort zone that is the arty-farty Bras Basah/Selegie/Bugis district.



You know the Emily Hill locale is really a super quaint and ethereal place with its undulating, San Francisco-like curves, shady casurina trees and its piece of prime real estate next to the outer confines of the Istana. But with a name like Wildrocket, you'd expect a funky little psychedelic joint on the 2nd Floor of one of the nice Conservation shophouses in the area. Instead, you get a contemporary-chic, Aussie-styled bistro within a Budget hotel. It crams 40 and can get a little squishy on a Saturday evening (when they have 2 dinner sittings) but I suppose partaking at such close quarters with reasonably good Oz-fare makes for a lovely, intimate evening with some wine-loving friends. Yes we pop-ed a mandatory bottle of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc while slurping the Crustacean-oil Linguine.

And I must recommend the Warm Chocolate Cake, oozing gorgeous brown lava and served with Vanilla ice-cream, which was simply divine.



Afterwards, we strolled over next door to Wildoats, a watering hole that shares its premises with an Art Gallery, Sculptor, Theatre School and Glass Artist in a stately old Colonial bungalow at the end of Upper Wilkie Road. Again, the al fresco deck seating area, amongst the lush tropical foliage and beneath the stars, isn't a place you'll associate with sowing your wild oats. Erm...but then again...





Here we had another 3 glasses of Chilean Reds each. And in the balmy night air, with the soft sounds of cicadas all around us, we savoured one of the last places in our noisy city where you can at least take the D-I-N out of Dinner & Drinks.

Ree-bit

How many frogs must I kiss before I meet my Prince, she said.

You've had one too many fugly froggies, I replied. Are all handsome boys bastards?



Yah but its so hard to ditch a cute bastard, the pretty girl puts on a monkey face.

And I give a big Gorilla Grimace.

Feed Me Some Style

Its nearly 6am.

I'm disturbed that a good friend may be down with Cervical Cancer. I totally blew my top at work today with my guys and gals who have been procrastinating with some work I dished out weeks ago. And my back is still irritating the hell out of me because I'm still feeling the pangs when I bend down to pick up weights at the gym.

So what does an angry boy do when he's down? He attempts some online retail therapy only to stumble upon this thing called StyleFeeder.

And I can't really put my finger on it. Its alot like having your own personal shopper reccomend and put everything you crave for into one cool list. Plus it lets you see what other people around the world are looking at and what has tickled their atas, designer bones. Its evil I tell you. Pure temptation.

But its cool. Keeps you up to date with what's rocking the international Shopping Fraternity. And I think I can retire StyleFiles@Unkster because in one little Flash Badge (see below), all my lascivious desires are made known. Many of them, sadly, will remain just that. Desires.

Anyway, since I can't sleep, here's a list of the brands/places/bands/authors that would float my rubber duckie anyday. I'm such a Quack.

Alessi
Banana Republic
Abercrombie & Fitch
U2
Aston Martin
Bose
David Sedaris
Quiksilver
ScubaPro
Adidas
Apple
LandRover
TREK
Paul Theroux
RX8
FCUK
Panerai
IWC
OASIS
Philippe Starck
TAG Heuer
TODS
Ermenegildo Zegna
Macallan
WMF
Nikon
OAKLEY
PRADA
Calvin Klein
Cambodia
MIZUNO
Botegga Veneta
Brooks Brothers'
Alfa Romeo
illy
Timberland
San Francisco
Suunto
Cannondale
Maroon 5
Ferrari
Super Potato
Sapporo
Absolut
Hugo BOSS
Artemide
Georg Jensen
Milan

As if FaceBook isn't enough!

Slowhand

I couldn't say these words to you the other evening. It would have been too much. Well perhaps in another time, another place. Another reincarnation.

The dice of destiny would be thrown in our favour...

It's late in the evening; she's wondering what clothes to wear.
She puts on her make-up and brushes her long blonde hair.
And then she asks me, "Do I look all right?"
And I say, "Yes, you look wonderful tonight."

We go to a party and everyone turns to see
This beautiful lady that's walking around with me.
And then she asks me, "Do you feel all right?"
And I say, "Yes, I feel wonderful tonight."

I feel wonderful because I see
The love light in your eyes.
And the wonder of it all
Is that you just don't realize how much I love you.

It's time to go home now and I've got an aching head,
So I give her the car keys and she helps me to bed.
And then I tell her, as I turn out the light,
I say, "My darling, you were wonderful tonight.
Oh my darling, you were wonderful tonight."

TREK 6000

Fell in love with him on Saturday at Treknology. And before I knew it, he now sits in my kitchen.

Handles like a dream, brakes resolutely on demand (man I dig those Avid BB5 discs) and accelerates faster upslope than some old scooters. Plus in his mean metallic orange, he just screams take me out for a spin! Can't wait to do a little off-roading though.



Full Specs below :

Frameset

Size : 19.5" (Large)
Frame : Alpha Super Light Racing (SLR) Aluminium
Front Suspension : RockShox Dart 1 with preload, 100mm

Wheels

Rims : Shimano M475 disc hubs; Bontrager Ranger rims
Tyres : Bontrager Jones ACX, 26x2.1", 27 tpi

Drivetrain

Shifters : Shimano Deore, 9 speed
Front Derailleur : Shimano Deore
Rear Derailleur : Shimano Deore
Crank : Shimano M442 44/32/22
Cassette : SRAM PG950 11-34, 9 speed
Pedals : Alloy platform

Components

Saddle : Bontrager Select
Seat Post : Bontrager Sport
Handlebars : Bontrager Crowbar Sport, 25mm rise
Stem : Bontrager Sport, 10 degree
Headset : Slimstak with semi-cartridge bearings, sealed
Brakeset : Avid BB-5, mechanical disc with alloy levers

Like cars and motorcycles, there is an endless amount of stuff u can add or modify to your bike. And gosh I think I'm on that poisonous path already. My first zhng (modification) which I got the bike shop to install straightaway was TREK's Incite 8i Wireless Computer. With a sensor mounted near the wheel rim, information on trip distance, elapsed time and current/maximum/average speed is transmitted wirelessly to a display unit mounted on the handle bar. Kewl!



More to come, I fear.

Road Trip

The opportunity has come up for me, perhaps in early November, to join 4 other backpackers for a trip from Thailand, via Cambodia, to Vietnam by road. And well it looks like an interesting proposition.



The plan is to take a train from Bangkok to Aranyaprathet. A scenic ride on a 3rd-Class coach that will take about 5-6 hours. Then from 'Aran' to the Thai border town of Rongklua, a short 7km motorbike ride away. Walking across to the Cambodian town of Poipet thereafter, when the typical US$20 Visa-on-arrival formalities are completed.

The road from Poipet, through Sisophon, and then to Siem Reap is a lengendary, some say infamous one, and conditions vary from slightly bumpy to absolutely wretched. Still, I think it will be quite an adventure if we go by Sawngthaew or taxi with craters bigger than a pick-up truck, bombed-out bridges, drives through rice fields, roadblocks and demands for money, all realities as recently as 2002. A truly On The Road experience.



From Siem Reap to Phnom Penh, the plan is to travel by boat over the huge Tonle Sap lake. A rather dangerous trip actually because these old floating diesel-powered dustbins don't exactly have a sterling safety record. But I've done the bus thing already so will try something different.

From Phnom Penh, we'll cross over to Ho Chih Minh City by bus before the rest fly home from there. I am thinking of staying awhile in HCMC to get to the Co Chin VietCong tunnels outside town and maybe drift down the Mekong abit since this is a part of French Indo-china I have never been.

How would Laos feature in the plan I wonder, if at all possible...hmm..

Deux

Unkster turns two today.

And what started off as a cheesy play on the word Friendster at the time, by a couple of 30-somethings with perhaps too much time on their hands, it has evolved to become somewhat of a single-Unker soliloquy. But the blog remains Ours. I just happen to be the one with the most nonsense to spew. The Chief Babysitter, if you will.

With a modest readership of about 20 a day, sometimes 30 if something more intelligent than the usual rubbish is written, it is heartening to know that we are at least reaching out to a minuscule fraction of the millions of bored people in the blogosphere who bother to even come here.

Believe it or not, blogging keeps me sane. It allows me to say things that otherwise would be hidden behind the superficial Hello, Goodbye and How Do You Do's of everyday interaction. Writing is carthartic for me. Perhaps like a nice warm shower after a tiring day, when you finally get to wash off all that accumulated hypocrisy and cynicism we sometimes put on like a second face.

We are not in the business of entertainment. But if stories of the paths we are taking to hopeful Enlightenment, entertain, then thank you for stopping by.

And sharing.

A Suitable Boy

My mother used to read to me as a child.

She would sit us down on our beds, my brother and I, and like the storytellers you sometimes hear on the BBC, narrate a chapter or two from Enid Blyton or Roald Dahl in her pitch-perfect, English teacher's elocution. We enjoyed these sessions immensely before bedtime, although by the ages of 3 or 4, we could already read largely on our own. There was something about her voice, the way she made the stories come alive with the animation of her vocal cords, the dynamic diction, that kept us in rapt amusement.



Mother was never stingy with books. And visits to the bookstore were an almost weekly affair where we could pick whatever caught our fancy. Strangely, we hardly went to the library as children. She had this eccentric theory that the books were dirty, having passed through the grimy hands of so many different people. What if they brought them to the toilet?, she would say. And till this day, I still don't have a habit of borrowing books from the Communal Collection. Its not a hygiene issue for me though. Its just that I like to keep the books that I have read. As a sort of physical record of works or words that have formed an impression on me if you like. I haven't told her though, that I have been bringing books to the loo since time immemorial.

I read myself through most of my childhood. Vivaciously. And Mother made sure we flipped through the dictionary when it came to words we did not understand. This strengthened our vocabulary tremendously. And by the time I was in Primary 6, my teachers were surprised at the supposed sophistication of my sentences. I mean knowing a few bombastic words is one thing. Stringing them up elegantly in proper contextual prose is another. And there is no short-cut to good writing. You have to read, see how the better writers do it, and learn.

Between the ages of 18 and 27, I hardly found time for books. The thrills of dating, National Service, University textbooks and entering the workforce, meant that there was little time for such frivolous indulgences. Even the newspaper was read with flippant abandon, apart from the TV listings that is, which were scrutinized thoroughly.

Lately, I have found my love for the written word again. And Vikram Seth's somewhat seminal A Suitable Boy reminds me of that dark decade where the words somehow escaped me. I had begun reading this novel as a 1st Year undergraduate back in 1995 but never got down to finishing it. Why, I cannot remember. I do recall though, that I had borrowed it from a friend who said she was moved by the author's nuanced story-telling. I probably wanted to impress her by finishing the book as well so that we could perhaps have a lengthy, romantic discourse on its merits over a hot Latte at the cafeteria. Obviously things progressed faster than my reading, 1, 349 pages notwithstanding.

The book is sitting next to me on my sofa, having just bought a brand new copy from Kinokuniya this evening. And I hope by embarking on it now, some 12 years later, the reason why another person has asked me to read it will become apparent.

Don't Forget The Big Shaggy Dog

Someone suggested to me the other day that I get another canine friend for company.

And please, she said, make sure its the size of at least 4 Nickies ok?



That's because 3 years ago, when I still used to walk Nicole our Cavalier King Charles Spaniel around our old estate, the Condo's security guards would take one look at me with this small pooch on a bright red leash and laugh at us. I mean it was not loud, mocking guffaws. More like incredulous giggles at the sight of the resident big-sized Ah Beng taking his little dainty princess for a stroll. Think Yao Ming with Tinkerbell. Get the picture?

For goodness sake get a Husky sir!, the guards would suggest (still giggling). Much better for your size lah, they would usually end off by saying. And perhaps alluding to the fact that I had the makings of a big, shaggy dog. No thanks lah, I would retort jokingly, I'm still happy with this little one. Promptly picking up daddy's pretty girl to plant 3 more kisses on her petite, mask-like mien. That invariably shut them up with a smile.

I miss both my dogs.

Sometimes I wonder if its more of a fear that one day, when I see them again, their love for me will not be unconditional anymore. And that they won't both come running to me like a couple of smelly, possessed furballs, licking every inch of my body in wild abandon. Perhaps Nicole will be too shy to scamper over. And I would have to bribe her to come with some cheese or maybe a durian.

The thought of being forgotten is painful and scary. More so when human beings are thrown into the mix.

But one thing's for sure, I am not ready for that big, shaggy dog yet.

The Accidental Policeman

I now know what the neighbours have been calling me.

That Policeman from the 12th Floor. And the revelation was an unexpected one.

Here I was, buying my usual pack of cigarettes from Uncle Chew downstairs. He runs a little provision shop at the foot of the government-built block of apartments I live in you see. Together with his wife, a stocky woman of about 45, who has a nose the size of the eggs they display for sale on dirty shelves next to the letterboxes. And their son, an amazingly annoying, obese young thug with a penchant for eating his father's plastic wrapped buns. Which, incidentally, can sometimes go unsold for days.



The nearly-bald proprieter had barely handed me back my change when a Police car pulled up to the carpark just outside the shop. And his fat offspring hollered, ice-cream moustache and all, they are here to pick up that Policeman from the 12th floor!

Uncle Chew looked sheepishly at me. I struggled to give him a weak chuckle. And then in his mixture of Mandarin-accented English, asked me if my colleagues were here to give me a ride to work. I told him no and proceeded to dangle my car keys infront of his pudgy face. I drive remember? He nodded, almost embarrassed, and quickly shuffled off to stuff another popsicle into the big mouth of the boy.

The reason I know what the neighbours call me, what they call me, is because the Chews' humble little hole-in-the wall is the block's Gossip Central. Where kaypoh housewives on their way to the market, or fetching their pesky little children to and from school, gather to exchange every conceivable morsel of 'intelligence' gathered purely by hearsay and myopic speculation. Does it matter if its any of their business that Ah Lai, on the 5th floor, brings PRC beer-waitresses home for a quickie every morning after two? Of if the live-in girlfriend of Mr Poon, that Slut from the 9th floor, walks around the apartment with only a towel wrapped around her lithe, must be lipo-ed, body? Rumour has it that she is the widow of a slain Triad leader. Maybe that 12th floor Policeman would like to have a word with her. How about old Granny Chin then? Haven't seen her for awhile. Perhaps she's dead and her former asylum-committed grandson has her cold, hard body hidden under the bed. Don't you all get that stench from around here somewhere?

The things I am privy to while buying cigarettes!

Even in those fleeting seconds. The grapevine is so laden with voluptuous fruit, it would be a pity not to pluck a juicy berry or two. But I remain an Accidental Tourist in my own scandalous backyard. How could I, the Policeman from the 12th floor, participate in such sordid banter?

Alex asked me, just moments ago, if Heartlanders were too emotional, too drama-mama, because they watched too much Channel 8 TV. She had to rescue a good friend Heartlander only hours before. The latter had locked herself in her bedroom, wrecked and wretched, because of unrequited love.

I reminded her that I too, lived in a HDB apartment, surrounded by 'emotional' people. Just having an address in Hougang does not make you a Heartlander, she said. But we were both too sleepy to say what being a Heartlander truly meant.

Accidental or otherwise.