“It’s like washing a pig. It’s messy, it has no rules, no clear beginning, middle, or end; it’s kind of a pain in the ass, and when you’re done, you’re not sure if the pig is clean or even why you were washing a pig in the first place. Welcome to the creative department.”
Luke Sullivan, Hey Whipple, Squeeze This
Hallelujah.
Categories: Work
I haven’t stepped into a club for almost 2 years to date and I know exactly why. Other than the mild hangover and minor smoke poisoning experienced after 5 hours of hopping around in what would, in any other circumstance, be considered a gas chamber, clubbing leaves me feeling overwhelmingly stupid.
As with any guy, the desire to club is fueled by three universal, all-encompassing motives. Women, women, women. Don’t believe all that crap about the need to de-stress or to (and this is a good one) exercise. And so it is that men flock to Mohammad Sultan Road by the droves in the vague hope of picking up some pretty young thing. Do note that in extreme cases of self-delusion, men have been known to be motivated by the hope of being picked up by pretty young things.
How does one go about picking someone else up anyway?
Do pickup lines work?
“You must be tired baby cos you’ve been running through my mind”? Use this and there will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
The usual “wanna be friends?” makes you sound like you’re trying to get a hooker.
“Can I buy you a drink?” is a waste both of time and money. Not only are success rates low, unless you look like Enrique Iglesias, you have to get a drink not just for her but for yourself as well. This is regarded as courtesy and is meant to allow for interaction. In a club, this usually involves shouting like a National Day Parade commander at your prospective date/bed partner/rejector between sips of bourbon coke.
Clubbing sessions tend to start out with suicidal drinking in an effort to get high. Since I and Bryan (if he’s not already with some girl) are the ones who get the drinks most often, we get a headstart on slugging down as much liquid liver solidifier as possible in a single double-strawed breath. In other words, we get stupid faster.
The effects of alcohol on the average unsuspecting clubber begin with the onset of an ever so slight gyration of the hips in rhythm with whatever B-grade music is mashing up his insides. This is followed by the urge to nod one’s head as if to say “yes, yes, take me to stupid land”. The sufferer then begins to lose control of his arms, watching in abject horror as they flail wildly all around him while his hands begin making idiotic symbols such as that of a camera viewfinder whenever he hears the words “square rooms”. Now, I know that for some, this may result in a mild resemblance to Ricky Martin. I, unfortunately, end up looking like a glorified version of William Hung.
Of course, since alcohol is a diuretic, clubbers will need to make at least one trip to the loo per session. The journey there is a hazardous one. One must avoid the flying limbs of the similarly afflicted while simultaneously maintaining the helicopter motion of one’s own appendages. Collisions are unavoidable and all one can say is “sorry, brother”. Yes, everyone is now your brother.
Upon arriving, battered, bruised and with 500 new-found brothers at the toilet, the clubber is then faced with a 320 meter queue for the nearest urinal. Needless to say, this is the reason why potted plants are generally avoided in clubs. I remember once we couldn’t find a member of our group. Turned out he’d fallen asleep on the toilet bowl. Thankfully, most of my other friends have the common sense to pass out on the roadside where they can be easily located.
Speaking of which, the roadside of Mohammad Sultan at 3am resembles a warzone. Bodies strewn all over the place, grown men vomiting their guts out and sobbing teenagers calling for mommy. Sights like these make the heart ache but the brain laugh. I’m sorry. I can’t help it.
Alright. So I may not have done as many stupid things as some people have, trying to headlock a bouncer being one of them, but it doesn’t mean that I’m willing to take the risk. Just being around stupidity too much can leave you infected for life. For me, the limit was when I found myself having a heart to heart chat with a guy I barely knew on the pavement outside Zouk. “So how far have you gone with a girl?” he slurred. You get the idea.
Categories: Expoundings
After almost 3 weeks of continuous football watching, CM mulling (Huddersfield is now in the 1st division), and Winning Eleven bashing, coupled with not one but two sessions of playing the actual game yesterday, I felt I needed to say that.
And…
For those interested, Basheer is located at Bras Basah Complex on the 4th floor (I think). Be warned. Bring lots of money or at least ensure that your bank account balance reads at least three figures. The books aren’t cheap and they’re all tempting. Award books, award books, award books. Archives, archives, archives. It’s like putting a kid in a candy store with just enough money for a lollipop. Going down again today most probably. Another substantial deduction from my account is in the offing it seems.
Categories: Life at Large
Spent $32.50 on an ad book at lunch. Every time I go to Basheer there’s something new. I have no idea how they keep track of all those books. You get stuff on interior design, web design, brochure design, logo design, copywriting, novel writing, award books, archives, illustrations, 3D art etc. Who needs Borders or Kinokuniya?
Anyway, the book I got was “Hey Whipple, Squeeze This” by Luke Sullivan. I’ve never liked self-help books but desperate times call for desperate measures. Some people come up with great ideas spontaneously. I, unfortunately, am not similarly blessed. Hence, I will try to come up with ideas through methodology. No idea what I mean myself cos my methodology inevitably involves staring at some imaginary spot in the distance.
Time to go. A weekend of re-writing awaits… Dammit.
So I finally got the watch the Euros. but I only lasted 60min before KO-ing.. think lying down on the bed to watch football with the remote beside me in the wee hours of the morning is not such a good idea if you want to catch all the action after a tiring day at work. (I’m sure MS WORD would have green squiggled that sentence and said “Long sentence-no suggestions”)
Some links for the bored.
Categories: Stuff
“Anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job.”
Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
I believe this applies to Messrs Wiranto and Bambang.
Categories: Stuff
And the Italians have no one to blame but themselves for being sent packing so early in the tournament. This time there was no crazy referee, no conspiracy theory (despite what Del Piero alleged) and no jet lag to be made the scapegoat. The Azzurri simply weren’t good enough. And they know it. So does every single Italy fan. From the first game against Denmark where pass after pass went astray, to the woeful finishing in the draw against Sweden, to the hard fought but ultimately immaterial win over Bulgaria, the Italian team never really showed up.
Francesco Totti owes an apology to every single Italian who traveled to Portugal only to see him disgrace his team and his country by spitting on Christian Poulsen. This petulant prima donna deserves more than a paltry three-match ban. Eight matches and a public flogging would have been more appropriate. To think that Italy rested its hopes on such a player is appalling. Talent on the field is worth nothing if one doesn’t carry oneself with dignity and integrity and, sooner or later, players like that will be found out as Totti was.
Just as after Korea/Japan, the Italians will have much to think about and much to rue. Trapattoni’s head will most probably roll but it is unclear as to how much any successor, no matter how capable, can do. Success for Italy isn’t just about changing players or tactics, it’s about changing a mindset. Perhaps releasing the old guard will be the best way to go. The likes of Del Piero, Vieiri and, maybe, Totti are past their prime and it is time to bring in fresh talent to add to the likes of Cassano and Pirlo who were the better performers in midfield and attack. Recovering from this massive setback will definitely be hard but Italy’s time will come. They definitely have the talent, all they need is the mentality. They’ve got two years to put right the wrongs but for now, all there is to be said is, arrivederci.
Categories: Life at Large
Finally presented the radio scripts and, no they’re not in Hokkien. They’re written in perfect English or at least that was the desired effect. Anyway, while searching for inspiration (read: ideas to rip off), Jason (designer) brought my attention to the Radio Advertising Bureau. How I missed this I have no idea but it’s a great site to get samples of creative radio ads from. I’ve only listened to a few, but so far they’ve all been amazing. Oh, you’ve gotta register to get access to them but it’s well worth it and I haven’t received spam yet.
Event house is coming down for I don’t know what later. And I’m supposed to brief them about the whole theme of the homecoming event. The only catch is that… there is no bloody theme! Bleah. More crapping to be done.
Categories: Work
Here I am watching England leading Croatia at halftime. Normally, this would be an enjoyable experience (solely because Kieron Dyer happens to be on the bench) but noooooooo, I have two yet to be written radio scripts hanging over my head like the blade of a guillotine.
The worst thing is, these scripts are for that same client who complains that I use profound English, which makes me even less inclined to write anything even remotely resembling copy. As was suggested in the brainstorm session earlier, maybe getting an ah soh to shriek “lai2 lai2 lai2, wa4 nang2 eh3 roadshow si3 dis lei2 bai3 gui2 diam4 gui2 diam4” would be appropriate since, given the sort of client we have been stricken with, this is the dialect that they are perhaps most likely to be able to fully appreciate. That was Hokkien in case you didn’t know, the language of the proletariat, so to speak. I, being a humble member of the working class, am particularly adept at using this versatile dialect. This is especially so when it comes to ordering fishball noodles or bak kut teh or cursing the living hell out of someone else’s mother. Not that I am proud of the last point.
Categories: Work
Just finished Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. A crazy book about the end of the world caused by a chemically triggered ice age that isn’t really cold. Odd? I thought so too.
But what really makes this book wonderful is the religion Bokononism which has infected the whole island community of San Lorenzo. The Calypsos (poems) are hilarious and the whole concept sorta makes sense in a nonsensical kinda way. So get the book and come join in as Bokonon invites us to sing along:
” We do, doodley do, doodley do, doodley do,
What we must, muddily must, muddily must, muddily must;
Muddily do, muddily do, muddily do, muddily do,
Until we bust, bodily bust, bodily bust, bodily bust.”
From the Books of Bokonon
Categories: Books
