Sleepless in Kembangan

It's 8:45 AM now as I'm sitting here in front of my Vaio. Just got out of the shower, heavy-lidded and slightly damp. I've been away for about five hours now.

I didn't wake up before four in the morning to study, or to catch something on TV. I just woke up. After sleeping for all of two hours after failing to get to sleep the night before.

While I'm writing this, I'm trying to sign in on MSN, maybe some other poor soul is around, equally bored. Heck, I might even agree to a game of Minesweeper Flags! But no, error after error means that I won't be appearing Busy on MSN today, in the hope that it might deter some pesky individuals who chitter on and on about how long they haven't seen me.

Ah, backache. Nothing quite like the exquisite soreness that mysteriously materialises one fine day. It's like a long-lost and unwanted relative, come visiting from somewhere far and away. You don't really know how it got there, and as long as it's there, you suffer. And you don't quite know how to get rid of it either.

When I opened my eyes at 3:45 this morning, I thought it was maybe about seven in the morning. The dull hazy light seeping through my curtains attested to that. Of course, I didn't realise, in the groggy state that I was, that that light was probably the excessive lamps lining the apartment blocks nearby that are lit during the less naturally-bright hours.

So I switched my TV on. Flatscreen, you see. And was treated to some random documentary about Elephants, I think it was. Maybe asteroids. Anyway, flipping through the channels, I managed to catch a glimpse of Vince McMahon being pushed over by Donald Trump, and lacking any suitable sports programming at the time, I turned to HBO. Because Star Movies was broadcasting Creep and there is only so many times you can watch a deformed psychopathic killer with cores and boils plunge a large serrated cutting utensil into a helpless woman's privates. But back to HBO.

The Legend of Zorro. Aha! That should be entertaining, right? I mean, it's Antonio Banderas and Catherine Zeta Jones. Can't go wrong with the man that starred in Desperado and Original Sin. Then I realised that those two movies were fun for the guns and Angelina Jolie, respectively. And that Entrapment was really sucky.

Only then I fumbled for my Nokia and saw, to my amazement, it wasn't actually seven, but four. It brings back memories of a young Naz, waking up by himself and thinking he'll be late for school. Rushing to shower, pack his things and head for school. Only his father, his ride, was still snoring happily away. So young Naz nudges him awake.

"Baba, wake up. I need to go to school..."

"Huh? What? School? *&^% It's only 3 O'clock!"

Yeah. Not so fun. So I sat in bed for about two-and-a-half hours waiting for the minutes to pass, since I didn't want to wrinkle my uniform. And back then all I had to entertain me was a Sega Megadrive. And you can only play FIFA International so many times before it gets dreary, even for a kid.

Well, it's light now. Maybe I'll go grab breakfast. But if memory serves me correctly, there isn't much save for some bread and cheese. A simple breakfast then. No croissants and juice today. I just need to remember not to step on the dead lizard plastered on the floor of facing my brother's room. It's already been a long day.

What Are You Smoking, Paula?

American Idol airs at least twice a week in many English-speaking countires. In Singapore, there are as many as four telecasts on the same day across the various channels if you're lucky. Now, I confess to being sort of a fan of the series, in not the most dedicated one.

I watch American Idol mostly for the auditions and the rejects and wannabe "singers" who apparently have friends with no ears. It's almost the same reason I enjoy watching Formula 1 racing, why I pay the most attention to the first lap or so, when the crashes come thick and fast. A car wreck, that's the best way to describe some "contestants" on American Idol at times. Screeching, mangled, twisted and very, very painful.

Some would argue that this season's line-up isn't quite a "talented" as those of previous seasons. Others would beg to differ, pointing at the excellent Jordin Sparks or Lakisha. I'll get to them in due time. But first, to the misses.

One of the last people cut from the show upon receiving the Golden Ticket to Hollywood was someone by the name of... Sundance Head. Now, you'd need to be a star to pull off having a name like that anywhere in the English-speaking world. Can you imagine his childhood? On the playground?

"Sundance Sundance Sundaaaaaaaaaance!!!!"

You need to be really tough to live with a name like that. And with a last name of Head, you're just begging for it. Of course, Nazreen is traditionally a girl's name. But shush.

Then there was young pretty Antonella Barba. From the get-go, I thought she wouldn't make it too far in the competition, and that her looks would far surpass her vocal talents in the votes department. Then the revelation that some ex-boyfriend of hers had secretly taken "intimate pictures" of them together and posted them on the Internet sparked huge controversy. Well, sex sells, they say. She's gone by now, and not before belting out a few not-so-spectacular tracks. Unless you count spectacular misses. I guess Playboy is always an option, eh?

The remaining contestants, at the time of writing, are a pretty diverse bunch. Like mentioned before, there are a few that you lsiten to and go "Hey, there's a hit right there". And others you'd wish would stop getting so many votes.

Sanjaya. Let's start off with him. Firstly, he's still there. He auditioned with his sister, and many originally thought he was always going to be the second best singer there anyway. Week after week, he's widely regarded as the weakest singer out there, but he pulls through and makes it to the next round. Maybe it's the Michael Jackson hair. Or the eyebrows. Or maybe the crying schoolgirl he hugged went home to beg all her equally tear-shot friends to vote for the little Indian man. Others just point out that America has many cab-drivers.

Melinda. She makes Paula cry. But so many things make Paula cry. Still, I'd guess that she's probaby the top two or three pure vocalists in the competition this season. If only she didn't look like a black Shrek. It's the neck, or lack thereof. Still, she appears genuinely nice, and can sing. I mean, really, really sing.

Gina. The resident rocker. Last season, it was Chris. This season, it's like comparing Carrick to Keane. Pardew to Curbishley (at Charlton). The original will almost always outshine the pretenders. To be fair to Gina, she isn't half bad, but she doesn't have the ability or charisma of Chris to make it nearly as far. That and so many other girls outshine her. She's got red hair, that's how many know her.

Stephanie. Latest to be voted out. I never really fancied her. OK, she's a reasonably good singer. Better than Sanjaya, people mutter. Stephen Hawking could probably sing better than Sanjaya. I said to my sister earlier tonight, when they were showing the "goodbye" footage of Stephanie Edwards...

"Stephanie is just a less ugly, less annoying version of Fantasia."

And Fantasia won. And had a movie. Is this season really that bad?

Halle. The one many expect to be out soon. Another one of those "eye candy" sorts, she's just unlucky more than anything else. Unlucky that she wasn't the best looking to begin with, and by no stretch of the best singer.

Phil. The bald sailor. I thought he was pretty good, but he's too inconsistent to go really far, I think... Was sweet what he did during the auditions, though.

Lakisha. The one Randy loves. Simon usually comments on her dressing more than anything, but it's hard to ignore that she's good. Or is it? Is she really a better singer than either Melinda/Shrek or Sparkly Jordin? I don't think so. I have this wacky theory that many... plus sized singers are really overrated because of their size. It's sort of a reverse psychology thing.

"Oh hell no! You aren't anywhere near Idol standard!"

See, you can't say that. Because a part of you is telling you that you only think so because he or she is fat. Really. Think about it.

Who else did I miss? There are two Chris'es and a Blake somewhere, but we all know a girl is going to win this year. Most probably a black girl. Nothing against that, just the probability. And common sense...

You know, I think I've wasted enough of your time here. I'll leave you now with a question of my own.

Why do all female judges in Idol-type competitions always appear and act... high?

The Pursuit of Happyness...by Naz

Sometimes I don't pay enough attention to the things that matter. I've been told that I spend too much time online, playing games, reading or watching soccer. That I can be dull on the phone and a little forgetful, at best. About how sometimes it seems I don't put in enough effort, that I've taken things for granted.

I look above me now, there's a picture of a happy couple. The guy looks a little out of place, seated beside this great-looking girl. The picture's mounted on a large card, done up with glitter and a (now-faded) rose. Also attached is a Valentine's Day message penned by the girl in question, ripe with typos scrawled in her strange cursive hand.

Behind me is a charcoal drawing on some sort of wax paper. It sits in a frame, and beside it is another pink frame, yes pink. Both hold pictures of the same couple. Oh, there are differences. Some drastic, others more subtle. Longer or more spiky hair. A trace of a beard, glasses. But they all show the same couple.

In my palm a small silver ring lies. It's little more than a twisted piece of metal really. On the inside are a few letters. One can still discern that they spell out the names of the couple in the photographs and drawing encircling it. Makes me remember the time I lost another similar ring, due to the stupidity of youth (which I still have... the stupidity, not the latter, it seems.). How I scoured through a grassy field for hours, looking for a shiny metal ring. Like the one on my finger now.

But all that is here, and more. Cards in a box. A cute glass thingamajig that I haven't found a practical use for. A mug. Shirts and shoes. A Nike bag and my worn our bermudas. Makes me wonder, makes me remember.

And then I look at everything again and I smile.

Most people ask me "Whoa, Naz. Six years! When are you marrying that girl?" Some aren't as optimistic about long-term relationships and ask "Don't you get bored?" Others have questioned certain instances or occurences; pointed out how a square plug can never fit into a round hole. Still, I take it all in my stride. Let the questions flow, let the comments come.

I said before that I wanted to marry her. And most of my good friend know that too. Sometimes I get frustrated with her. Every couple has their squabbles, I guess. And, before she points out shrilly, I have my own fair share of shortcomings. Some of which I already mentioned, others might be more or less obvious to the ones around me.

But despite all that, she's the one who came and sat by me as I lay in my hospital bed, feeling like Lakisha fell on me. She's the one who walked by my side and held my hand after my wisdom teeth got taken out and I looked like I had a banana in my mouth. She was the one who help me try to convince my runaway Zig to come home. She's the one who went to all those lengths to concoct and create things that deserve a special mention on Art Attack year in and year out.

I guess I don't take the time to tell her all these things sometimes. Most times. Maybe this will make up for it.

I'm happy with the girl I have, and can't imagine anyone else in her place.

All I got her was a talking bear.

300

Yeah. I watched 300 yesterday, after waiting for it for months. I've been drooling over the brilliantly made trailers and teasers for ages, and now, I need to go watch it again. I haven't seen a movie with more awesome lines than 300. The number of awesome lines and the quality of them. To quote one Adam Copeland, it reeked of awesomeness.

Only Spartan women give birth to real men.

This will not end quickly, you will not enjoy it.

Our arrows will block out the sun - Then we will fight in the shade.

Why are you smiling? - All my life I've looked for another warrior who can give me a glorious death. Perhaps he is down there some where.

My old friend, I did bring more soldiers than you.

Well, enough of that, but if you haven't caught it yet, you must. You just have to. Skip Will Smith's Happyness or the cheesy Happily N'ever After or Hugh Grant and his tight pants in that romantic lyric-thing comedy.

The movie, of course, was classified as M18 in Singapore. Which means, incase you haven't figured it out, that you need to be 18 and over to watch it. Why? Well, boobs and blood in abundance, and a healthy dose of the lead actor's ass. A good friend of mine nearly choked and managed to gasp "Was that really neccessary?!?", while my other friend on my right gushed on and on about the sculpted abs on show. They even counted the abs. They're supposedly heterosexual. Now I'm wondering why I sat in between them.

Still, someone commented that "every scene in the movie is a work of art" and I couldn't agree more. Even without the seemingly meaningless gyrations of a girl in a sheer toga, 300 is by far the movie of the year. Let's see how Spiderman 3, TMNT and Transformers match up to this.

Lost in Translation

Today, I found another thing I find obscenely annoying. Not even the inconsiderate pricks who bring their mangy dogs and let them frolic about in the water and fornicate metres away from a group of sunburnt friends waiting to spring a surprise party on an unsuspecting other friend.

Have you ever watched, listened to or read something translated in another language, and wonder if the so called interpretor was a complete and utter mental retard? Now, I don't aim to belittle these "special" people, but it's just so idiotic.

I was sitting on my arse, watching the television a few moments ago. Flipping channels. Laughing at Chelsea. Wondering what the big deal was about Flight Plan. Muttering that no-one can watch 300 with me. Realising that the episode of CSI playing then had been aired seven times this week already. Then it happened.

A three-minute or so promo about the "hit" "new" "horror" "movie" The Haunted School. It's ironic that I was just talking to someone today about all-time great horror flicks, from Ju-On to Host. But this one, well...

I won't pass judgement on the movie for now, or ever, unless something dramatic like a gunman ordering me to watch a cheesy Chinese movie happens. But let me say this:

Way to go to promote a movie, morons.

As far as movie promos go, they usually follow the generic trend of flashing "key scenes" and interviewing the cast and crew, allowing the audeince a sneak peak into how the movie was made and what we might expect from it. This movie, of course, is a Chinese one. I've seen Chinese movies before. I love the original Kung Fu Hustle. The version dubbed in English is just too stupid, for lack of a better word.

Back to The Haunted School, the promo did fall into the typical fashion of movie promos. Key scenes, interviews. In Chinese. With convenient English subtitles.

"I enjoyed filming the show. The atmosphere was very horror."

"I think it was very difficult, it was a scary place and there was terror."

"I think our audience will enjoy the show because it's a young person problem and there was horror."

Alright, I may be a little nitpicky. But this is supposed to be a promo for a new movie, and this promo was airing on an English Cable TV station during Prime Time. Other than broadcasting to the world that the producers of the show are in dire need of pre-school grammar and vocabulary lessons, I don't know what more was acheived. I don't blame the director or the cast interviewed. They probably didn't do their own subtitles. But whoever did deserves to be shot. And then shot again.

The whole thing was even stupider than a friend of mine claiming that the rising tide at the beach was directly attributed to the increasing number of swimmers that had taken it upon themselves to enter the ocean. This friend is going on to become an engineer. In the future, if you should happen upon a report about a tragic accident involving an engineer's miscalculation of tidal influences, you know, and I know, who that engineer was. He also said there was a Muppet named Hermit.

But back to the point of all this, yes. Translation can be difficult and tricky, at best. For the Malay-speaking readers, take a moment and directly translate a popular English song to Malay and then try not to laugh too hard. Films such as Mighty Joe Young and Miami Vice needed titles that were nowhere near what their English counterparts were meant to be.

Oh well, not much I can do about it really, I guess. It's not as if The Haunted School has lost a potential member of the audience. I'll leave you with this witty exchange that illustrates the trials and tribulations of the art of translation.

"I must agree, whom in the morning a very strong criterion. "

"What does that even mean?"

"You are not a wood gentleman-lower of moron the specialist of semi final. I achieve English better each day now."

"Was that an insult? I don't even know. "

"No not no I wanted to say to insult you whole! Afflicted please. I like to be here, my English will obtain each day, me better know onlybasic at this time but me learn quickly. It is good here to be ."

"Sounds like you're using google translator. That things awesome for nonsensical and quite funny insults. "

"Thank you, this goes back to me lucky and queer. I must hour to leave the tribune and to go to the base before job, but I estimate you a lot and the hopes to turn tomorrow!! "

That wasn't even from Borat.

Preggers!!!

Some things you don't rush into. Buying a car. Accepting a job. Getting married. Choosing a school. Lending someone cash. Converting religions. This is usually considered "normal" behaviour. Another thing that most people would add to the list is getting pregnant.

Pregnancy is a strange thing, sometimes. The joy of life, parenthood and all that is often harped upon; almost as much as the dangers and consequences that the youths of today are bombarded with even before they get hit with the era of puberty. Little kids who believe that Dora the Explorer is an actual person can name you the various anatomical differences between guys and gals.

Most of us wouldn't be here if pregnancy hadn't occured, of course. Life is a sexually-transmitted disease, as the saying goes, and pregnancy is its first symptom. This condition is usually brought about after the exchange of certain bodily fluids in heterosexual relations, in most cases. Theoretically, it would be possible for two people of the same gender to "conceive" a child, though I don't think it's ever been done. Not that it's never been tried before...

For many (unmarried, unemployed) people, pregnant is something they don't want to be. Active or not, it's something gnawing at the back of their minds. It's the perennial "What if..." that may or may not cause them momentary hesitation or periods of grief and stress as they await the arrival of something they usually abhore.

For some others, however, it seems that being pregnant is a dream. Of course, you would sympathise with the family who've had three miscarriages already. Or the aging couples who just want a little one to smile at and laugh with. But what about 15-year old Victoria?

Clicky

Now, the above begs the question, "What's gotten into her"? And before the smart-mouths out there say "Oh, three guys..." I already thought it first, so don't congratulate yourselves too much.

Seems like the rather ghetto teenager simply has to get pregnant. Not so much the desire for sex, but rather she wants a baby. Her crying mother looks on as she describes her brilliant and well thought-out plan of taking care of the baby, at 15, by prostituting herself and with the "ton of baby clothes" and "three extra pacifiers". Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but that's one of the stupidest things I've heard since Mutant-X.

Don't even get me started on the question on how she's going to prostitute herself after giving birth.

Of course, more than a few people would say the whole thing is fake, or staged. Same people who hoot triumphantly whenever they state the same over similar "talk shows" like Jerry Springer. Personally, I have an inkling towards this idea as well, if only because that damn girl just sounds too... too... too black. Listen to her. She sounds blacker than anything. Now, this isn't in any way racsist or discriminatory, but it's just plain fact. Like how only large-boned African-American women can sing like Aretha Franklin.

Still, it makes you wonder. If that story is true, what the hell is going on inside the head of that girl? A few people would jump at the chance to.. well, jump her. Others would be disgusted. She wants to be pregnant. At 15. Wrong? Natural? Immoral?

Twenty-One

I just got back. It went well, more than well. Was good, more than good I guess.

Sul's 22nd birthday "celebration" today, and of course it was another SURPRISE one. Not a party though, no, not really. 10 people doesn't really constitute a party methinks, but it was rather a nice informal gathering. With cake.

Of course, someone was branded a liar for misleading the lost birthday girl, and we quiestly snuck into her home while she was in her jammies. I realise this is starting to sound like some perverted story about urban interlopers, but bear with me here.

Then there was the "Oh-my-God-I-haven't-seen-you-in-so-long-I-thought-you-fell-off-the-face-of-the-Earth" stuff and the usual jokes about a certain someone's vertical limit and someone else's singing ability (or lack thereof). Spoiling Heroes for a couple of people...

So there was cake, lots of food, lots of laughing, surveys and the finding out of something no-one knew until I asked rather carelessly in front of everyone. Good job Naz! But I won't go into that.

So why is this brilliant piece of writing entitled Twenty-One? Did I forget her real age (I did, but that's besides the point)?

When the dust cleared and we were tired of watching Will Smith on TV all of us made our way back home. Some hitched a ride from others, others waited with some as they waited for rides from family. In the end, I took a bus with an old friend of mine. We took Service No. 21.

It's been a really long time since I took that bus. I used to sit in it almost everyday, on the way home from school for two years. And on the way home from school even after I finished with school, due to my "Significant Other" commitments. Lots of good times and our share of bad ones. Silent rides, laughing rides. Smiling rides and smelly rides.

It's a wonder sometimes, time. You can remember the days when you thought you didn't have a care in the world except of how to copy your homework quick enough before the lesson begins. Then suddenly most of your friends can watch adult films in the theatre without sneaking in, and some of them are even on honeymoons.

Well, other birthdays are coming, and birthdays have a habit of doing that, no matter how hard you try. The years roll by, as the buses do, even if you're not on them.