Tinker, Tailor

As a facebook user, I was rather pleased to read this announcement.

I have this new theory.

Most cultures have some food item that is disgusting to other cultures, or even “objectively” disgusting, yet people of that culture often love it.

Like belachan, with is made from fermented shrimp. Or really, rotting shrimp.

If you didn’t see what you were smelling, you’ll find that belachan is almost indistinguishable from damp, stinking feet. I’m not kidding - I know what damp, stinking feet smells like (smells like belachan).

Or durian, which smells like some types of garbage, with this sickly sweetish decomposing smell.

I remember one day not too long ago when I was at a client’s conference room when my boss said “is it me or do you smell something?”

“Nope,” I replied, “it’s you.”

I was proven wrong when the client suddenly sat up.

“Gas! I better go and check!”

He came back with a silly grin. “They’re eating durians downstairs.”

But anyway, while durians are disgusting to many, they aren’t “objectively” disgusting.

But mouldy blue cheese is.

We’d throw away a mouldy orange in disgust. Or even mouldy cheese, but the frenchman’s mouth would water at the sight of it.

In the same way, the frenchman would dump our belachan, or if he’s in Taiwan, the stinky toufu. In case you don’t know, stinky toufu smells like a filthy toilet.

And many of these “foods” stink for a reason. The stink because of the bacteria, and it’s nature’s way of telling us to stay away from such stuff. But we eat them anyway. Why?

Here’s my theory:

For most humans, there’s a corner in our psyche where we have this perverse urge or desire to engage in something disgusting.

For some people, it could be rimming, or having golden showers, or _____ [insert your own favourite disgusting act]. It could even be as extreme as necrophilia or coprophagia.

Thankfully, these are mostly socially unacceptable. For good reason too, since they tend to be rather unhealthy.

But, people still need an outlet.

Thus, societies and cultures have evolved such that some disgusting acts have become socially acceptable in those cultures. Disgusting acts like eating mouldy cheese for the French, or rotten shrimp for some Asians.

Tell me my theory makes sense.

Just a random MSN chat with a friend about her kitten.

me: how’s ning*? [name changed to protect it’s privacy]

friend: still alive

friend: he’s good lah, getting naughtier by the day though

friend: keeps attacking the other cat

[she’s helping to keep another kitten for her friend]

me: takes after you naturally

friend: ..

me: rapist in the making

friend: they’re both males lor!

me: yeah but he’s practising

friend: he’s only 6 wks old leh!

me: so when he meets a female……..

friend: no balls yet

me: or maybe he’s homo!

me: homocat

friend: hahahah

me: how u know he has no balls??

friend: my friend who knows quite alot took a look at it today

friend: and im not gng to let him go out and mix with the wild strays

me: yeah wait kena std

friend: hahahaha

friend: i think it’ll lose if he fights with them

me: heh

me: teach him to use a condom early

friend: i think quite hard lah

friend: he was already struggling like crazy when i tried putting a collar on him today

me: warrau

me: skip condom go straight to bondage?

friend: hahahaa

I admit I’m weird.

This is one of those days when I start on a blog post and when I reach the third paragraph, I take a look back at the previous paragraphs and it’s all so flat and dull and banal, so I do a Cmd+A (or ctrl+A if you’re on Windows) to highlight everything I’ve written, and hit delete.

I should be in bed in stead.

I was standing a few paces behind this guy in his early 20s, waiting for the lights to turn green. Black jeans, black t-shirt, spiky hair. He looked like a tough guy.

Then a girl with red hair and thick mascara stomped up to him, hands on her waist.

She didn’t look too pleased.

“Who asked you to go away?” she hissed.

I nonchalantly stepped closer, so that I could hear them better.

“You said go what…” he replied quietly, a little shaken. He didn’t look so tough anymore.

“I got say go meh? Huh?”

This looked like a textbook case of girl-asks-guy-to-go-but-didn’t-mean-it misunderstanding.

“You said what…”

He obviously didn’t get it.

“I tell you to eat shit you eat shit lah isit?”

The lights turned green. I was wishing that it remained red for much longer. The guy started crossing the road.

“You dare to go again?!?” she said, just as I was walking past her. I felt like telling her, “let him go - I’m here”, but he stopped.

And turned back.

Sensing her upper hand, she turned and walked away. He quickened his pace to catch up.

Girl 1, guy 0.

CERRUTI 1881.

Those are the lettering engraved on the silver ring of the pen I’m writing with. It’s the most expensive pen I’ve ever owned.

I watch as more and more my handwriting appears as the pen scribbles along. It’s hard to read, but I like the shapes of the words that appear. They’re scribbly and squiggly and wriggly, but I like it that way. It’s me - a little untidy, hard to read, hard to decipher, and sometimes quite incomprehensible.

With a computer keyboard, my writing (or typing) goes on in spurts.

But with a pen I can write almost without any pauses just like those days when we used to churn out pages and pages of essays and compos and more essays and more compos in school.

Writing mostly rubbish of course, but it was a lot more reassuring to be constantly writing and scribbling during the exam, rather than stopping to think. Then noticing that everyone is furiously writing away. And your mind going blank. And blanker with every second you’re not writing.

Perhaps I can write without pauses with a pen because it allows my thoughts to catch up. I type too fast for my thoughts, so I need frequent pauses.

Perhaps also because I’m now just writing for the sake of writing. Nobody’s gonna read this (nobody can), so it doesn’t matter what comes out. I should call this “written diarrhea”.

The Cerruti 1881 feels weighty and substantial, even though it’s shorter than the usual pen. I want to keep writing just to feel it sliding and sliding along the paper.

It feels good.

I have been making very bad wordplays of recent days.

One of them came when I was showing a friend something on my computer (a Macbook Pro).

Macs come with an email program called “Mail”, which my friend uses on her own Mac.

She noticed that I was using gmail to access my email.

“How come you’re not using Mail?” she asked.

“Because I prefer females.”

A few days ago, I declared that I would write more often.

I have since written a post every day.

Let me clarify - writing more often doesn’t necessarily mean writing every day. So if you think I’m going to be writing every day, you will be disappointed.

Don’t come back tomorrow. Come back maybe a day or two after.

In other news, if you see a guy walking without bending his knees, it could be me.

My thighs hurt like hell. You’d know why if you’ve been stalking my twitter:

with sheer resolve and will power, come hell or high water, i AM going for a run. NOW! i SHALL go. i MUST! really… i really should go… 06:06 PM January 14, 2008

it was a good run, after 2 months - light rain, cool wind, running topless. a lady driver even honked at me. yeah, i was getting in her way. 06:58 PM January 14, 2008

Anyone* would like to massage my thighs?

* males need not apply.

Some time ago, I took a picture of a woman holding her umbrella while waiting under the bus shelter.

She needed double protection from the rain.

Then today. It was hot and sweltering afternoon, and I was walking under the sheltered walkway because I didn’t want to walk under the blazing sun, even though the sheltered route was much longer.

Then I noticed this girl walking in my direction under the same sheltered walkway. And she was holding her open umbrella. This time it’s double protection from the sun. (I so regret not taking her photo.)

Only Asians do this kind of thing.

Westerners, on the other hand…

Drinking, smoking, chatting, and otherwise baking themselves. I won’t be surprised if they spontaneously combust.

Spotted at the end of the same sheltered walkway.

I’ve always hated going to pasar malams as a kid - the noise, the heat, the humidity, the smell, the crowds, the nothing to buy.

Yet this time, I suddenly had this strong urge to visit the pasar malam in the distance. Maybe it’s part of the aging process. Or maybe I’m just plain hungry. Famished. Thinking of plunging my teeth into the juicy goodness of a Ramly burger.

As I walked down the street, a debate raged within me.

“You’ll become fatter!”

“But I’m not even fat!”

“How about the tummy?”

“What tummy?”

My hand reached down to feel for the nonexistent tummy as I stopped breathing.

“But you’ll soon get a tummy!”

“But, I just went for a run!”

“Ok you’re not fat, but you will get fat!”

“One burger wouldn’t make me fat!”

“One burger today. Then you’ll have another the next time. Then another. That’s how fat people get fat.”

“But I’m starving!”

“But you know very well that you’re able to stand hunger. That’s why you’re not fat.”

“Exactly. That’s why I won’t get fat. The next time I’m hungry, I’ll just endure it!”

“Anyway, most of the stuff there are stale or don’t taste good. You know that very well.”

“I’ll just get a Ramly burger. Can’t go too wrong with that.”

“You’ll see something that looks more interesting, and you’ll buy it instead, and you’ll regret the moment you eat it.”

“I’m getting the Ramly burger. I’m sure that have it there.”

By then, I was already stepping on the damp boards under the pasar malam tent. And there, right near the entrance, was a stall with the familiar Ramly burger sign, and the familiar round and black oil-coated metal plate. But no familiar Ramly burger patties sizzling on the plate.

After making a mental note of the stall, I decided to walk on so see what other interesting foods to buy - I wasn’t about to make an impulse buy.

I saw the usual - a few stalls with unappetizing-looking stuff. Then I saw a stall with the Ramly burger sign again. Same thing - no one was buying, nothing was frying.

By the time I walked the length of the pasar malam, I must have spotted at least 6 or 7 Ramly burger stalls, and none of them were cooking their Ramly burgers.

Nor did I feel like Ramly burgers anymore.

In the end, I bought this thing they call “pizza”. It didn’t look like pizza - more like an assortment of vegetables or onions held together by some egg and dough, with a few small slices of ham on top. But it looked good, especially with the sizzling sound effects as it waited longingly for me to rescue her.

After I parted with my $2.50, the stall lady put the “pizza” into a foam box and started squeezing a thick layer of mayonnaise, followed by a thick layer of chilli sauce, completely enveloping the “pizza”. I started having buyers’ remorse. Anything that tastes good doesn’t need 2 thick blankets of sauce.

The “pizza” turned out to be extremely filling. My hunger ended after the first bite. By the second bite, I was completely satiated. I parted with the “pizza”, feeding it to the bin.

[I completely regret not taking pictures of the “pizza”.]

I still hate pasar malams.

I shall write more often. This would be my 2008 resolution, except that I don’t make resolutions.

Some people have told me that I write well, but my opinion differs. I may write well every now and then, but it hasn’t been consistent. I want to write well every time my pen slides along the dead tree. I want to write well every time my finger taps on the rubber-protected macbook pro keyboard.

Thus, I shall write more often, even though it may mostly be nonsense. One can write nonsense well, just as one can make garbage taste good. [Ed: use another analogy]

It must have been my sec 1 English teacher who first gave me some confidence in my own writing. Despite me consistently not doing my homework, despite me having to stand outside the classroom on countless occasions while she was teaching, despite having to deal with my smart-alecky comments during those times I wasn’t outside the classroom, she could look past my shortcomings to offer me that bit of encouragement:

“Have you ever thought of becoming a writer?”

“Nope,” was my reply, blunt as usual.

And that was after she had selected one of my 10-page compositions to be published in the school magazine.

(She was the same teacher I nicknamed Evil Tan* [surname changed]. Her name was Elizabeth Tan*, but because she gave so much homework, she became Evil Tan.)

I didn’t write 10-page compositions to begin with. It was my classmate Don who got me started.

One day, Evil Tan made as all pair up to write a composition. Everyone rushed to find their own partners, while I remained in my seat, thinking what a dumb idea it was to write pair compositions. At the end of it, there were only 2 boys without a partner - me and Don.

As I pulled my chair beside his, he started apologising to me.

“I must apologise to you first, because my compos are very long.”

“Oh that’s fine, mine are long too.” I was thinking about my long 4-page compositions.

After we discussed the plot that day, he set off to write the first draft.

He came days later with a 10-page composition. Your compos are indeed long! I thought, but didn’t say. Nor did I complain, since we got very good grades. And all I did were some minor edits.

But that was important for me - it broke this barrier in my mind that said that school compos couldn’t be too long.

And that was how I started writing 10-page compos as well. And ended up getting published in my school magazine.

Maybe Evil Tan wasn’t really that evil.

Maybe I’m a writer after all.

That’s if I keep writing.

After doing a bit of shopping (yes I do shop every few years) I was walking down Orchard Road feeling a little hot and maybe bored so I decided to slip into the nearest shopping centre - one of those old and seedy ones with high-pressure electronics stores near the entrance.

It had number of tailors (no relation with tinkertailor) and hairdressers as well, and it wasn’t long before I was greeted with,

“Sir, massage?”

by some not-so-young and not-so-sexy women trying to appear young and sexy.

Those who know me well know that I have a weakness for massages. Unless I have to pay for them. Yes I’m cheap. But that’s beside the point.

As I walked along, oblivious to the increasing number of massage offers around me, some words from this shop I just walked by caught my eye.

VIETNAM BRIDES

Vietnam brides?

There was a youngish lady sitting inside. I think she was smiling at me, but I didn’t really look. On the wall inside were lots of pictures of couples, which aroused my curiosity, so I stepped in to have a look.

Almost all the pictures I saw had an old man with a young lady. “Old man” meaning some guy in his 50s to 70s. Yes, 70s. And most of the ladies weren’t too good-looking.

“Those are the successful ones,” said the boss who hurried out of the inner office. He drew my attention away from the photos, and proudly pointed towards the girl sitting at the table.

She smiled at me sweetly.

She couldn’t have been more than 20, at most 21. Pretty face, with some makeup, and a sweet smile.

I didn’t exactly smile back.

“She’s available for marriage,” he continued. “Take a seat and have a chat with her.”

“How does this work?” I asked.

“Simple, you talk and get to know the girl, and if you like her, and she likes you, you can get married!”

I’m sure she already likes me, by the way she’s smiling at me so enthusiastically. I’d probably be excited if I were her too, after seeing all those old fogeys in the photos.

“But surely I’ll have to pay a sum of money, right?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“It depends on how much the girl asks for. It can be from $7k to $10k.”

Hmmm. Quite reasonable actually.

“By the way,” the boss asked, “are you working or studying?”

“Working.” I think I relieved a nagging suspicion of his.

“How old are you?”

I gave him my approximated age.

“Do you want get married?”

“Maybe. But I’m not in a hurry.”

“Oh we can’t do this. She’s only here for a month, so you have to decide fast. Why not you sit down and talk with her and see how things go?”

I looked at her. She was still smiling at me.

“Or if you don’t like her, I have another one - she’ll be back here shortly.”

I didn’t want to raise the smiley girl’s hopes any further, so I thanked the boss and left the shop.

When I walked by again some minutes later, both the girls were there. The smiley girl saw me, and smiled again.

Both of them were young and pretty - prettier than the average Singaporean girl you see on the street.

I wonder if they give good massages.