best picture of the year

Categorically speaking, it never fails to tickle me funny bones every time. A purrfect repose.

an equivalent of the dotted line

And about time too.

Baited and bated...

Listened and digested...

Flipped and read...

Signed and faxed...

Examined and checked

Scanned and combed...

Typed and entered...

Filed and submitted...

Emailed and updated...

Unfanfared and unbated...

Hmmm what next?

Time for a jazzy new haircut -

Highlighted.

01070

An anticipated Private Function turned out quite differently but retrospectively revealed a wee something…

When Gene my best bro, man of all seasons and master of good news confirmed he could sneak me in, I was over my head.

What with the load in the office – “Redraft this paper again and give it a different slant!” – I was soooooo damn looking forward to that Night.

So came Friday 11 November. Trooped down with trepidation to the Event by 1930 at a Place that supposingly puts this Island on the Map but which I don’t care a damn for. Only visited twice – first on its 8th celebration and now – and still looks dowdy and unappealing as ever.

Anyway.

Only 100 invites so not many Immatureds hanging around. Strictly Industry Guests – “Sirs, you are in the For Mundane Human Beans queue, please proceed to the lush VIP velvet table and get your Exclusive Luminous Green Paper Wristband to proceed and enjoy yourselves!”

Rubberneckers can just wilt and die there on the spot lor.

Come with extra people, pay.

Come in drag, makeup and heels, proceed free.

I came as Normal Bureaucratic Me, no petticoat and totally pompom-free.

Hardly any change inside – still don’t get the craze, it’s dark and weird smelling. Good thing it’s not eardrum bursting and mind deafening like the last time.

I liked how my Luminous Wristband glowed in the gloom though. Looked so chic on my right hand. Only select few got them. Yeh. Cheap thrill.

Headed straight for the free booze. Gene can't drink but graciously got me Bourbon Coke – first sip in more than a year and I don’t even dig that stuff but they don’t serve Long Island Tea or Vodka so what the fuck man. Bland as Evian but better than none.

Gosh, I’ve been so alcohol deficient for so long my liver is looking better than my face. Got to do something about it (the liver).

Wait and sip. Wait and sip. Wait and sip. Wait and no more sip. When’s the fucking music going to start?

Time for more tea. Gene busy entertaining his Dealers. Me busy getting whoozy.

“Can you get me another of the same? What, pay?! Hey you single eyelid creep, behold my VIP Band… Ok that’s better. You can get up now. I’m cool. ”

Long indulgent sip... Very nice.

More waiting. She’s still nowhere in sight. Still no music. Just noise. And lots of white collars and – gulp! – middle aged towkays with the I-got-3-mistress-so-what-you-got expression. Company bosses and corporate sleeves with out-of-place ages and eyebrows arching “I am the Endorsement Finances”.

Damn eye sore. Bottoms up.

Swiped a Rum (that tasted really bum) and we went up to that Roman Gladiator Spectator Watching the Slaughter Area that overhangs the Bar with a view of the lowly Pleibians below. All hail Caesar. More crowd milling the pathetic stage below now.

More dilly dally and endless crap from two highly paid but so unfunny monkeys otherwise known as MCs. More lackluster dancers posing as Her gyrating uninspiringly, with snippets of Her hits blaring, blah blah blah.

(Something not right is happening, I’m feeling so uninterested here.)

I stifled a yawn.

Then my right eye twitched – saw an ex-vendor (sounds like ex-vandal) from now Defunct Agency shooting a vidcam in the crowd. A bunch of loosely togged bitches squealing like banshees beside me (Your brains in hypersleep izit?! Halloween was last month lah!).

Big yawn came out.

And then She came out.

Eyes glazed. First time watching. Hold the flying jets please.

(But something IS STILL missing, I can’t put my finger on it.)

Escaped from silly bitches only to knock into bitchy sissies with bulging biceps. Act blur, turn, sip, focus.

And She’s in full good swing. Very good MTV – got street cred look, very grunge. When Gene said She pumped steroids for the shoot, I almost heard the already twisted collar bone and ribs cracking and snapping – stop, genuine puke moment spinning out of control there.

And it’s over. Nice. But empty.

"So Gene where’s the goodie bag. WHAT? None?! What the fuck? This Event cost Them $150,000 and not a bloody miserable goodie bag??!!" Ugly Singaporean in full swing. Shrug and gulp everything in mock huff.

Gene went to goodbye his dealers as he wanted to leave early for his Appointment. When I said I’d leave with him too, his eyes popped out with his glasses.

"Nah I’m not gonna stay. Important stuff is over and the rest is just fluff."

As I walked down the street after Gene hopped into a cab I had a Pensieve moment.

I like Her resilience and verve and still do. She gives some really good game music wise which I still enjoy and news wise. I still buy most things She produces other than those moronic movies which suck from here to the next universe. And if She ever performs here, I’ll flash out the Card in a jiffy.

She’s a defining milestone but somehow and somewhere along the age line, that nice nervy sheer joy tingling is elsewhere. And I concluded:

I’m just not that hung up on Her anymore.

Walked all the way to Borders and spent a restful later night there, still spotting that green wristband with the series of numbers.

It looked innocuous and lackadaisical now in bright lighting but people still stole glances at it. I dared any moron to remark on it which I’ll retort I just got discharged from bird flu so bugger off.

It’s such therapy just browsing with Stacy Kent tunes buzzing in my head.

And resisting very much the urge to rush home and devour Goblet of Fire at one go. Again.

get cracking already

I hazard that almost everyone not made of alien protoplasm has one twisted - pun intended - phobia or two (or more) that simply defies reason and gives one goosebumps the size of bursting nipples and daymares that follow one like shadows, in broad daylight.

I whimpered just reading the headline alone:

Parker Injured in Heels
Former Sex And The City star Sarah Jessica Parker is nursing torn tendons in her foot after running down the street in stilettos. The fashion icon, whose SATC character Carrie Bradshaw lived in sky-high Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks footwear, thought nothing of sprinting down the sidewalk as she had countless times before in her infamous heels. She says, "I ran down the block a few weeks ago in these heels, just like I did for seven years, and woke up in the middle of the night in agony. And it turns out I had torn the tendons in my foot - just from running in heels. It was a little reminder that I am not 27. I'm 40 and your body simply cannot support you in the same way it used to. But I'll never stop wearing heels!"

Now before any bloody twisted thought crosses any human brain worth its weight in loose logic, I DON"T HAVE A HIGH-HEEL FETISH and I DON'T WEAR MY MOM'S HEELS. (Wait - my mom don't even like heels. But anyway...)

Cracking and splitting joints and bones (ankles and wrists especially) ALWAYS get me into this liquid-ice-coursing-through-the-veins feeling-in-my-brain-and-torso stupor. Plus dilating eyes stare.

I can stomach barrels of blood bursting from human bodies, won't bat an eye while bodies explode into gruesome gruel, tap my fingers when manimals get savagely grinded, torn or pierced in the flesh.

But just show me a glimmer of ankle bone twisting and cracking...

*Stomach doing enormous double-take, heave and hurl* (not a pretty sight)

It must be back in that time when I was about 10 (time warp) when I slipped my dainty feet in somebody's wooden hippo-sized clogs while running after anotherbody in them (shades of Parker, though unglam lah).

Am still damning that Somebody and Anotherbody till now, whoever they are.

And am still marvelling at those she-people who can sprint and pirouette down the road like they were a herd of gizelle.

Until they miss that crate and slip and crack and TWACK! goes the ankle, and SPLARG! goes the femur...

Excuse me while I hurl and faint now...