The More You Know, The Less You Know
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Posted:May 14, 2008 12:25 am
Last Updated:May 16, 2008 11:26 pm 3442 Views
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I have a lot of mantras. My students know them well as I chant them over and over again. It can get tiresomely boring but I cannot help myself.
Here goes ...
Less is more.
Music comes first, dance comes second.
Leave your ego at the door.
Be true to yourself and stop trying to imitate others.
Dance for the love of it and not for fame
And the one I seem to spout the most -
The more you know, the less you know
The last becomes increasingly apparent as I get older. My preconceived notions of many things regularly receive a huge jolt, reshuffling and disgruntled readjustment when I open my eyes, ears, heart and mind.
I force myself to do this all the time. It is the only way I can see past my own ego and complacency to what really lies before me.
It is a habit born from necessity at a young age. Promises were made and seldom kept. Like the I was, I kicked my legs and bawled, screamed and railed at the unfairness of it all, feeling immense hate and self-pity.
Then someone, usually my mother or my grandmother, would take hold of me and shake me.
Life is not fair. Get used to it.
Harsh, especially to a young . But very true.
As I grew older, I learnt to see beyond the supposed wrong inflicted on me to see the possible reasons behind it. I am no saint. It was not to understand and forgive the "evil-doers" but to analyse the reasons and the implementation of the wrongs so I can either cut it off at the root or plot my vengeance.
Yes, I was an evil . I did not forgive nor forget easily and my grandfather had taught me revenge is best served cold.
However, life happens and at what I thought would be my final stretch, I learnt to come to peace with myself. And from that, it enabled me to see others in a clearer and less angry light.
It's not always about you. Life does not revolve around you. You revolve around it. With many of the same hapless souls caught in the neverending cycle.
Sometimes we are cast against each other and the impact and friction cause us to spark off each other in angry flames. Other times we brush each other in gentle, velvety caresses that cause us to catch our breaths and pause in mid revolution to tangle sweetly with each other.
But in the end, we expire from this whirlwind on our own. Shedding all the debris collected during our journey. And hopefully ending the dream with some grace and dignity.
Realising that we come into the game alone and leave it the same should make us understand that the ultimate perpetrator of all things good, bad, happy or sad ... is us.
We inflict and cause whatever that happens to us upon ourselves. Things that happen can either stick or flow off us.
I have a bad habit of getting caught up in things and letting them bother me more than they should. I am human and it shows in the petty gripes, whines and irritations I experience and inspire.
Then I sit back and execute my self-imposed exercise of opening up my senses, which should include good, common sense, and really look at the issue at hand.
Often times, I realise it is all unnecessary and prideful. And I walk away from it all so I can start another leg of self-discovery.
I avoid words like enlightenment and self-actualisation as I deplore the new-age faith and spirit healings that babble like empty vessels to the willing, desperate throngs.
But I must admit that seeing the light in more ways than one has made life much more peaceful.
One of the things I see immediately is that people with a bit of knowledge are more dangerous than those who are totally ignorant.
I am one of those. I find myself having to cast all my supposed knowledge off before I can accept and adapt to new things. It is a constant struggle that I chide myself into.
This conundrum infects many dancers.
Yesterday night, I received a new student in one of my most advanced class. She had insisted on joining us despite being told it was an advanced class. Because she had 5 years of ballroom training.
I sighed when I heard that. I knew she would struggle terribly in my class.
A rank beginner would have had less problems than her.
Why?
Because a total beginner would not resist all the differences in the two dance forms. She would not impose her own supposed knowledge on top of my teachings. She would not question and would readily move when and how I tell her to.
Ballroom has many rigid structures and beliefs that will cause her to resist a new training.
And her body would be undisciplined and unused to specified, controlled isolation.
I knew it would be a painful class and sure enough I could see her struggling and panting at the end of the class. And at the start of it, she was telling me she wanted to join my class for an easy workout.
Right.
In her case, it was truly one of the more she knew, the less she knew. But her mind could not accept that concept.
Most people cannot. The pride in knowing and the process of acquiring that knowledge makes many of us unable to let go. Admitting you know nothing is something many of us have problems with.
I remember a group of ladies in China once jeered at me behind my back after a class. They told someone that I was crap because I told them during class that I knew nothing. That I was constantly learning myself and that each week, I find my knowledge challenged and overturned by the new things I learnt.
Fortunately, this person knew me well and apparently told them all off for being fools.
Being a bit of a Sinophile, I was actually rather amazed at their lack of discernment and understanding. I would have assumed that the Chinese with their ancient art of philosophy and learning, would comprehend the concept of endless learning and unlimited ignorance.
But then again I just proved my point, didn't I?
I, thinking I knew much about the Chinese culture, imposed an ideal of higher intellect and comprehension upon them. When like me, they are also eternal students. They just do not realise it yet.
For the bloggers here, much has been said and printed recently about scamming, playing, fakes and the such. Enough. Lessons learnt. Venom unleashed. Reign it all back now. Find peace within yourself.
The more you know, the less you know.
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Mind Your Dancers
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Posted:May 12, 2008 11:41 pm
Last Updated:May 14, 2008 1:56 pm 3707 Views
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One of the dangers of travelling around the world dancing and teaching is the unscrupulous people who will try to screw you over.
It happens all the time.
You are, usually, alone in a foreign land and the only contacts you have are the organisers. Typically, they plan everything while you are there. Your meals, your accommodations, your transportation, your performances, your classes, your fee ...
People in the entertainment business are notoriously unreliable and dishonest. Generally. You have to fight for your due each gig and always have to be on guard.
Still, you expect a certain mark of respect and professional courtesy when dealing with another fellow dancer. After all, you both have suffered at the hands of untrustworthy organisers, disrespectful and ill-intentioned managers.
You expect another dancer to treat you better.
Wrong.
Today, my jaw hit the ground when I was speaking with another dancer. She told me a very famous - in fact, the most popular male dancer currently - had been bitching about his last gig.
I was there. I knew something was up with I bumped into him just half an hour before his performance and he was languidly eating his dinner and smoking at another restaurant. When I asked him if he was not going to his performance venue, he made a rude snort and dismissed the idea.
Since I had paid rather pricey tickets to watch his performance, I was a little concerned but knowing his temperament, I let it go and proceeded to the venue.
He did not show up for another two hours, prompting the organiser/dancer to fly into a panic and persistently beg me to help her buy time and perform a couple of dances while she tried to locate him.
I am a real softie. I despise the woman but I still helped her out even though I was a paying guest and was not dressed for performing nor had any of my music. I did not tell her where her star dancer was though as I did not want to get involved in whatever squabbles they were indulging in.
So, obviously something had transpired that afternoon between them. By the way, the organiser/dancer was the infamous Z.
Today, someone told me that Z had not paid our pissed off male dancer for all the dance performances he did. Not at another restaurant a few nights prior nor for that dinner dance show.
How is this possible?
Even the rankest amateur will be paid a few hundred dollars for performing, what more the current rage of the dance world?
The gossip was that he had been paid only for the workshops but not for his performances. I logically concluded that he would have been paid for the dinner dance show as that was a highly-marketed, ticketed event and the accounting and taxation would be a real problem if she didn't. But she could have screwed him on the restaurant performances.
The male star is apparently so peeved that he has been complaining and shredding Z's reputation all over the dance world. There is a large festival coming up where all the international dancers will congregate and it is expected that he will lead the charge to revile Z's treatment of him.
Apparently, aside from screwing him over financially, she had not arranged for anyone to take care of him during his gig with her. No meals. No minders - well, there was one but she was apparently always absent. No transportation.
It seems to me he was more angry at the disrespect shown to him than the non-payment for a couple of performances. Dancers have a lot of pride. We expect to be feted and taken care of by the host/hostess. To neglect this is a mark of utmost disrespect.
Being in the biz for so long, Z should have known better. She should also have known that a gay male dancer would be bitchy enough to go around maligning her all over the world now.
I would feel sorry for her except that she has pissed me off one time too many.
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Hats Off To The Barmiest
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Posted:May 12, 2008 9:59 pm
Last Updated:May 15, 2008 6:08 am 3368 Views
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She set a sartorial fashion statement in Sex and the City and became the It Girl for a long time. But that was in the past when her quirky fashion faux pas were viewed with impish delight and indulgent affection.
Now that SATC is no longer the phenomenon it was, her discordant sense of style is not as winning as before.
The media annihilated her latest foray into fashion fugue.
Ms Parker, this is not Ascot. I have not seen anything as ridiculous since Camilla Parker-Bowles sauntered out of church with the denuded feathers and nest of some probably-now-extinct- bird.
Her name was Sarah
She was an It Girl
With hollow flowers in her cap
And a dress blown out to there
She would malinger and do the fracas
And while she hang on to her star
Everyone just stayed afar
At the Gabra*, Gabracabana
The clueless spot north of Rodeo
At the Gabra, Gabracabana
Carrie and tacky were always off-fashion
At the Gabra ... she lost her mind
*Gabra means clueless
I rather like the woman and think she might be a genuinely nice person but someone really needs to knock some fashion sense into her.
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For The Girls Only - Hairstabation
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Posted:May 11, 2008 9:44 pm
Last Updated:Jun 3, 2008 4:26 am 5169 Views
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Blokes, you've been warned. This is not the post for you ... unless you are debutanteB, who will probably go into an opiate stupour of pure delight now.
I am going to talk about hair.
Plays Hairspray.
I hate my hair. It is thick, unruly, frizzy, about 60% gray (yes I know ... it is hereditary) and I would lop the whole lot off if I could.
I spend rather a fortune on it to maintain the length which I need for my work and to ensure that it does not all fall off from all the colouring I inflict on it to cover my grays.
I try to use products that I can find in most of the countries I go to but there is one item that I would insist on wherever I go. I even bring it to all the hair salons I patronise as I felt there was no substitute.
It's Keratase Chrome Relax hair masque which was one of the few things which could turn my stubborn locks into silky, soft and fairly unfrazzled tresses. I would always have a couple of the shocking pink jars of hair savers in my bags wherever I travelled. American Express Card would have been envious at how I truly could not leave home without it.
The problem with Keratase Chrome Relax is that it is not easy to find. In many places in Asia, you can only find it in the more exclusive hair salons and many of the retail shops that supposedly sell it are peddling counterfeits. I know as I can smell a fake Chrome Relax the moment the cap is twisted open.
It is also rather expensive considering how quickly I run through it. About US$40 a pop, and it is quite a small pop too. Each jar lasts about 10-15 applications depending on the length and thickness of your hair. Mine is quite long and thick so I am lucky if it lasts 10 washes.
So this time around, I travelled in a real hurry and realised to my dismay that I had left my precious in the last city. It was an emergency. I had a migraine and needed to wash my hair to feel better. But I could not do so without a proper conditioner.
And I generally do not trust hotel shampoos and conditioners.
It was also the wee hours of the morning so I knew I would not be able to get my Keratase Chrome Relax at that ungodly hour.
In desperation I called down to the concierge. I knew they owed me for the fiasco earlier that day so I pulled the beleaguered, hard-done-by -guest act.
"I have such a terrible migraine. It's from the rude awakening and humiliation of the scene this afternoon. I really need to get rid of it."
"Oh dear. We are so sorry. Can we bring up some Panadol for you?"
"No, no. I am allergic to Panadol. And I have already taken some Tylenol but it is not helping. My migraine will probably go away if I wash my hair."
"Oh ... but our hair salon is closed for the day, ma'am. "
I blinked. I really had not expected to go to the hair salon or for them to arrange for a hair dresser at that time of the night. Wow, they must really want to suck up to me.
"Er, that's fine. I can wash my own hair as I do not want to bother anyone. But I did not bring my hair conditioner and my hair is very sensitive. Oh my head ..."
I know I am laying it on thick but hey, it usually works!
"Ma'am, I can try to get your conditioner. You just tell me what it is and I'll go and find it for you. You want tea or something to make you feel better until we find it, ma'am?"
"Tea would be lovely. Chamomile please. And it's Keratase Chrome Relax Hair Masque. If they do not have the masque, I can settle for the conditioner."
I settled back to await their call that they could not find it.
Sure enough, almost 30 minutes passed before they called to report sadly that they could not find it anywhere. But one of the staff had a suggestion. She was coming up to my room to show it to me.
I was puzzled. And intrigued. And still had my migraine.
A young girl came up and introduced herself as Nora. She had a bright orange bottle in her hand. Clairol Herbal Essence Citrus Lift conditioner that apparently has tangerine, lemongrass and aloe vera in it to make the hair radiant and soft. Better yet, it is tailored for dry or coloured hair.
I looked at it dubiously as I have not used Clariol Herbal Essences products since I was a . And discovered they dried out my hair even if they smelt heavenly.
Nora was very sweet and earnest, assuring me that her sister is a hair dresser who highly recommends the conditioner. Apparently, I had sent the hotel into a bit of a panic with my request and in desperation, Nora had awoken her sister to ask her for her advise on how to placate me.
Nora's sister staked her reputation that I would not be disappointed in the Citrus Lift and that she would pit it against my beloved Chrome Relax.
Wow, brave, fighting words.
"OK, I'm game. If my hair gets fried, I am going to sue you guys, you do know that?"
Nervous giggle.
So I chased her off and went about washing my migraine away.
I'll tell you this. I think the Clairol Herbal Essence probably costs about US$5? I am not sure as I have not bought any hair products from the pharmacies or retail stores in ages. But I am now going to alternate the Citrus Lift with my Chrome Relax.
Citrus Lift for daily use and Chrome Relax for weekly or bi-weekly treatment.
Bloody hell, I have been spending a fortune on Keratase for years and now I discover an upstart that has overthrown it. Who says you need to pay a king's ransom for the same result?
In fact, I think the Citrus Lift gives my hair a tinge more silkiness than Chrome Relax. It is now my new Holy Grail.
I must thank Nora with a nice hamper before I leave for helping me save a fortune and my hair.
Brilliant stuff. Pleased as punch. And walking out of here like a shampoo ad, swishing my hair all over the place.
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I am a Fox Vixen ... Apparently
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Posted:May 11, 2008 5:09 am
Last Updated:May 15, 2008 6:02 am 3868 Views
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There I am, minding my own beeswax, soundly napping to resuscitate my appetite when I hear an impatient pounding on my door. Followed by someone leaning on the doorbell.
What on earth?!!
I am never good when I just awake so I half stumbled, crawled out from beneath the sheets and meandered drunkenly to the door.
Peeking through the tiny spyglass, I saw the distorted visage of an unfamiliar female behind the door. I say distorted not only because of the convex lenses that warps all faces into a pointy fish face but also because the woman looked really ugly with fury.
Cautiously I opened the door to ask through the latch.
"Yes, may I help you?"
"You effing biatch! You w&^re! Where's my husband?"
"Eh? What? What husband? What on earth are you talking about?"
She kept throwing one insult after another, her shrill voice rising higher and higher as her command of English sludged drearily over the same four- and five-letter words.
I could feel my confused blurriness giving way to mild annoyance. I was woken up for this??? I am going to be one cranky cow tonight, that was for sure.
"Look, you crazy half-wit. I have no idea who your husband or you are for that matter, but you are seriously pissing me off and I advise you to get away from this door before I lose my temper."
She responded by trying to stick her arm through the narrow aperture of the door to claw my eyes out.
By now, some of the other hotel guests were out of the rooms to watch the antics of the psycho. I saw hotel security and staff dashing towards us so I decided to open the door.
I happened to have Hakim with me.
Once the door opened, the rather chubby Chinese woman lunged through without taking a good look at me.
The me who was wielding Hakim and settling into position.
Door opens, woman is open, WHF side kicks her right in the chest into the opposite door. Then I moved forward to point Hakim into her stomach.
"Don't move. In fact, do not speak unless I tell you to. My hand might shake and you could end up with a liposuction you did not want."
Hotel security started to turn their attention towards me now, thinking I am the psycho and tried to talk me down.
I assured them I was only defending myself and I was not going to lose my temper yet and skewer her but I wanted some answers and then I wanted them all to vamoose so I could continue my nap. But I was fast losing patience and if they got in my way I was really going to let loose with Hakim.
"You. Who the hell is your husband?"
She gave some Chinese name.
"Never heard of him. Why do you think he's with me and shagging me?"
She screamed that she knew he was in Room XXX with his ... she used a bad Chinese word equivalent to a woman's part.
"Stop shouting or I might lose my grip on Hakim. Either talk softly or scream loudly when I get frightened and lose my grip. I frighten easily you know."
I looked at my room door. Right number.
"You can see there is no man in my room other than Hakim. That's the sword's name, by the way. Has not been a man in there other than the bell boy bringing my luggage."
"You lie! Look at you! Of course you must be a fox vixen. You probably hide him somewhere! Where is he?!!!"
Wow, a fox vixen, eh? That's the Chinese slur for women who seduce hapless men, usually of the married variety. They typically look like some from a bad American soap ... wait, is there such a thing as a good one? Sorry .. tangent ...
Gee, the insult has struck me so much to the core, I can feel my grip on Hakim loosening.
"Oy, watch it! Do not know your husband and am certainly not hiding him. And what do you mean look at me? How rude! Right, call your idiot husband right now to check his whereabouts."
By now she is starting to think she's in mucho trouble and it is a much quieter woman who called her erstwhile husband on her mobile.
I swear, all heads turned when we heard a mobile ring behind us.
It was like a scene from a farce.
A man in a bathrobe with a woman in matching attire were in the passageway a few doors away. As he reached for his mobile in his pocket, he realised he had just been busted.
Crazy, jealous wife was so infuriated, she actually swatted Hakim as she rose from the floor and lumbered angrily towards her new target. Everyone followed except me and one hotel security staff.
I rolled my eyes and he apologised profusely.
I told him they owed me one and they better make sure I am appeased or I might sue them. And then told him to go away for now as I wanted to go back to sleep.
Of course, after I returned to the calm of my room, I could not sleep.
Such drama and excitement. It can only happen to me.
Wait a second, the cow did not even apologise to me! Ah, feck it. I rather not have to hear her strident voice or see her or her faithless spouse anywhere near me again.
And to think I stayed at a hotel today because I wanted some peace and quiet. Right.
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Feed Me, Seymour
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Posted:May 11, 2008 12:10 am
Last Updated:May 12, 2008 8:24 am 3405 Views
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I feel like Audrey II.
I'm not sure if it is because I look scrawny or I emit such happy noises when I am eating that it prompts people to want to feed me all the time.
I was just telling MM's hubby, Sir LongSufferingHubby, that I am lucky to get free food or special treatment a fair bit. Like the time I met an old gf at an Intercontinental for lunch and was approached to try a special menu from a visiting 3-star chef from Spain. On the house.
We thought they would give us a pan of paella or some tapas but out came a 6-course meal that was so heavenly that it blew my friend's diet right out of the water. We had been in the right place at the right time when it was part of a food festival and the chef was apparently looking for some customers to test out his new menu.
Score!
Another time was when I was dining alone at one of my favourite pizzerias and the lady chef was testing out a new dessert pizza. I happened to be sitting near the ovens where she was working and she offered the entire banana, dark chocolate and almond flaked concoction to me.
She instantly became my new best friend.
Another time I was on a date at a Japanese restaurant and the owner was an elderly Japanese lady who is a phenomenal chef. My date had worked in Japan for a long time so he did the ordering but for some reason, the owner thought I was the Japanese expert. She decided she liked me and kept sending her out with little titbits and flasks of sake from different provinces for me to try out.
My date became jealous and I decided he was a twat. I went back to the restaurant sans lame date a week later. She fed me more sake and yakitori ... on the house.
So I am fairly fortunate but of course, this just happens once in a while although I wish it was a daily occurrence!
So, after I told Paul this, I discovered I had been a real doughnut and forgotten an important engagement.
My absentmindedness required some rather annoyed people to arrange for a plane to come out and get me and to fly me back today. The price was that I had to perform much longer than I initially agreed upon and I had to have breakfast with them.
Why is breakfast significant? Because these people eat the kind of breakfast others have for dinner. The breakfast table is about 4 feet long. And it is filled to the edges with food.
I love food but I have a strange quirk. I do not really eat breakfast. I do if I know I have a long day of workshops and classes ahead of me which means I have no time to stop to eat. But even when I eat breakfast, it is fairly light. Well, for me anyway.
Maybe a couple of Eggs Benedicts, half a toasted croissant or bagel with cream cheese and strawberry jam, milk, coffee, OJ (yes, all three), occasionally a single slice of bacon if I am exceptionally hungry and an apple or slice of cantaloup.
I cannot force down a large breakfast as I need to stay light and ready to work when I hit the studio. After that it is coffee, coffee and more coffee and maybe some trail mix, muesli or power bars or muffins and chocolate bars through the day till I have time to have a proper meal. And lots of milk and water to keep me going.
So, breakfast with the Miffed Malaysians was punishment to me. For forgetting. I ate. And ate. And ate.
There was the continental breakfast. There was the German style breakfast because they remembered I was from Germany. There was the full English brekkie because they knew I was English. There was the French version as they knew I was a foodie. There was the local Malaysian brekkie which means there were Chinese, Malay and Indian options available. And there was gado gado which they knew I love because it reminds me of my grandmother. There was also Japanese sushi and sashimi because they knew I love Japanese food.
Breakfast lasted almost 3 hours.
I felt like I was 3 months' preggers when I rolled off my chair and crawled painfully to my room to pack. I was glad they were flying me back to Singers in a private plane as I think any commercial airline would not let me on due to overweight and excess luggage.
I swore I will not eat for a week.
But when I arrived in Singers a few hours ago, I realised that I needed to have dinner as I was doing the footy thing tonight and the lounge area did not allow real food and only finger foods. I did some fast calculating.
I should eat something before I ensconced myself on the sofa with my shisha and beers to watch the matches. But I wanted a nap as I am knackered. OK, buy some food, stick it in the mini-bar and have that before I go out. Good idea.
So I went to a food court to get some ginger beef and rice take-out.
The lady at the food court was just opening up her stall so I asked if she was open for business yet, smiling winsomely so that she would say yes and I did not have to do another walkabout.
She looked rather startled and said yes so I ordered and was happily tapping my feet to a song on my iPod when she gestured to me to collect my food.
My Chinese is uncertain and her English was fairly non-existent.
As I paid her for my food, she snapped at another customer who was trying to hurry me out of the way so he could order. Then she smiled and asked me,
"Chicken curry good. You want?"
"Er, no thanks as lots of yummy food here," I lifted the packet of beef & rice and smiled happily.
"Little bit. I give you little bit. You like?"
Wow, free food. Score!
I nodded like a eager little offered candy and a ride on a roller coaster. Yes, please!
It was not a little bit of chicken curry she gave me.
When I returned back to my room, I discovered it was a big arse bowl of chicken curry with two chunks of chicken breasts and some potatoes.
I stared at my haul and remembered.
I can't eat as I am still ridiculously bloated from my Feast of Folly at brekkie.
OK, maybe a nap will revive my killer appetite.
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On Food and Policing
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Posted:May 8, 2008 8:21 pm
Last Updated:May 10, 2008 11:11 pm 3316 Views
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Last night I had dinner with some Japanese , who brought me to a Korean restaurant where we pigged out on bimbab, grilled meats of all sorts and hot pot.
I thought it was a little unusual that they brought me to a Korean restaurant but I suppose it is because I have gained a reputation for being a bit of a foodie.
Most times, the hosts or the people I meet will try to bring me to the local food hot spots or exotic cuisine. Or they will always tell me about the delectable treasures to be found. Each visit offers a new Aladdin's cave of culinary delight.
Yesterday night was no exception. I'd been told of a Japanese eatery with the most authentic and delicious chanko and I am determined to try it out before I leave. And another friend told me of a new Indian restaurant opened till midnight with the best Indian food outside of India.
Right, another one to add to the list. It's a pity Sir LongSufferingHubby, aka MM's hubby, is only around for a couple of days or I would drag him with me. Still we are cramming two dinners and dessert into tonight and a hot pot lunch tomorrow.
I am fortunate that people are cognizant that I like to try new things and prefer food that is interesting, indigenous and totally delicious. It has prompted them to try to one-up the list of special eateries.
Chinese friends would bring me to the best Chinese restaurant to try the in-house century egg that is made by the chef from a special recipe and technique that makes the eggs wonderfully soft, silky and creamy, yet with the distinctive bite that startles and entices the taste buds without offending the senses.
They would drive 40 minutes to a remote estate where they serve the most unctuous ox marrow in a headily spiced broth. They thrill to the opportunity to teach me how to eat this unusual delicacy and it is a noisy and exuberant table of pleased hosts when I express my delight at this unique taste and experience.
Malay friends bring me to the largest smorgasbord of Indonesian nasi padang I have seen outside of Indonesia. They order such an array of food that it requires two long tables groaning at the weight of our greed.
Indian friends bring me to a Japanese restaurant serving the best yakitori in town and we run through the entire sake menu. They have offered to bring me to a Vietnamese restaurant this time where they have the tastiest pho and coffee they promise will rival ours at the cafe. Now that is a throw-down I have to sample.
Last night, Sir LongSufferingHubby, Justine and I spoke at great length about the ills of Singapore. Justine is the local expert on all the dastardly going-ons and devious shenanigans of his country. We gasped and widened our eyes at some of the truly, unbelievably underhanded stories.
It was perhaps a cap on the evening that as Justine sent me home, we saw loads of policemen roaming the streets. I'd noticed them earlier when I was having dinner with my . They were out in force, lugging their guns as they trolled the busy streets of the tourist belt. An unusual sight that only happens when a terrorist warning, potential drug bust or major international conference involving some royalty or super power is concerned.
The last time I saw such a force of policing was when that Mas Selamat bloke had done a runner. I asked Justine if he had somehow made it back just to play cat and mouse games with the local authorities, to further the embarrassment.
I was reminded of the days after 911 when I was here for disaster recovery conferences. We were actually assigned a coterie of Gurkha guards and the local semi-police security force. I have never been comfortable with gun-toting bodyguards. I have always felt that I might be in more danger from them than whichever misbegotten person who might wanna take a shot at me.
The police in Singapore has also never impressed me.
The ones Justine and I saw were obviously part of the riot patrol as they were wielding the clear shields of self-protection. Justine remarked sarkily that they seemed more interested in checking me out then scouting the streets.
What is going down in Singapore?
It is interesting that a small island with such an obsession with food is also a land easily buffeted within and without. I am going to be extra careful when I go out with Sir LongSufferingHubby tonight. My spidey senses tell me something is brewing. Perhaps it is best to avoid the large tourist areas and keep to safer heartlands of culinary discovery.
It would really suck if our pig-out was interrupted.
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Prey's Anatomy
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Posted:May 7, 2008 9:13 pm
Last Updated:May 8, 2008 11:17 pm 4145 Views
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I've mentioned that I detest doctors. This was instilled in me even before I worked with them.
One of my earliest "real" jobs entailed consulting to doctors and the medical industry. It meant I spent a lot of time in hospitals and in the company of doctors.
You hear and see a lot about the medical profession that takes away any desire to enter a hospital unless you are almost on death's bed ... when you know they might well finish the job.
There are the medical students who pay about 3 pennies per cadaver, if it is a "nice one" with fully formed muscles and fairly newly harvested, and complain about the lack of female cadavers. You hesitate to ask why they want a female one.
They chop off hands and feet and place these in hapless students' beds as a prank. They force the cadavers upright to use coat and bag hangers. They hang bags of fruits from the wrists and other parts.
You really realise that life is cheap but death is even cheaper.
When they graduate, they are not much better.
There was once a very high ranking specialist from the largest hospital who used to visit my office every afternoon, six days a week. He was a very lonely man married to a woman whom everyone knew only wanted his money and spent all her time with her dance and singing instructors. Who were coincidentally male, young and seemingly single.
He was a big, fat bloke with a cantankerous, foul temper and a sarky sense of humour. I liked him.
He would lumber into my office every day, Mondays to Fridays, at around 3pm after lunch and his rounds. Clutching the local tabloids and a plastic bag of wrestling videos, he would plant himself in one of the chairs outside my room and start asking everyone what they were doing.
He spent hours in our office till he had to go home to an empty house where he would read his papers and watch his wrestling videos. Then he would have dinner and wait for his wife to come home. Most nights he would pretend to be asleep if she stumbled in smelling of thick perfume and smoke in the wee hours of the morning.
We never let on we knew that this was his daily routine.
At about 3.30pm, he would decide I had ignored his presence long enough and yell for me to make his coffee. I had made the mistake of making him a cuppa once when the usual assistant was out of the office. He declared it just the way he liked it and refused to let anyone make him a cup of coffee anymore. Apparently he even refused to drink coffee if I was not in the office and would wait for me to return. When I was out of the country, he would torture the poor assistant till she cried over her poor coffee-making skills.
Yes, the man was an inveterate bully.
He seemed to like me for some reason and loved ribbing and teasing me. We shared the same birthday and celebrated together every year I was with that company - that perhaps made him feel a bond with me. He also demanded that I had lunch with him every Saturday before I left for the day and once told my then-boyfriend that he had to wait his turn to see me.
One day, he was regaling us with some gossip (he loved his gossip) when his pager beeped insistently. He picked up one of the phones to call back and we saw his eyes widen, him start from the chair and dash out of our office with a hurried, "Gotta go!"
Stunned, we concluded that a patient must have been on the verge of death to require such swift movement from the usually slothlike professor.
At around 5pm, he returned, smiling gleefully and with a naughty glint his eyes.
We asked him if the patient was alright.
Huh? What patient?
Didn't you run out to attend to some dying patient? It seemed so urgent.
Oh, no, no! He giggled like a giddy schoolboy.
The call was from another doctor in a nearby hospital. A plastic surgeon. A mate, obviously. Who'd called because he had entered his operating room to see a famous female singer on his operating table. She was there for a boob job.
So he made a call to all his doctor mates to tell them he had Ms So-and-so-Diva with her breasts literally in his hands. And he invited them all to rush over to have a look at them. Before and after.
So, a bunch of middle-aged doctors drove in droves to see this clueless songstress' tits while she lay trustingly to enhance her image.
A year or so later, I met her in a club. It was incredibly hard for me not to stare at her tits the whole night. I was so embarrassed and mortified for her and she must have been wondering why I kept averting my eyes from her chest area. I was never totally comfortable with her after that as the memory of her humiliation and violation always preyed on my mind.
When some doctors tried to set me up with some of the younger residents and specialists, I flat out refused. The coffee-loving physician also vetoed the idea. He glared at all would-be matchmakers and applicants and declared,
She is too good for you lot. She would be better off with a street vendor from the alleys of Calcutta than us doctors.
Physician, know thyself.
Why this post? Because someone is trying to set me up with a doctor and could not understand my resolute refusal. It's a good thing I leave this afternoon.
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Doctor, Driver, Cobbler, Wife
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Posted:May 7, 2008 2:29 pm
Last Updated:May 7, 2008 8:02 pm 3163 Views
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I dislike doctors. I try to avoid them at all cost. But for some reason, I seem to attract them.
Some of my best friends are doctors. I have no idea how that transpired but I suspect it was a sneaky conspiracy to deceive me as to their true occupation till I had began to like and admire them as normal human being, whereby they spring the nasty surprise that they are dastardly doctors.
Evil.
Tonight, some friends had a small farewell gathering for me. At a table of 6, three of them were doctors.
The conversation circled continuously around the medical profession, mostly due to the self-absorption of two of them that they are the nucleus of everything.
One kept boasting of her achievements in medical school, being the best student, the most popular girl, the fact that she travelled weekly between cities with a bone-set and that she is the top surgeon in her city.
Very quickly, I was reminded why I find doctors boring in general.
But she did emit an interesting factoid in the midst of her masturbatory oration. That there are so many doctors in India that she has met some who became cobblers.
If you are not familiar with the Indian caste system, cobblers are considered the lowest of the low. It is a shocking turn of affairs and demonstrates how educational qualifications may not be an effective tool against the vicissitudes of life.
This prompted the other doctor to inquire how many medical graduates are churned out annually in India. It appears it is an average of 110 for each university.
This may not seem a lot at a superficial analysis but when you considered how big India is and how many universities there are, it is a significant amount.
The curious doctor shook his head but informed us that it is worse in Egypt where the average was 7,000 medical graduates in a year. So, many of them become taxi drivers.
We shook our heads sadly.
With my head bowed and my eyes downcast, I pondered the fact that the first, self-satisfied doctor could have been talking about herself.
For all she waxed egotistical about her accomplishments, they are in the past. And now she is a hausfrau who spends her days waiting for her husband to return from work and buys jewelry she does not wear to pass her time. She meddles in astrology and numerology and decorates her house halfway before she loses interest.
Her scorn of the doctors-turned-cobbler was a little ironic, I thought.
But I keep my thoughts to myself and smile winsomely as she continued to bestow the glories of her past upon us. I try not to let my pity show.
With each chiselled gem of self-valuation she dropped into her basket of discontent, I could see her rising bitterness and foaming regret.
My usual irritation and disdain at such delusions of grandeur seep gradually away as a burgeoning sympathy coloured my view of her words and tone.
There goes I but for the grace of God.
Please let me always find passion in what I do and how I do it.
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Voice of God
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Posted:May 7, 2008 2:16 am
Last Updated:May 10, 2008 10:52 pm 3370 Views
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Had lunch with an old friend who bemoaned the rising prices of property in a time when they suddenly found themselves with three properties on hand.
Having been a hausfrau for a long time, the prospect of having to return to the workforce just to manage the mortgages on all three properties is a horrifying one with much dramatic rolling of eyes, grimaces and woeful quivering of lips.
In other words, she was having a ball lamenting her fate.
She's a funny with a droll sense of humour and a self-professed love of doing nothing but shopping and lunching.
Their current house is next to a church that is frequented by the yuppies and bourgeoisie. Every Saturday and Sunday, the cars line up right up to their gates, both illegally and legally parked as their owners enter en mass into the house of God to hear His word.
Usually, the devotees would drive their poshest cars to church even if they live within 15 easy walking minutes' distance. It is an opportunity to display their wealth and positions.
We made snarky gasps of amazement that they did not have chauffeured cars as that would eliminate the need for parking. Trust the nouveau riche to be clueless.
Anyway, her husband is a Catholic but she is a forcibly converted one who is more comfortable in being spiritual than religious. She occasionally goes to church with him under duress and with the promise of a nice prezzie after.
So, having to deal with a battalion of cars blocking their gate and street when they leave for Sunday brunch is a reprehensible crime to her.
She recounted how she would call the police to remove the vehicles as a Sunday routine.
I commented that it was a trite bit unChristianly, driving her into a tirade against th equally hellish behaviour in blocking their way in and out of their own estate.
I jokingly said she should just take a loud speaker into the church. Get her husband to tome in his deep, authoritarian voice,
"Hark, would the driver of vehicle no. XXXX please remove your car from the gates of heaven. Amen."
Which would prompt some to declare they heard the voice of God and others to start jotting down the numbers so they could buy lottery.
She piped in that some might even burst into hallelujahs.
It was two rather hysterical women who rolled out of the restaurant for some coffee and cakes.
I am sure we are driving straight to hell after this.
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