trekking

The look on Ike's face was priceless.

I just told him I'm going trekking today.

"Why are you looking at me in that tone of voice?! What the hell is wrong with trekking?"

En bref, this was what he said, no, spewed verbatim:

...Suicide!
...Lunacy!
...Dengue!
...Heat stroke!
...Flesh-eating parasites!
...Bloodsucking mosquitos!
...Motherfucking critters!
...Damn things crawling into your ears and nose and Holy Orifice downunder!

Naturally, he sang the whole opera. This is just the Bonus Edit version.

I'm going anyway.

Ike is a bro, he's concerned and bless him, he's got a very kind heart. It's just that trees, greens and heat are not on his In list (tend to make him poetic).

But it is on mine. In fact, I'm so abuzzed about it I got up to blog this just to stop myself from clambering on the parapet.

It'll also be a first for me. Hmmm, in fact it's been a couple of firsts for me in preparing for this trip:

I walked the HSBC Tree Top trail at MacRitchie weeks ago for this.

I went to Ubin (yeah yeah yeah, I'm just one of those shameless Ubin virgins who happens to think 'u bin laden with too much boredom to go there') with Ock and trooped down to Chek Jawa.

I blogged.

I jogged.

I exercised. Something I simply abhor, as some asshole friends of mine never fail to remind me. (Holy shit! What's this on my arm? ARGH, it's sweat!!!)

And tonight, I'll be taking my first train.

It so reminds me of Julia (an EXcellent and moving film as equally compelling as the Lillian Hellman short story it was adapted from), Strangers On A Train (very watchable and intriguing stuff) and Murder On The Orient Express (a terrific classic both in reel and on print).

Nazi subterfuge intrigue, Hitchcock and crime ensemble aside, I'm also going for my first NATURAL waterfall experience at Dabong, Kelantan.

'Allo, that embarassment of a man made-tap dripper-thingie at Jurong BirdPark doesn't even come close ok?

Anyway, got a few more goodies to pack and a TOTALLY delicious and to die for Times warehouse book sale to attack and conquer and I'm off.

Here's hoping the experience will be equally priceless.

Now where did I stash the cholorform and Bowie knife...?

'we are moving'

The banner screamed in a loud boring font, no doubt with the desperation of a priest surrounded by prostitutes.

'We' as in St Andrew's Junior College.

Or as they so religiously (read: ridiculously) brand themselves as 'saints'.

My foot...

Every time I think of my 'fostering mother', I feel ambivalent.

That tie! (My throat aches at the memory.)

Those GODforsaken rooms!

That's not a running track! It's a worn out carpet, for crying out loud.

First, that god awful-navy blue-boa constricting-fabric dog chain.

I can't begin to count how many I've lost for rebelling against wearing it.

I usually sandwiched it in a chic file (a must-have accessory favoured by most ridicule conscious collegians) and once in a while, Chic would just spit it away in disgust like a French belle tasting an American hamster.

I never washed my tie. Every weekend, I'd drowned that sartorial serpent in my old man's Drakkar Noir, hoping it'll mask the sweat and grime.

For quarter of a year, my mates avoided me like the plague.

That's not all.

Imagine this:
1. Choking in that hangman's noose trying to work through a brain-killing and ultra boring GP topic headed by a scowling pompous bitch of a (un)civic tutor...

2. Cramped in a dingy sardine-can classroom with a corridor running on the INSIDE of the room (YES, some fucking misguided archimoron, with delusions of the Centre Pompidou in France, designed a row of classes with one wall missing and a corridor linking the first class and the last)...

3. During the MERciless mid-afternoon heat and glare...

4. With oily fumes wafting in your face and hair as the western food auntie, chap chai perng uncle and roti john encik below your class are physically assaulting their woks and pans like STOMP a la hawker centre.

*growling rotweiller face with fumes spewing from ears and nose*

And then there's morning chapel every Friday morning.

A snore-inducing period of super fucking boring proselytising and holier than thou pontificating in the auditorium about how the world is a much better place (for sinning?!) because of blahblahblah and all that pathetic relijazz.

'Ho wow. Hot damn! Holy fucking shit! I feel clean and renewed already! Who's lecture shall we skip today?

***

When I think of 'Ass-ay' during a I-just-got-my freelance payment mood, it's not the school that is the sum of all things. But rather, a motley crew of characters that constitutes that 'Flowers In The Wondow' feeling.

In a flash, I recalled some memorable amigos a la '90 for my own musing:

Sha - short, loquacious, intelligent, witty, mischievous, resourceful, articulate, entrepreneurial, simply swell. My Great Counsel, kakak and punching bag. Now busy farming little rich kids in Bandung, waiting to harvest them into wealthy crops of revenue. The hours and hours of pomp and prep for the Bali Exhibition. Talks at the Lower Cafe. The delicious and fun Hari Raya home lunch where Eila, Alv and I all went on MC for diarrhoea the next day.

Ike - beefy, virile, gentlemanly, steadfast, sarcastic, anglophile, dutiful, fair, classy, sociable, simply reliable. A fellow Libran who enjoys his Rambo, Arnie, Magnum P.I. and punishing weight reps as much as he appreciates his Emma Peel, Jeeves and Wooster and green tea. The clever one-liners at the back rows of the lecture hall. The Sergio Leone showdown at the basketball court over 'monopolising issues'. The detached sageness.

Eila - statuesque, sarong party girl, striking, scatological, glib, hilarious, mature. Champion of a hard-won battle (with the principal's endorsement) against a hateful civic cat of a class tutor. A last encounter saw this babe on her way to toast master stardom.

Roly - buxomy, argumentative, humourous, brainy, multi-lingual, industrious. Now farming children in Milan as Signora Rinaldi (or Garibaldi or SOMEthing like that lah). Chats on home trips. A winning chocolate chip cookie recipe.

Laudi - rotund, observant, amiable, thoughtful, artistic, perceptive, clean. Now an unwedded mother of twins.

Yna - becoming, brassy, eloquent, infectious, knowledgeable, fashionable, melodious. Now an academician.

Lison - bisonish, stocky, sardonic, head annoyingly tilted in the clouds, 'oh Nigel, my love!', 'I have perfect eyesight you know!' (stupid cow, only in ONE eye lah). A little bird last spied this she-bison astriding a Harley with her arms snugly around a leather biker, very much like that cheesy TV beer ad of eons ago.

Poh - midgety, athletic, sporty, assertive, discerning, determined, well-liked. My only fellow Newtowner in the quirky Arts Fac. Soccer maniac (blurghhh). A last gossip heard this dynamo lost in translation in Tokyo.

Sley - fit, dry, artistic, devil may care.

Wend - fast, loud, extravagant, rich bitch.

Ryl - school slut. period.

Ah yes, the beauty of selective flash memory.

Highly skewed, Rashomonish, opinionated, but personal, amusing, sweet. I can't possibly note every darn person or stuff (it'll need an entire website), and I don't want to!

In the end, my response and attitude towards the banner message was: be my guest!

scrabble

Scrabble mania comes to Singapore! Mini mania, actually.

Today marked the inter-school Scrabble championship held at Suntec City.

While checking out the competition (GOD! 10 minutes passed and that kid's STILL trying to stareburn a hole in his tiles; now what the fuck is 'tine'?) - I recall how a passive game like Scrabble can break boundaries and make connections.

From as young as I could remember, I have been and still am utterly attracted to words (I think my mom overdosed on alphabet soup or something when she was pregnant).

It helped when 2 P3 and S3 teachers prescribed Julia Gabriel-style and Boggle word games instead of boring spelling during English lessons. Coupled with the kindness and encouragement of an S4 linguist turned teacher, I read the dictionary. The OED. Literally. Damn it, I can't remember every word so drop the challenge but I ABSOLUTELY completed the whole damn thing, so there.

Anyway. Scrabble boasts such versatility. Many hours were spent with friends by the checkered board. Many more hours were also spent without friends, by myself, with the board.

Sometimes I even connect firsts with Scrabble. One unlikely place is Zouk.

The first (and last) time I ever partied at Zouk was on its 8th anniversary (just don't ask me which year).

Vin, a foulmouthed and equally foulbrained failed-officer pilot-aspirant brat rolling in his dad's dough, had comp tickets and invited me and Jay, a rotund and bitchy gay crossdresser with a sharp tongue and sharper brains who channels Monroe with beaucoup makeup, for some jive time.

After getting fabulously drunk and having my eardrums fatally funked out, 3 totally wasted stoogers wobbled into a cab at 2am-ish that brought us to seedy Jackson's Food Centre, with Jay puking his guts and liver out IN THE CAB (and still failing to lose his pounds).

Supper was a spinning blur. Plates of food were swimming on the table. The Indian rojak mountain heaved and gurgled. Chicken wings flapped. I heard the cockles snapping a lewd tune. Vin swayed and smiled dreamily at nobody passing by. Jay kept picking up his shirtfront trying to smell his breasts and belly. My face was in the teochew muey. We were in the Afterwaves.

After demoleculising our food but hardly eating much, we pooled coins and took sticker photos in one of those booths. Just enough coins for 3 strips. Each of us took one for keepsake.

Back at Vin's semi-d (his parents conveniently on vacation), more hours were spent chatting, bitching and then we slept... (INDIVIDUALLY, do you mind.)

...All the way till the next mid-day. No breakfast or lunch. Sitting bleary eyed and zonked out at the dining table, not hungry but wondering what to do next, we eyeballed Vin's Scrabble set on the table together. It was a unanimous flash.

I scored my first 7-word hat trick there: 'decided'. 50 points. The mood was just so right -- arguments and jibes, lots of banter. It was therapeutic and relaxing and we had great fun. Jay trumped us all. It was the most blissful game I've played. We nailed 4 sets and left for home.

After that day, we never played another Scrabble set together.

Since then, I've lost touch with the 2 fellas.

licence to ramble

What AM I even thinking???

It's like chicken pox, cigarettes (a virgin puff anyway), Desperate Housewives, Sex and the City and anime (more about these later), ipod, AGE!!! (rats)... Sooner or later, you can't help but catch it.

Hark my arc of utter conversion proceedeth thus:
Stage 1: Initially cynical
Stage 2: Inwardly nonchalant
Stage 3: Intermittently curious
Stage 4: Increasingly edgy
Stage FIRE!! (no pun intended): Inevitably infected

:( I'm blogging. D'oh.

And I feel like a teen exposing my brain droppings or whatever forbid-me-knots. So arrest me.

Whog? (It's 'Why blog', lovey. I figured since we're into cyberlingo contractions, why not get in the mood of things eh??)

1. I'm a bummer. No job and LOTS of unpaid time.
2. I'm soooo BORED to my toes and chilly chin-chin.
3. I'm a laggard. Quite a proud one too.
4. I'm beginning to talk to myself. As people are talking to me.
5. I'm missing a punching bag.

Great. Now I feel like a sheared merino lounging on a leather couch (take that, dead cow) with Oprah. How udderly embarassing.

Time for some fun...

Merci beaucoup for the giving it a go, Ari.

And thanks to Zanissa too.

Ladies, it's all your fault.