Tinker, Tailor

MSN conversation with a friend:

Me: i should blog something soon

Friend: yes u shld

Me: sleepy lah

Me: gimme a topic to blog about

Friend: *coughs* sex

Me: hmmm

I don’t blame her. A lot of people think about sex when they think about me.

A minute later:

Me: i’m making progress

Me: i just twittered about sex

Friend: lemme go read

On my twitter, it read:

thinking about sex…

Friend: lol

Friend: bullshit

Me: relax lah - that was just foreplay

Friend: hahahaha

Friend: well, it was bad then

Me: wait till the real thing hits u

Me: you’ll be wetting your keyboard

So here I am, trying to write about sex. I’ll need inspiration. I weigh my options - go to the washroom with a pack of tissue? Or google “sex”, surf around from there, then go to the washroom with a pack of tissue?

I go to google.

Key in “sex”. And yes, of course, “I’m Feeling Lucky”.

(Note to self: clear the browser cache after this.)

When you’re using something, like a gadget or computer or even a website, it’s easy to tell when it’s designed by a nerd.

Google is the ultimate alpha nerd heaven, so what do you think their idea of lucky is when it comes to sex?

Sex refers to the male and female duality of biology and reproduction. Unlike organisms that only have the ability to reproduce asexually, sexed male and female pairs have the ability to produce offspring through meiosis and fertilization. The two sexes attract one another and communicate their readiness to procreate through differences in their biology.

Yes, I was ushered to the lucky article on sex on wikipedia.

And all I see is a stupid picture of two circles, one with a cross below it, and the other with an arrow pointing away from it.

I need to go to the washroom with a pack of tissue now.

My tears.

“What’s your favourite food?”

“My favourite food. Let’s see… uhmmm…”

Pregnant pause.

Dang. This is supposed to be an easy question, a question that people, normal people, can answer as easily as… as…

“Yeah? Your favourite food?”

“Well…”

What’s wrong with me? I don’t even know what my favourite food is?

“Ermm… I don’t have a favourite food.”

“What? How can you not have a favourite food?”

Exactly. How can I not have a favourite food? I love to eat; people sometimes associate me with food; I sometimes associate closely with food… surely I have a favourite food.

“Well I like all kinds of food.”

Hopefully that copout answer buys me a bit more time.

“Come on, surely you can tell me something you really like!”

Okay let me think. What do I like to eat. Oh I like fried kway teow.

“I like…”

But it’s been a year since I’ve eaten it? How can I claim that it’s my favourite food when I haven’t been eating it?

She’s glaring at me impatiently.

“I like laksa!”

Phew. Off the hook. Actually I don’t like all kinds of laksa that much. But Katong laksa is good. Not all the Katong laksas are good - the Holland V one is OK, the Queensway one I had last year was quite good, but the real Katong one I had right beside the busy road around 5 years ago was best.

“So what else, other than laksa?”

What? She wants more? Oh I like nasi lemak.

“I like…”

But nobody says nasi lemak is their favourite food - it sounds so pathetic! And when I think of nasi lemak, I picture one of those dingy little food stalls at some seedy shopping mall with no customers and a few packs of stale-looking nasi lemak displayed in the plexiglass shelf.

“Come on!”

“I like anything with high cholesterol!”

If you can’t give a concrete answer, go abstract. Fried kway teow, laksa, nasi lemak - their common denominator is the high cholesterol.

Thankfully she gave up after that answer.

But I was left wondering - why do I have such a hard time answering that question?

Then it hit me. I wasn’t the one at fault - it was the question’s fault. Or more precisely, it was the fault of what people expected the answer to be like. Which would then make it my fault since I was limiting myself to people’s expectation of the answer.

For example, when that “what’s your favourite food” question is asked, people expect you to give the name of the dish or food, like “chicken rice” or “satay”.

Unfortunately, that wouldn’t make sense. I may love the pizza at Pontini at Grand Copthorne Hotel, but I don’t care for the pizza from Pizza Hut. I may love the siew mai at that dim sum place in Sunshine Plaza, but I don’t care for the siew mai at my office cafeteria.

Next time someone asks me my favourite food, I’ll say something like this:

“That’s a tough question, but one that just came to mind is the lamb rack from Basil Alcove at Fortune Centre cooked by the chef Xander when he’s on form. That’s definitely one of my favourites.”

Or just don’t ask me a simple question. It’s never that simple.

So there I was standing innocently near the junction waiting for the light to turn green when this cute 20 year old girl chatting into her pink motorola razr carrying a pink tote bag and dressed in a pink top and white slacks walked right past me and stopped around 8 feet in front of me waiting for the same light to turn green.

I swear I wasn’t staring or even looking there on purpose but there on her white slacks where the legs come together was this small crimson patch. Well two patches actually, after clearer inspection I mean observation.

I thought I’d be nice (because I am nice) and update her on the situation, but since she was still on the phone it probably wasn’t so nice to interrupt.

Then again, it might not have been a great idea. What if she asks me to help her wipe it? I’m not one to be afraid of blood but I figure it wouldn’t be an easy task especially since her slacks are white.

By then the lights had turned green and she being a fast walker while me being a slow one made it quite impossible for me to catch up with her, chatting on the phone wearing white slacks with the two little crimson patches where the legs meet.

I don’t normally do food reviews, let alone drink reviews, but well, this one is weird enough to justify it.

I was hanging out with a couple of friends at a polytechnic canteen recently when I decided I needed a drink.

I also decided to try something different.

At the fridge, my eyes kept coming back to this can drink with a rather unconventional design.

It looked like Chinese medicine.

Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t that far from the truth.

Yes, if you’re Chinese and you’ve had a cough before, you likely would have tasted the well-known cough concoction called “Pi Pa Gao”. This, is “Pi Pa Mi”. The “Mi” refers to honey.

Well, to cut the long story of my decision-making process short, I bought it. You probably figured it out from the photo anyway.

When I thumped the can on the counter, the canteen auntie said “one-twenty”. Normal can drinks cost 80 cents there. I was already beginning to regret the decision.

After showing off my new buy to my friends, who weren’t just unimpressed - they gave me disgusted looks, I eventually had to open the can to drink it.

I poured the Pi Pa Mi into the cup of ice. It looked just like Coke, without the gas. Exactly the colour of Pi Pa Gao.

I generously asked if my friends wanted to try. No, they weren’t interested.

So I drank from my cup, as they stared at me with a slight grimace, probably half expecting me to keel over and cough out blood.

Yes, it tasted like Pi Pa Gao.

Not exactly something you’d associate with a cool refreshing drink.

But after a few sips, and getting used to the cough syrupy taste, I decided it wasn’t that bad after all. In fact, I had this cool mentholy sensation in my throat. Not too bad actually.

I tried hard to convince the friends to try it. Just a sip. It’s really not bad!

“There’s no way I’m going to drink something from a can with two dead men staring at me.”

Fine.

I might buy it again when I have a sore throat.

P.S. Besides water and honey, there were a lot of other stuff in the list of ingredients, all of them multisyllabic and potent-sounding. I’m still alive anyway.

The boss and I were discussing some stuff when he talked about trying to find a picture on a T-shirt that was popular when he was much younger:

It had this huge eagle swooping down with its massive talons just about to seize this mouse that is calmly sitting there showing him the finger.

If possible, we would get one to add to our office poster collection.

After a bit Googling, we found that it was called “the Last Great Act Of Defiance”.

They even have a newer design on a cafepress t-shirt.

But I doubt I’ll get the t-shirt. Otherwise all of you will know it’s me