Somewhere Out There

Crooning on my STEREO: Miss Me by BOB SINCLAR

Love is a very sad thing. Be it family. Or friends. Or relationships. Be it religion. The more you love, the more you are made vulnerable to pain. It is true. Will you deny this? Will you ever deny having loved someone and never felt the grief of losing him or her? Or are you one of those who refuses to love, in the fear of having your heart broken in return? Have you ever lost your dog to cancer?

For once, I understood why loving a man can be so painful. It sometimes makes me unafraid of death.

But what do you do when your love is unrequited? Or when you are fading gradually from your lover's life? And when he stops saying 'I Love You'? When you feel that you both no longer share the same dreams? When he fails to understand why you would ever cry for him? When he stops believing in hope?

You do wish that he would prove your friends wrong. You do wish that one day, he would look you in the eye and say, "I will do anything for you". You do wish that, you could lead a normal life together with him, and do things that couples would normally do. You do wish that you could wake beside him every day and never have to be an ocean's apart again.

You do wish that, nothing stood in the way for you both to be together.

And that, one day, he will believe the same.



If only he loves you. If only.

Alcohol. Part 2.

Crooning on my STEREO: Tonight The Streets are Ours by RICHARD HAWLEY

We tend to take the piss out of Pete Doherty for his nasty doping antics, but little do we know that addiction is almost unrepressable. I've gone through that with Sebastien from Il Divo, hence I am familiar with the transition of obssession to addiction. If you are not careful, it can also turn you into a full time stalker...

In other words, it takes a mind of a bull to beat addiction.

No I ain't taking drugs. I am too poor for that. But I do take alcohol. But I guess they are both equally as bad anyway. The wonderful thing is that the latter is socially more condusive and accessible at large. I know for a fact that I bond better with people if I have a glass in hand. Even if I hate your guts, I could still choke up "oh my god you are a friendddd" for diplomacy's sake.

Thats why I strongly feel that theatre should encourage alcohol consumption before rehearsals and performances. Since actors are a crazy lot, they should feed on that notion to bring out the inevitable.

I think alcohol is good for relationships. It helps you to discount cons. Consequently you don't drive yourself insane because you are not sensitive nor conscious enough to make sense of human imperfections. There is less trouble when you are ignorant. Believe me.

Alcohol is also good for the office. It dilutes your stress by blinding you from the horrifying reality of your workload. If consumed in moderation, the workplace will be a happier place. It can certainly numb you from hyena-esque giggles from a juvenile colleague who has been baking muffins and puffins for your boss.

But of course, alcohol can also bring out the monster in you. If you are one of those who turn aggressive after 2 shots, you can take this opportunity to trash it out with an annoying client. Such aggression could get you deals faster than you digest. Or it can scare people away. Which is also probably a good thing.

Don't take me too literally though. Please be mindful of hangovers, broken heels, date rape, fountains of puke and other forms of induced ugliness that only you can imagine. Use your brains and becareful. Have some mercy on your poor liver.

My dear friends, I have been meaning to impart this wisdom since 4 years back. I was just never sober enough to write this.

HAVE FUN UNTIL YOU ARE SICK OF IT.


Speaking of which, I second that marijuana should be made legal. Do it like they do in Amsterdam.

Facebook

Crooning on my STEREO: Champ Elysees Theme by BOB SINCLAR

Come on,

Join FACEBOOK.

I've uploaded a whopping 200 photos onto their server today as insurance against my dying laptop.



I've featured all sorts of photos. Including those of my humiliating past.

(Oh my god.. I MISS ACTING. I actually got to run around with a GUN.)

JOIN NOW!

I've been drinking way too much beer this week. it's FAT!!!

Dusk

Crooning on my STEREO: What I Want (Fireball) by BOB SINCLAR

On my way home from Singapore yesterday, I enjoyed a pretty sunset.



Uninterrupted spectacle lasted for 5 minutes before a 10ft tall transnasional bus decided to roadhog. Malaysian traffic, damn it. Chuck out those pullman(s).

Singapore is wicked for several reasons; it is the closest country to us, yet it offers a different world of opportunities. Where in KL can you find a music store that will make you weep with such an extensive collection of Nouvelle Vague CDs? Or mainstream Bob Sinclar for that matter? When it comes to travel books, Borders Singapore can ram Kinokuniya KL hands down with a single shaft.

This pretty much explains my frequent, impromptu shopping tours down south. I usually come back poor but more hopeful. Even the recruitment section in Singaporean newsies propagates that every poor jobseeker will have a home in the workforce regardless of race and political connections. Whatever silly job that you desire, it is there. You just have to read the papers and apply.

Despite our patriotism for our recent National Day, I hate to say that the same range of opportunities is absent here. In Malaysia, 80% of job vacancies are never advertised. If you are a fresh graduate who'd like work in our TV-Film-Media- Distribution market, it is virtually impossible to enter this region unless you have a charitable friend like me who is always on the search for replacements so that I can leave my job. On the contrary, this position is advertised so extensively in the Lion City.

Plus, Singaporean employers actually LOOK at your degrees.

I don't want to sound anti-Malaisie, hence I will dig out its neighbour's downside; every young Singaporean chick has gorgeous legs. And that makes me feel highly inferior and I want to lock myself at home.

Workwise, I am trying to decide on my future. I am certainly NOT an ass-licker, and I need to feel appreciated for my strengths to inspire the extraordinary.

But my stream of thoughts tend to stray because I am simply spoilt by too many choices. I just have to focus on one and stick by it till world's end.

I just need to kill time, really. For now.

Battered Skates

Crooning on my STEREO: 4 In The Morning by GWEN STEFANI

Figure skating is a bloody good sport; it tones your butt, it doesn't make you sweat like a pig and it puts your friends in awe of you. It is hardly dangerous (except when you FALL and another skater happens to skid through your fingers), it is socially condusive (chances is that you wont meet pervs within the ice area) and it trains you to be empathetic. (ie, feel sorry for the poor souls who stumble around you.)

I was once a figure skater during medieval times. Before you choke on your coffee, I am reminiscing approximately 7 years ago when I used to camp around different ice rinks and lugged my 5kg ice skates to various countries abroad. To prove it:- here's a stale photo I took on the frozen lake in front of Hampton Palace.

My supremity on the ice meant that I ended up giving free twirling lessons to fellow stumbling skaters. The kids worshipped me and the chavs fancied me. Glory.

I admit, if I had lived in the United States and began ice training when I was three, I would've made it to Salt Lake by last year. I would have participated in the Winter Olympics. I would have a hotter bod.

But of course, my existence was destined for another mundane purpose. Oh well...

I was at a competitve stage before I retired from this sport. 7 years ago, I was training religiously at the Nottingham Ice Arena. I was preparing for an exam where I have to compete against 12 year old pre-teen rival. (yes, I know: skaters are getting younger.) I had come to a level where I could jump effortlessly and spin without throwing up gas.

One fine day, I discovered binge drinking. I discovered clubbing. I found greater solace in getting myself highly intoxicated at parties than locking myself up in a refrigerator. Thats when I stopped turning up at ice trainings. And I did not renew my lessons. And I got fat, which obviously had its lasting impression on me.

My ice skates lay battered til today. I had ferried them from London, Spain and now, back home. And I hadn't put them on since Nottingham. If I were to stick my feet back in, I wouldn't remember the professional basics of lacing them up properly.


I used to think that my ice skates were so pretty. I even had my name engraved on them, and I even personalised my ice shields with different colours.

But why had I abandoned them so suddenly? Why can't the same kind of love be rekindled after its loss? I don't know if I will bring them with me when I move abroad next year.

My life is a slippery skating vacation; I have been so lucky not to have my fingers sliced up by the oncoming skaters.

Sunday Morning

Crooning on my STEREO: Domo Mia by TAZENDA ft. EROS RAMAZZOTTI

This is indeed an unusual Sunday morning for me. I am awake at 10a.m, still in my PJs and dragon breath. No hangover. No miserly hole in my pocket. I sprained my back.

Or rather, I didn't quite go out the night before. I only had ONE drink at a friend's place where I mourned about how 75% of my friends are plastic fishes and how they should all be kept in an aquarium. This is a very depressing metaphor; a truth which I somehow always knew, but I never had the guts to press 'delete' on my social keyboard. You can have 500 friends on Facebook but only 5 would even care to know where your house is.

Consequently I dreamt of Giorgio Armani who urged me to buy a pair of sandals off him. His words of advice were, "start kicking pests out of your life." My thoughts were, " I will kick YOU for burning a hole in my wallet."

Just like any underpaid employee, I have financial issues. Eventhough I am so assured that 2008 is going to be a turnaround year, I still have 4 more months to plod through 2007. So its a matter of killing time and earning interest in my bank account.

Financial and social issues are the least of my concerns. The love issue is pivotal, and my life is more or less gauged by its strength. I watched Un Viaggio Chiamato Amore and I saw my personal fears rolled out before me.

Yeah, I worry.

I relate to Dino Campana's manic disillusion of love. And I also acquaint my great grief in Sibilla Aleramo's unrequited passion. The freaky bit is that the two characters constitute me, but perhaps, not my lover.

In any case that you are wondering, they are both great poets. In love.

I am trying to get hold of a copy of Orphic Songs, which will give us a breathtaking translation of Dino's poem below:-

In un momento
Sono sfiorite le rose
I petali caduti
Perché io non potevo dimenticare le rose
Le cercavamo insieme
Abbiamo trovato delle rose
Erano le sue rose erano le mie rose
Questo viaggio chiamavamo amore
Col nostro sangue e colle nostre lagrime facevamo le rose
Che brillavano un momento al sole del mattino
Le abbiamo sfiorite sotto il sole tra i rovi
Le rose che non erano le nostre rose
Le mie rose le sue rose

P.S. E così dimenticammo le rose.

Grief turns one into insanity. Madness turns one into a genius. I can only cry at the sight of these eternal words. And how it aptly describes my current crossroads; I really cannot handle love.

And I am sure that this is the same for many of us.

Okay, on a lighter note. Just when I thought that my acting career was on the decline, I found this pirate DVD.

Sorry about the boobies. Its an art film, y'see?

You may remember that I worked as a film extra in London 3 years back. (Oh, how i miss those days of lunching in trailers with other fascinating stars-to-be. During this shoot, I even fancied the casting assistant...)

Back to my self-indulgent point, the kind director DID NOT remove my cameo, so try and spot me !!! (eventhough i resemble a downtrodden Chinese immigrant. Don't worry, I am not naked.)

Oh, this feature is going on the big screens in Europe, Singapore and other liberal Asian countries.

And hey, this is not porn.

We will meet soon.

Crooning on my STEREO: Last Night by DIDDY feat Keyshia Cole

I've been in this rotten TV industry for too long; I've forgotten what constitute great films and I've also disregarded their crucial existence in my mundane life. You see, I've recently been watching so much of telly trash that I am led to believe that either this world is stupid, or the tube is stupid. Or both.

It's all in the name of work. It has made me benign. I think that I was a lot smarter when I was a student. My Phd hormones are kicking in.

Sit tight. I am going to lament over the deaths of Antonioni and Bergman. Not that they were my favourite directors to begin with, but one cannot deny that they were the last surviving European legends of a bygone golden cinematic era. Initially, I thought that both dudes were already dead 20 years ago simply because they hadn't produced any significant work since their glorious 50s and 60s, hence I would assume that they shouldn't be alive for another half-century.

Forgive my miscalculations. I suck at maths. I am trying to say that their lives have outlived their peaks.

First of all, Ingmar Bergman and Ingrid Bergman are NOT related to each other, although I reckon that itd be more interesting otherwise. Their only similarity is that they are both Swedish. I mean, they are from the land of Ikea and meatballs.

Ingmar Bergman is VERY nordic. So, expect alot of blonde characters and long winter nights in his films. His most famous work is the Seventh Seal; featuring the infamous scene that frames an aptly dressed knight playing chess with a figure of Death clad stylishly in a black cloak. Trust me that you would have seen this image; it has been exploited in all media forms after Bergman's death last Monday.

This is one of my favourite scenes from the film, where the poor knight is suddenly overwhelmed by the surprise visit of Death in his confession box. I think that this is very hilarious.


Malaysians can easily obtain a pirate copy of this film through your local DVD vendor. Just ask for Cerita Hantu.
Although I must stress that this is FAR from a horror flick.

My favourite Bergman work has to be Fanny And Alexander, a TV miniseries totalling 318 minutes. This has to be the longest viewing I have done in one sitting, but enough to instil great hopes in 1980s television. Every frame is simply breathtaking.

Michelangelo Antonioni is Italian. But not conventionally Italian as what you would see in La Vita E Bella nor La Dolce Vita. In actual fact, I highly regard him as boring. And slow. But not as painfully boring as Tsai Ming Liang.

If you would like to acquaint with Antonioni, L'avventura is a great start. It is the first part of the director's infamous trilogy that comprises of L'eclisse and La Notte... and for your info, all had done worlds better than the LOTR trilogy in critics' circles.

I am not a fan of films that subscribe to 'time suspended' narrative (aka. long windedness).... but this is what Antonioni is all about. You can have a storyline that can be compressed into 15minutes of whirlwind action, but only a great master can stretch it to 146 minutes in such an unforgettable and non-frustrating manner. (think: Tarkovsky)



In this old style 'survivor' tale that explores the strangled nature of relationships, Monica Vitti's performance on screen is certainly worth admiring. After Giulietta Massina, she has emerged as my second favourite Italian actress of all time. Watching her strengths portrayed on Antonioni's visuals makes me somewhat bitter that contemporary cinema no longer carries such quality performances.

Okay. Enough of whingeing. If Fellini had died within my era, I would have written his tribute in the form of a massive literary text. But alls hath passed and we, the surviving beings, are here to stay to indulge in their legacies.

Let's pray for the emergence another generation of awe-inspiring filmakers.

God bless Ingmar and Michelangelo. Rest In Peace.

Mi Manchi

Crooning on my STEREO: Stand by Me by THE FUGEES

I may put salt into your coffee. Knock the kitchen cabinet over your head. Ask you lame questions such as how to peel a carrot.



Eat all your food. Salivate on your pillow. Use up your toilet roll. Bite your ear.



Drink like a horse. Cry like a kid. Flaunt my cellulite on the beach. Brag on and on about Foligno. Steal all your sheets.

I am useless, I know. And I am downright annoying.

But you still cared for me in your strange ways. Perhaps you do feel sorry for me.


I miss you, baby.

Suddden Death

Crooning on my STEREO: Non Puedo Explicar by LAURA PAUSINI

First of all, apologies for the update delay. My faithful 4yr old IBook died a sudden death the night before I took off for Rome. I am distressed. I have lost 4 years worth of hard drive memory in a blitzkrieg. Please refrain from sending me wreaths.

This is a metaphor of life's unpredictability. Anyone of us is prone to a heart attack any second from now.

Eeesh.

Morbidity aside. I assume that you guys are checking out this page for photos of my annual bash.


To suss out who went this year, fotografias are here. I wish I had more time to snap EVERYBODY, but i guess there is only so much you can drink and hold the camera steadily at the same time. And not to lose it.

If you are a busybody, piccies from the 2006 bash are here. And I gather that people were far more drunk last year.

OK. Short Post. I am now back home in Perugia. Savoring Umbria Jazz with my beloved Limoncello. And my boss will eventually fire me for taking a week off ad-hoc.

But Life Is Short.

Fudge career. At this point I don't need one. Play when you can. Whatever that makes you happy.

Ci Vediamo, i miei amici!!!!!!!!!!!

Stupido.

Crooning on my STEREO: King of the Bongo by ROBBIE WILLIAMS

You are Zeus. You have followers. They desire to live in the countries you have lived in. Travel to places where you have been to. Envy your belongings. Stalk your footsteps.

They aspire to be just like you. Or better than you.

My friends, I call those pagans who reside beneath your toes: worshippers.

I have very little respect for worshippers.

Then there is Venus. Goddess of self-perceived beauty aka. 'perasan-ness'. Women who would utilise the spineless nature of mortal men for their own gains. Women who would perceive themselves as a femme fatale, are actually those who are blinded by their own beauty. (inaccurately reflected by their warped Ikea-endorsed mirrors.)

Last week, I saw a very fine example of Venus which made me puke.

Not the razor, I mean.

My point is, you people make me laugh.

Yes, I have many kickass adventures. And I share them. What freaks me out so much is that I have inspired a number of naive fools to run away from home.

I am responsible for the dumb people I know who are flocking to illegal jobs in ulu areas of Spain. I am also responsible for a handful who are leaving their families behind to flock to Europe in search for eligible bachelors.

You guys are dumb, or what? You don't even speak the language. What do you know of their culture? And Europe has the same ratio of bad male species as anywhere else in the world. Stop dreaming, you cows.

Living is different from holidaying. Get Real. Stop running away.

Kids.