10,000

I’ve never run 10 kilometres before, mainly because…well, I never saw the need to. And I still don’t.

And there I was, at the Singapore Bay Run on Sunday morning, getting warmed up for a sweat fest I didn’t even signed up for.

Ok, it was a company thing (even though only a third of our staff took part) and being in a position where I suppose I should show an example and some spirit, I went along with it. The 6km Fun Run actually appealed to me more, but I was to have no choice. It’s 10k or the walk of shame.

0745: Off I went, iPod blasting.

1km: Feeling good.

2km: No problem.

3km: Keep breathing, keep breathing…

4km: Should have chosen the Fun Run. I was made for the Fun Run.

5km: Only halfway? WTF??

6km: The thought “Why am I doing this?” crept into my head for what would be the first of at least 6 times. I was dying out there and no one gave a shit.

7km: That’s it. I stopped for a cup of 100 Plus. Like the first taste of wine after crossing a desert. Hot women ran past me as I tried to hide behind a paper cup over my mouth.

8km: Picked a good-looking gal to pace, but she soon pulled ahead, leaving me grasping for air.

9km: Final push. I imagined Richard Simmons chasing me. My head was about to explode.

10km: Who’s the man? WHO’S DA MAN?!

The most ridiculous part of the morning was yet to come: Everyone gathered at McDonald’s for breakfast. I had a hash brown and a McGriddle (which was disgusting). My body must hate me.

Postscript: I just signed up for the Standard Chartered Run in Dec. 10km, baby. I’m so owning it.

 

Saturday Service

Damn it’s getting hard to keep this blog updated. The new job’s picking up speed like a train that’s just left the station, but more on that next time.

SO – was at a party last Saturday. Rare indulgence for me these days, to be honest. But hey it’s an old church about to be pimped up into a new joint and looks like a venue where a psychopath might turn up with a chainsaw, so why the hell not?

You can look at it two ways:

1) Cool and beautiful people who look like they’re actually of legal drinking age with terrific music on deck. Awesome party.
2) Satanic orgy (in a church!) that’s a prime target for destruction if God had a satellite laser guided particle beam weapon.

Either way, we made it out of there and lived to eat prata and nasi goreng for supper – which could still kill us one day with a jammed artery.

 

Housin’

I live with my parents.

It’s a beautiful house. I’ve actually only realised how much flowers there are around the place when my Mum refreshed them for Chinese New Year.

Frankly though, I suspect my folks are trying to throw me out. Ok, maybe that’s exaggerating it. What they’re really hoping for is that I settle down (that’s getting ‘married’ for those who are more comfortable with that term) and get my own place – which means I’ll move the hell out.

I don’t think I’m a pest to my folks. I help my Dad with his computer problems (many of which I have no solutions to), and Mum with her English lessons and usage of her almost prehistoric Nokia mobile phone.

But understand this: the house is my Mum’s domain. I’m merely renting a room for free. More often then not, I get in her way (which is why I try to stay in my room). This was never more evident during my recent hiatus from work when I spent 2 months at home being a human barrier to her domestic roads around the house. She was less then thrilled to be honest. The manor belonged to her and her alone in the day, the cat not withstanding.

There were times when I think she just pretended I was at work. Case in point: I go downstairs at 1pm and see her eating takeaway lunch bought from the coffee shop. Nope, didn’t ask her son if he was starving before she went out to hunt.

When…IF I do move out one day, Dad would probably want to sell the house and buy a condo overlooking the ocean. He says it all the time.

He may have to find another way to finance his condo and possibly live alone though, because I’m pretty sure Mum will not move an inch. The house is her life. She attends to it like a painter applying colours to the work of his life. Weekends are spent cleaning the house, putting touches here and there, moving things around to keep the place sprightly, and any shopping trip invariably yields another bargain ornament for this Christmas tree that is her castle.

Dad and I always tell her to take it easy with the housecare. It’s not like we throw parties every weekend (Mum would turn homicidal if that happens). But over the years we’ve grown to accept that as tiring as it looks for her sometimes, it’s simply another kind of leisure – like Ikebana, except you’re basically dressing up a pile of bricks.

All she asks is that we don’t get in the way.

Off to arctic New York tonight. Hoping for interesting stuff to blog about along the way.

 

Doin’ It Properly

There are really only two days a year when I’ll put money on myself getting royally drunk. One’s to commemorate April the 2nd 1975, when the world received another ambassador of bad jokes. The other is New Year’s Eve, when I’m surrounded by my best mates.

This is our 3rd straight year at Ministry of Sound’s 54. It’s getting a little tired to be honest, and next year we’ll probably find a new spot. But 54 is still the only place where the music gives people the license to dance like fools – which we like to do (Note: If you walk in wearing a clown suit, you’re just A fool.)

The reliable Tommy got a table reserved and within minutes everyone was downing shots, with bubbly to follow. I must say the music didn’t quite kick it though. When 54 started it was 70s Motown, funk soul – old school disco. Now it’s mostly 80s stuff…Damn, I’m sounding OLD.

If the club was Singapore Island we were definitely parked on the prime lot down at Changi Village. Our corner was a Trannies’ convention. Hovering around like vultures, it was as if they were waiting for the alcohol in their potential victims to kick in…

Ok, I’m being tranny-phobic. But seriously, it’s not even funny to imagine what alcohol-induced judgment and old-fashioned concupiscence could lead to with all these man-traps walking around, especially when some are approaching super model proportions (in semi-darkness). Makes you wonder what kind of precision technology they use these days to create these fascinating creatures of the night…

3 a.m – we’ve had enough and after an hour of trying to call for some cabs (which were harder to find then WMD), the group cruised down to St. James Powerhouse. Now, I’ve heard tons of stuff about Dragonfly, THAT club that generates 60% of St. James’ revenues. Never been there myself, and my first visit threw up an old friend on stage – William Scorpion.

For anyone (more so for Chinese folks) with some kind of social life that involves the occasional clubbing back in the early 90s, Cantopop at Marina South should ring a bell. Back then, William Scorpion (if that’s his real name I’ll eat my Nike Dunks) headlined the nightly performance at the joint, belting out Mandarin pop rock and Cantopop to legions of Hennesy and Martell guzzlers (for those who can’t afford or handle the cognac straight up, just add green tea). It was the epitome of ‘Beng’ cool.

Seeing Bill Scorpio on stage again performing – more than a decade older – was stirring. Mandarin and Canto songs (at least the ones the band chose from the likes of Beyond and Jacky Cheung) performed live have a sentimentality, both in their lyrics and melody, that is infectious. Doesn’t matter if you’ve been fed on Europop or Hip Hop your whole life, Cantopop is probably the perfect stuff to get drunk on. Many in the crowd that night would agree, as they poured forward with each rendition of a chorus – grown men drowning in the moment of brotherhood with the man they know as Scorpion.

If you’ve never been to Dragonfly, get down there and experience it for yourself. And call me.

5.45 a.m – breakfast outside Tommy’s place. The heck with LDL. My body NEEDS the plasta prata and iced Milo.

6.15 a.m – just enough money to grab a cab home. And there I was before the night began, worrying if I had enough cash for the midnight taxi charge.

 

Of Coffee, Gay Parties and Unfinished Screenplays

I really should be updating my blog more often now that I’m not working (kind of). Thing is – the more time you spend at home, the less things there are to observe and make useless commentaries on. And if you read this blog from time to time, you’d realise that it ain’t exactly about progressive discourse on existentialism.

Not that I didn’t get out occasionally. For the first 2 weeks of my hiatus (more shall be revealed on what’s going on in my professional life in the coming weeks), I was the resident wi-fi parasite in many a Starbucks, milking the $5.60 grande latte for all its worth. Spinelli arguably has the better espresso (and the trendier crowd), though that usually means a trip into town, complete with day-time parking rates and ERP. As for Coffee Bean – they’re OK but  something about using sundae glasses for coffee and having to report my name to the order taker like it’s prison duty that don’t sit quite well with me. I’m touchy like that.

Spinelli @ Hereen

Overall, these couple of weeks have been a lively concoction of leisurely shopping, sobering reflection, resurgent exercise and sprightly parties. One night I even ended up at a house party thrown by gay men which was rather entertaining I must say. To be precise and to avoid any confusion, I wasn’t there by design but followed some friends from an earlier party (not that gay men are dangerous of course – that would be frightening).

An odd image seared into my mind from that night was that of a recent acquaintance (who was rather gay and drunk) berating the house terrier’s genitalia as the poor puppy stared back at her verbal assailant with no recourse.  I’m not sure if that qualifies as animal abuse, but straight or gay, you must have the personality of a tea spoon to not find it funny (especially if you yourself are on the far side of tipsy).

If there’s any sense of  unaccomplishment during this period it’s the lack of writing progress  on my project. Yes, that sweeping, cathartic, emotional juggernaut of a screenplay that would be Singapore’s answer to Ghibli. Nope, it’s not quite coming together yet but dammit, it will happen.

As the festive season approaches its finale, I’m happy to report that I’m still chemically balanced. While my liver should survive safely through Christmas, New Year’s Eve is a whole other snowball.

Merry X’mas, real and imaginary readers!

 

  

 

Coffee Talk

 

I’m not quite sure when it started, but Starbucks staff these days are trying their darndest to be friendly to customers waiting for their coffee. Usually this comes in the form of an innocuous “How’s your day?” or “Not working today?” while you’re fiddling with the receipt at the pick-up counter.

I once got “Do you live around here?” from a female staff as she prepared my latte. If I wasn’t such a realist I’d have thought she was showing interest.

I don’t always know how to respond to these harmless and clearly well-intended gestures, mainly because I’ve no interest in starting a conversation or even replying with an obligatory “Fine!” or “Good!”. I just want my designer caffeine, then sit my ass down or get the hell out of the joint.

The scope of the relationship between a customer and the Starbucks staff has been well defined in the 10 years the franchise has been here – you place your order, indicate that no, you don’t want any muffins to go with whatever you’ve just ordered, make your payment, hop over to the pick-up counter with your receipt and await your beverage…

Now comes: “Not working today??”

Somehow, it feels like they’re trying to change the relationship here…like bring it to a new level. I just don’t think I’m ready for that kind of a commitment.

 

Vegging Out

SO – on Saturday I went down to Kinokuniya to pick up my mags for the month, then dropped by Library@Orchard hoping to steal a spot to let my MacBook get some air. Wireless@SG rocks.

Turned out the Vegetarian Society was giving a talk that took up half the space. Bummer.

My plans foiled, I walked up half-curiously to hear what the talk was about. Well, I had some idea what the topic was (it wouldn’t be how to clean your BBQ grill, that’s for sure), but still…I mean, I didn’t even know there’s a Vegetarian Society.

The professorial-looking speaker’s voice rang out with a question: “What is a Vegetarian?“

A bizarre thing happened. Everyone started turning around, looking at each other with questioning stares mixed with a buzzing anticipation – like they REALLY would like to know what a vegetarian is.

Next up: What do Vegetarians Not Eat?

Apparently, the question to ask yourself is: Did Your Food Have A Face?

Did Your Food… isn’t it kind of pointless to ask after you’ve had the food? But, moving on…

Fishes have faces. Crabs Have faces.
Eggs don’t have faces. Milk doesn’t have a face.

I raised my hand and asked: “What about oysters?”

Ok, I didn’t do that, but boy was I tempted.

 

Rugby World Cup

Marco (in blue) finally catches Sebastian with Trevor, the couple-shirt giving it away. Desperate to explain himself, Sebastian refuses to let a distraught Marco leave. In the background, Trevor realises where Seb’s heart truly lies…     

I’ve never played rugby or even contemplated trying it. The reason is really quite simple: I don’t want to die.

Going up against a wall of 15 juggernauts charging towards me at full speed and hell-bent on grounding me into minced meat is not my idea of a friendly contact sport.

Not that I have ever made it to any rugby team during school days. My chances of being used as a practice ball were probably better. No, my game in school was softball. Yes, even the name sounds lame…

Softball’s not a contact sport, but I still managed to break my wrist playing it. I shudder to think what rugby would have made of me.

Anyway, without much hoo-ha the Rugby World Cup made its way onto the tube last week on ESPN. It’s still a big deal for many sports fans, even if the competition (held in sunny France) feels more like a well-attended outdoor party compared to the absolute pandemonium that surrounds the FIFA World Cup.  

This year I find myself watching the matches with increasing interest. Some fresh observations about the game arose:

1. Players REALLY belt out their national anthems and some often border on crying – like they’ve just had 5 beers and Oprah’s on TV preaching patriotism.
2. Change the environment into a bar fight and you get pretty much the same thing – basically men behaving badly.
3. There’s always one huge, scary prehistoric-looking dude in each team – like a monster dragged out of solitary confinement every 4 years to wreck havoc.
4. Some players wear head protection, others don’t. Head injuries always seem to happen to those who don’t. So why isn’t EVERYONE wearing head protection??
5. Bad teeth give you extra strength (apparently).

I’m trying to think of another profession in the world that involves physically stopping a person from running away. Nothing else seems to hold a candle to Rugby Union in terms of technique, aggressiveness and artistry. Some of these guys should be posted at immigration checkpoints or be attached to counterfeit DVD raids.

 

On Course

Being sent to a course by the company is like going on a cruise to nowhere – you kinda look forward to the break, but at some point things get so excruciatingly slow you invariably realise that all it means is a mountain of emails to clear when you get back to the office.

I’ve been to worst courses than Dr Bob Foo’s 2-day ‘Solution Selling’ course at Park Mall. Far worst. I remember attending a ‘Presentation Speaking’ course years ago where an elderly instructor showed learning videos made in the 70s, then made each student recite Abraham Lincoln’s 1863 Gettysburg Address. The instructor’s idea of speaking with gusto is to almost ‘sing’ whatever you’re saying, and he would instruct each student’s speech like a maestro – literally, arms waving and all.

I’m convinced if someone did a business presentation the way he taught it, the client would call security immediately.

Tea breaks are important at these courses. When the instructor drags the lesson on (even by a few minutes) and delays the tea break, you feel cheated and betrayed. There is a sudden disdain for him and his family. Your brain shuts down and you feel tired and restless, sometimes breathless, like a fish out of water for too long.

Strangely, the morning and afternoon breaks are the times when things most resemble the office – people gather around to chit chat, procrastinating real work. There is total disregard for the ten minute tea break time the instructor allocates. You’ll go back when you are ready and well-rested from seating on a chair doing nothing for two hours.

My favourite quote from Dr Foo during the two days, although I have absolutely no idea why he said it and in what context, is:

“When elephants make love, the grass trembles.”

I hope he was using a metaphor and not recounting something he saw on the Night Safari tour.

 

Cool Running

The last time I ran for more than 10 minutes continuously was a year ago when I passed my IPPT by one second and nearly died of exhaustion.

So I took my new Adidas out for a spin last night. The old pair of Nike Pegasus croaked on me after that fateful IPPT a year ago.

It’s funny, though not surprising, how despite hours of researching online on which is the best running shoe, which brand has the best rep (I’ve given up on Nike for any serious sports footwear) or whether one should go for cushion, lightness or motion control, when it comes down to running after 12 months off the pavement, the shoes don’t make one bit of difference. It’s JUST.DAMN.HARD.

I started with a couple of laps around my estate. It’s a little weird running at night, like chasing ghosts. In the end I didn’t really catch or bump into any, even if my estate is a little spooky at parts.

Things I did see:

1. A couple of dog-walking maids who seemed somewhat surprised when I passed them again on my second lap. I’m circling the estate, ladies. Relax.
2. Lots of households watching EPL. I hear it’s popular.
3. A couple who looked way too young to be alone in a dark playground. For a second I was tempted to stop and asked to see their IDs. Would have been fun.
4. Bats. They looked fake though.

After 2 rounds, I ventured onto the streets. There’s traffic now. I told myself the stakes have risen – I could be run over, or worse still, be over taken by real runners, or even worse still, they could be girls.

Thankfully, none of the above came to pass. I did stop at a getai to catch my breath. Ended up staying for 15 minutes. Got to check out a few of those gigs this month.

By now it’s 10.30 pm. I huffed and puffed my way home. Must have covered at least 5 km. A decent start for someone hopelessly out of shape, I reckon.

I fight the ridiculous thought of driving down to McDonald’s drive-through for a bite before settling for a bowl of oatmeal. Boy, am I a changed man.