Unexpected Song

I walk out of the office at 10.30 pm, rather tired and dispirited, as one would be. In the lift lobby, I hear music pounding from the roof - JWT's having some species of jamboree on the roof, I saw them setting up earlier. I consider crashing it, but catch sight of myself in the fancy glass wall and reconsider in a hurry. When the lift arrives it contains a picturesque man, only slightly unsteady. When I get in he asks me confidentially: is this going up or down? Down, I say kindly, but with a private grin. I am suddenly and strangely cheered by this sign that it's a good party upstairs. Downstairs I find two girls in full carnavale mode handing out something or the other to people coming in. I assume they're part of the JWT theme. But when I pause to take a picture I learn that the person accompanying them works for Lowe, who are having a rival party down the road and are here poaching guests for good-natured, though mysterious, reasons.

The private grin is now very much out in the open. In fact, my evening has suddenly become so wonderfully nuts that I feel as effervescent as if I did go to one or both of the parties. It's one of those moments when I remember what I like about being in advertising. Nobody parties like an agency. And nobody else chooses a Monday night for a Street Party that proclaims "1 Night, 3 Bars, Free flow".

Right now, I'm sitting on the train with an invitation in one hand, my phone in the other, a manic grin on my face, writing this. It started as a Tweet, migrated to a Facebook status when Twitter proved inadequate and finally fetched up here when I realized even FB did not have enough scope!

You'd think the invite would be tempting but even my dead body wouldn't go to a party looking like I do now. As you can see from the picture!

Princesses – the tech specs

My niece's world is currently ruled by the various Disney princesses. My world has consequently been er...enriched?... by new versions of the fairytale princesses I knew when I was a kid (Disney was still in its Mickey-Donald phase then, so I had the Andersen-Grimm non-musical version). The rant about Disney leaching out the uncomfortable life lessons - and therefore the soul - of the stories is another post. This is just about the princesses, the ones in the written fairy tales. The male leads didn’t get much attention; most of them are pretty much one-dimensional (as my niece has subconsciously registered - she mixes them up freely in her games). Which would explain the other important feature of the fairytales: eternal love is usually accomplished in a single look. Here they are, seven of the princesses as I see them, with a handy watchability guide for the movie version:

1. Cinderella wallowed in soot and self-pity and needed a fairy godmother to help her go to the ball. The ugly sisters should have shared the prince, he would have had more fun in the long run.
No. of times you can sit through the movie without losing your mind: 2

2. Sleeping Beauty slept through it all. She didn’t seem very upset about being kissed awake by a trespasser. The Disney movie resembles the story in only three points - malevolent witch curse, death by spindle and wakened by kissing. The other 70 minutes are different and not too bad.
No. of times you can sit through the movie without losing your mind: 7

3. Snow White was the sort of idiot who took food from strangers and her prince was a necrophiliac who kissed girls in coffins.
No. of times you can sit through the movie without losing your mind: 2

4. The nameless one in the Frog Prince was a spoilt and unscrupulous brat who would promise anything just to get her way. Then she came up against something even slimier than herself. Also, this is one story that the Disney version has vastly - and I mean, vastly - improved.
No. of times you can sit through the movie without losing your mind: Probably a lot but have only had to see it once so don't know.

5. The Little Mermaid… no, I can’t be rude about her. Good fairy tales can stand up to the kind of critical appreciation you apply to Shakespeare, and this is one of them. You can see it as a simple parable about not hankering after what you can’t have. But it’s also a complex illustration of poignant darknesses – an Anne-Boleyn style sacrifice of the self to ambition, the fatal attraction of unequal, unrequited love, the fate of the second woman in a certain kind of relationship. It could also be a whole thesis on the inadvisability of giving up that much of your fundamental self for a relationship. Needless to say, the Disney version has none of the above subtext whatsoever.
No. of times you can sit through the movie without losing your mind: 2. Be warned that it has spawned sequels involving the mermaid's daughter and mother.

6. Rapunzel, I like! Apart from anything else, there’s something very cool about your fate being decided by a cabbage. This Pantene princess had spirit. She let a man into her room secretly and provided the means herself. And after the wicked witch blinded the guy, she said screw you wicked witch and went after him anyway. Disney's fairly recent interpretation of Rapunzel, Tangled, is a great version, too.
No. of times you can sit through the movie without losing your mind: 7

7. My favourite is Beauty. This is the only one that is a true romance and necessarily has a more detailed male lead. Beauty had work to do – she was not strictly a princess. She had chores, a job and human affection for people other than her prince. She found herself put on a difficult path and stuck to it, being brave when she had to be. She gave the beast a chance, unlovely though he was in face and character and unashamedly so. And before you could say Stockholm Syndrome, the beast let her go with no conditions attached. She returned of her own free will. They lived happily ever after.
No. of times you can sit through the movie without losing your mind: 7

The grapes of wrath

Recently I made myself unpopular by spurning a bottle of Grover’s La Reserve as “singularly undrinkable”. What I meant of course was that I didn’t like it, but in the manner of wine-drinkers dangerous with little knowledge, I made it a problem with the wine. That’s just the tip of the personality disorder.

I can’t remember when wine, for me, went from being the thing you drink at Christmas in the wrong glasses to being what you drink, period. For that matter, I couldn’t tell you when or why my “hard drink” of choice became rum and coke or gin and tonic. I’ve never been a vodka person. Then one day it was all about wine.

I didn’t even have the excuse of being in the thick of the “wine revolution”; it just happened. Suddenly I had wine racks and bottles that meant more than “red or white”. I spent ages in wine boutiques picking them out. I courted eviction by rearranging bits of my landlord’s kitchen so I could store them properly. I worried about them in Dubai’s summer humidity. I changed my food habits to accommodate them. I did a lot of research and became insufferable on the subject, especially after a few glasses of it. I got caught up in it all for a while, until the sheer number of moving parts tired me out.

When you thought you’d finally grasped the grapes, you discovered unpronounceable Hungarian varietals. Just as you got some insight into the intricacies of France’s wine-growing regions and untangled them from the broader strokes of Napa Valley, along came an Argentinean Malbec, a Spanish Rioja or a German Riesling. Australia is even larger than France and New Zealand may be small, but it’s prolific. Then India joined the fray. When South African and Lebanese friends threatened to stop inviting me, I decided to give it a rest. They gave really good parties.

There was also the constant guilt that no wine enthusiast will admit to, the feeling that if you really liked the taste it had to be sub-standard. Whenever I started feeling particularly affectionate towards one – a certain South African Pinotage comes to mind – I would abandon it in a hurry without looking too closely at my reasons. Come to think of it, that bears close resemblance to other parts of my life as well, so perhaps I shouldn’t try shoving it off on to all wine-drinkers.

I now work with the fundamental truth of “I like it, I like it not”. The fancy language work I can do all on my own, and with a glass of water if necessary. Sometimes I just drink the syrup that somebody’s uncle made from apricots. I’m a better person for it, too. Occasionally, the snottiness I imbibed with the more difficult Bordeaux and horrifyingly mature Burgundies gets the better of me and I annoy a few friends, as above, but mostly I’m very relaxed, scrupulously agreeing with whatever my hosts think of their wine.

My fascination with the deliciously metaphorical concept of terroir has endured, though. And wine glasses, I love them, particularly the large works of art in which ruby liquid can swirl like dervishes, releasing entire Impressionist landscapes. I love that bouquet, the first multisensory tasting. A fresh bottle of wine is the calm of my flat before a party, warm light on wood, the pure sound of Leonard Cohen on my Linn before it turns into something louder, tea lights burning in a Zen holder that makes them look like they’re floating in the air, just as I am suspended in the solitude. This then, is probably the attraction for me. The rum and coke is always a noisy night out, but wine is personal. All the more reason, I suppose, for keeping my judgmental reflections to myself.

#ThankYouSteve

That's one of the trends going around on Twitter this morning, asking you to tweet if you're holding an Apple product.

Well I am, as I have ever since I started using a computer a million years ago. As with any important relationship, I object to many things about Apple. I am constantly irritated by the foibles that I may or may not have thought were cute at the start. But I have no desire to leave, nor any fundamental doubts about them. Beneath the appearance obsession and the posturing that they've lately taken to doing, it's still about the good product. I own both a PC and a Mac. I've messed about with Linux. I've owned a Windows phone, an Android one and an iPhone. A Sony mp3 player, as well as an iPod. When all is said and done, I think the Kindle is way better than the iPad for digital book reading – but that's about it. And so I say a heartfelt "Thank you Steve".

There could not be a better orbituary for the man than the old Apple ad.

"Here's to the crazy ones.
The misfits, the rebels
The troublemakers.
The round pegs in the square holes,
The ones who see things differently.
They're not fond of rules
And they have no respect for the status quo.
You can quote them, disagree with them
Glorify or vilify them.
About the only thing you can't do
Is ignore them.
Because they change things.
They push the human race forward.
And while some may see them as the crazy ones,
We see genius.
Because the people who are crazy enough
To think they can change the world
Are the ones who do."

Written by Craig Tanimoto or Rob Siltanen or Ken Segall, or all three together, depending on where you get your information from. Anyway, they were all in the creative department of Chiat/Day and it was 1997. One of them also named the iMac.

Discovering Japan

This is my new alarm clock. I’ve been looking for it for years – always wanted an old-fashioned one that looks and sounds like the one in the cartoons. I found it in one of the Japanese novelty stalls that sprout in the corridors of malls from time to time. It’s not that this kind of clock is not otherwise available, but the idea of paying 200 dollars for something that forces me to get up in the morning makes me ill. This one didn't cost too much more than a designer coffee, in spite of being designer green. While paying for it, I said (only half-jokingly) to the girl who was presiding over the ceremony that I hoped it would still be working next week. She drew herself up to her full height and said “it’s made in Japan ma’am.” She was so offended, she threw in a free battery! Okay, then.

I also got this. It looks and feels like a Canon lens, but is actually a thermos coffee mug. I bought it for my brother.


After the purchases, I tore myself away with some difficulty from an Angry Birds hand-held fan, a tiny portable speaker made of old newspaper, an iPhone cover in the shape of a red-faced macacque (in relief, complete with hanging tail and fur; it would look like you had a monkey hanging off your ear), an umbrella rolled inside a Japanese-girl totem pole and another, battery-operated one that changed colour as you walked. And a keychain that said “My other keychain is a fridge magnet”. The novelty merchandise from Japan is the most entertaining, creative and frankly mad stuff I’ve ever seen.

Those I’m spending Christmas with this year can consider themselves warned.

The picture of the alarm clock is something I got off Google Images (from here) because I forgot to take a photo of mine and didn't feel like waiting till later to post. This is exactly what it looks like.

Pity party

I’ve been suffering from the aftermath of a strange evening out. The two new friends I went with are nice. In fact they’re a lot like my other friends. And I generally like the Saturday night vibe, bright lights and dancing and glittering places crowded with beautiful people. The place was even on the riverside – partying near water usually makes me even more effervescent. And yet the evening was the absolute pits. I finally gave up on the excellent band and the happily packed dance floor and pushed my way outside. I stood outside and watched people ebbing and flowing out of the bars and clubs along the quay with a dismayed sense of unbelonging. I saw many versions of myself from ten years ago and noted them with detachment. For the first time in my life, I ruined a night out for the others and caused the party to break up early.

The fear I felt then stayed with me through the following weeks, colouring all the other more immediate ones. I was scared my mind had wrinkled and dried out, that it would never more be capable of anything new, that lightness and sense of humour were gone for good, the effervescence flat. What frightened me most was that I’d looked forward to the evening, wanted to go out and was happy until it actually got underway. I didn’t understand it. It felt like I suddenly had a terminal disease.

But today I visited a blog I follow, read the latest post and realized it wasn’t me at all, at least not in that way. What I had wanted that evening was conversation, contact. A different kind of bar, to be with rude people who make callous jokes about your misfortunes so you can fall about laughing, to trade insults and be silly. That particular Saturday, I'd actually gone out looking for a Sunday night. That’s all it was. What a relief.

I suppose the real moral of the story is that it was a mistake to watch Bridesmaids before going out. It’s the dreariest movie I’ve seen in a long time.

Gold Gargoyle for the Most Entertaining Thing, Ever

No ifs or buts, no doubts at all. Samosapedia. Click and read. you won't be able to stop and it'll take all the hours in your day. And even your boss will count the time well spent.

Gold Gargoyle for Entertaining Reviews of Hindi Movies

goes to Item Number. And it's not just because she's listed my blog either.

Excerpt from review of Delhi Belly:
"My mother, may still consider taking me home and feeding me, but not before giving me the look, if during road rage I hung out of the car screaming chutiye!! at an auto-waala, but if my choice of words were to be "fuck you" in a calm non-hostile fashion and from within the confines of my car to a fellow honker, I’d probably have to park on the side and reason out with her as to where did she go wrong with her upbringing. Let’s get over it, I say."

Full review here.

Street of dreams

Yes I know – I’m going on a bit about Singapore on my blog. I’ll stop soon. Right now I feel like I’m on holiday every time I go out. I had yet another surprising-Singapore moment today (whoever thought up the slogan was a genius). Walking down Orchard Road – having been disappointed by yet another bookstore, this time in Centrepoint Mall – and passing for the hundredth time an outdoor bar in this heritage-y sort of building, called, er, Outdoor, I thought I’d check it out. I turned the corner and it turned out to be a whole heritage street, not the courtyard I’d expected!

In the foreground of the photograph (does not begin to do it justice) you can see cafe tables, but further down, they're all private homes. I didn’t want to take any direct photos of the houses; it seemed intrusive. It’s called Emerald Hill Road and it’s lined on both sides with these buildings in what I think of as the shophouse style. There must be a more formal term (I’m hoping perhaps fellow blogger Tiny Island or one of her readers will know). They’re all impeccably maintained. Many of them have three storeys and gardens with two cars parked in them. The Merc + BMW package. One house had picked a vintage Maserati over the BMW and another one had chosen a Mini – and I haven’t seen either in a better setting. It was a magical street, pretty beyond belief and absolutely quiet, though I was mere yards from Orchard Road’s raucous Sunday evening crowds.

And I redouble my participation in the Singapore Land Authority bidding process in the quest to find a shophouse, black-and-white row house, barrack-converted-to-terrace or suchlike to live in. I will not rest until it’s been exhaustively proven to me that my bids for picturesque and inconvenient state property are pathetic losers. I was so close just three weeks ago. So close.

Wings of fire

Seletar Flying Club is at the end of a long drive, some of it on roads that are also runways. There, among the hangar-like offices of airplane companies, around the corner from a casual parking lot for private planes, on a grassy verge by the fence that runs along the airfield you’ll find the Sunset Grill, a bunch of scarred tables and chairs under a yellow plastic awning, where you go prepared to get your hands dirty. And your nerve-endings mauled.

When I say chicken wings, don’t think of those little stubs shiny with sauce. These are whacking great pieces of chicken. That come in 36 levels of spiciness. We ordered Level 3 (we chose Level 4, but the waitress’s eyes widened with alarm so we hastily dialled it down). The first bite was a shock, the second one a recurring nightmare. From the third on it was really an adventure sport. The spice was sharp, with a tangy aftertaste, quite unlike Indian spiciness, which has a sort of rounded edge to it, perhaps from the turmeric, tamarind or curry leaves. The chicken was crisp on the outside, wonderfully juicy on the inside. It was brilliant. It should be listed in the tourist brochures along with the chilli crab. I must mention, though, that the other things on the menu we tried were uniformly execrable, except for the brownie, which was excellent.

The wings rounded off a day at the Sungei Buloh Wetland Reserve. Singapore distinguishes the natural reserves from the parks by a rigorous lack of gift shops, rides and food courts. It could be because fewer tourists go there but it also serves to centre all your attention on the reserve itself. On one viewing platform, my niece suddenly said “look there’s a fishy”. We started to explain there wasn’t enough water for one, when we spotted a slimy thing flapping about in the mud. While giving her inordinate credit for the discovery, we were riffling through the trivia in our brains, trying to place it. A fish that lived in mud. Jumping from puddle to puddle. Hopping. Skipping. Mudskipper, we said almost simultaneously. There turned out to be hundreds of them, looking like something out of Dune. There were also black crabs, grey lizards, brown birds, unbelievably noisy insects. And crocodiles. There were warning signs everywhere.

In the part where you could walk on the ground, we suddenly spotted a long, low, grey shadow coming steadily towards us with that peculiar menacing gait, short, thick legs swinging purposefully. Worse, it was approaching in a direction that would cut us off from the boardwalk. We were stuck on a narrow path, with water on either side. This time my brain’s trivia archive had no trouble offering myths and facts in rapid succession: Crocodiles can run faster than a horse. I can run faster than a tortoise. They can jump 20 feet. The trees around us were not that high, or even climbable. They react to movement, not smell or sight. I didn’t know what to do with that particular fact. Given a choice between a shark and a crocodile, I would take the shark. I didn’t know what to do with that fact either. And I wished my brain would shut the hell up and let me think.

Meanwhile my brother had noticed it was a large water monitor. We relieved our sheepish feelings by laughing at another group that didn’t notice it until they were almost on top of it. They must have cleared 20 feet easily. But since we’d scared ourselves silly, we couldn’t quite do the water path anymore. So we went hunting for chicken wings.

It was a good day. And I only just got the clever bit about serving wings at an airfield!