Sunday, November 29, 2009

And Here, Lies

People say relationships are based on trust, but that’s just a moral consensus to attenuate the subliminal value of lies, so that we see it in a desecrated shell embodying all that is negative and detrimental to a relationship.

I’ve never been a huge fan of moral propaganda and you shouldn’t too, because if we all stuck to that moral compass, humans would never have discovered life treasures like pot, nudist beaches, vodka and ass rims.

If you shed beliefs, denial and fairytales and actually deconstructed this delicate frame we call ‘relationships’ you’ll slowly appreciate the value of lies, because not only is it intrinsic it’s also positive at times – except for when someone has a cock in the mouth and lies about it.

You don’t need a ratiocinative microscope to understand that lies are more prevalent in relationships than orgasms. In perspective, the chances of you being in a lie-free relationship is like putting a leatherback turtle hatchling with a clipped flipper in the middle of the Sahara desert and bet it makes it to Siloso beach for ZoukOut.

If you are going to argue with me on this, then let me make it clear that relationships with your right hand, dildo or dog isn’t counted as one, unless you are fucking your dog – then I don’t really wish to argue with you to begin with.

You see, if trust builds a relationship, then lies sustain it when everything from love, sex and erections have fallen out the equation.

And this is anything from blind compliments to faking orgasms. Anything that soothes the ego and pleasing to the ears. Anything that stops a nag, quells an argument or explains an erectile dysfunction.

The healthy portion of these lies are what we call ‘White Lies’ and if you think about it, it’s like bull’s shit. At first you think it’s horrible, then you realize it’s healthy for the plants but they still stink when you fall into it.

Lies are a staple in any relationship that involves communication. It’s a realm where trivialities get swept under the carpet so that there is less shouting to be done in the day, like lying about how food taste, about doing the dishes, about feeding the dog, about sleeping with the neighbour and any other daily routine.

Just the other night, I was having a debate with Liz about men and what horrible creatures they are. Well, I would have agreed, just for the fact that she didn’t seem to realize that there was this other species called women that are equally bad.

I sometimes snigger when people make it seem that lying is a defective gene found only in the male chromosome, just like shoe obsession is with women. Unfortunately, if lying is a birth right for males, then females have taken that exclusivity from us, because if you haven’t noticed, women are lying like it’s on sale.

If you disagree, you need to burn your feminist self help books and stop your self-denial medication, or if you are a guy reading this with a girl then it’s because you are trying to get into her pants. Then that will be proof that lies are the immovable pillars of any relationship.

Let’s put it in perspective. The day any relationship is free of lies, is the day Clay Aiken fucks a girl – a real girl, and not one that resembles a man. That day will come when Singapore is ruled by opposition or when Whales say no to a buffet.

So when there really isn’t a way to take it out of the equation, the only option we really have is to live by it, and learn that the best way to handle lies isn’t with a quick knife to the gut or knee to the balls, but to trust that lies perhaps play a greater role than we know in relationship building.

After all, some moron once said that what doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger. I say, what you lose, perhaps really isn’t worth it to begin with.

Friday, November 20, 2009

That Vegetarian Dinner

I’ve always loved weddings. Not because it’s a union of souls and a celebration of love – sometimes for convenience or shot-gun marriages-, but largely because I love cold dishes and shark’s fin and rarely do I leave any wedding thinking of Big Mac and fries.

This last wedding was a little different.

It was between one of my old friend and his girlfriend whom he had been dating for so long, that I believe they were together when Valentine’s Day was created. Naturally, I saw this as a chance to catch up with the boys and also pay for an overpriced dinner.

I’ve never quite gotten the grasp when it comes to how much we really need to give for weddings. Do we give less on weekdays? What is the lowest we can give? Can we take-away unfinished food? Am I allowed to keep the napkins? What do we use as yardsticks? Do people really give empty packets? Do you think we can get through dinner with no one finding out?

There were just so many things drifting through my mind like a kaleidoscopic opera of debates between figures that I decided to stick with $100, for a 4 Star hotel on a Wednesday. I figured it was a fairly decent amount given that mid week banquets are like store wide discounts.

When I got to the table – almost fashionably late because it took me a whole to decide that wine and beer are too much of a staple banquet diet for me to pass up-, I immediately did a quick check with the others on how much they gave.

Me: “How much did you guys give?”
R: “$70
Me: “What?!”
H: “I also gave $70. Weekday dinners are about there.”
Me: “Fuck! I gave a hundred.”
A: “You know it’s vegetarian food right?”

I snatched the menu and scanned through it, looking for erection giving words like ‘shark’s fin’, ‘abalone’ or ‘garoupa ‘, but the only thing that barely teased was the word ‘mock’ planted right before ‘shark’s fin’ and followed by stupid words like ‘bamboo shoots’.

Half the time I had no idea what the menu was saying because if you’ve been to enough weddings, you’d know that they have the coolest names for the simplest food. Things like, ‘double broiled ginko nuts..’, which really is just ‘Cheng Teng’ and ‘Longevity Catch’ which is basically your fish.

Then before me was a whole list of gimmicky names that told me nothing about the food, like ‘Treasure Bag with broccoli’ and there I was hoping there was going to be a slice of chicken in that bag somewhere. There was nothing I could do about it, so I turned to the only thing that would make this worthwhile.

Me: “I’m going to get my money’s worth on wine.”
R: “You know there was supposed to be no alcohol?
Me: “I would have slit my wrist if that happened, but I’m glad to be alive and thrilled to drink cheap house wine.”

The other down side was my grumpy waitress, who looked like she just menopaused on her train ride to work. She never smiled, never asked anything courteously and her face was always so constipated that she only needed to be purple to qualify as a prune, but I didn’t give a shit because she executed the one task I gave her perfectly.

Me: “Keep this glass always filled.”

You know you’re fucked when tomato slices which are normally decorative or garnishes, become the main dish. The first dish, usually one of my favourites, had been raped. In place of the jelly fish, was kway tiao and I’m assuming the tomatoes represented the squid. Disappointed, I start drinking faster.

Then it just went downhill. Shark’s fins were glass noodles cooked in what I can only assume to be starch with some bamboo shoot that pandas might have enjoyed. The ‘treasure bag’ was stuffed toufu skin with more vegetables and the fried rice looked like it was fried with the same ingredients they’ve been using all night.

I have to verify that I’m not a particular person when it comes to eating, because I eat almost anything – sometimes not knowing what I’m eating. So, when I bitch about food, you’ll know that it’s so bad, if I had brought combat rations, I would be chewing up on it in the toilet.

Me: “Well, at least the dessert should be good right? They can’t possibly fuck up dessert because it’s vegetarian to begin with.”

When they served the bowl of red bean paste, I was secretly hoping they served it with a razor to slit my throat with. It was so diluted, you'd think they were trying to feed everyone with a single bean mixed in sugar water.

I’ve never quite understood why anyone would propose for a vegetarian dinner. Do they not realize that vast majority of Singaporeans are carnivores and for a good reason, because meat just fucking taste better!

I know people say vegetarian food is usually more expensive, but not the one I had. I don’t see how yam and mushrooms can be expensive, because in general rule, food is only expensive when something is killed.

Look, I’ll be very blunt, if I pay money, I’m expecting at least a decent meal with meat, and not having to feel like I’m on a constipation rehab with my dosage of vegetables. If you are vegetarian, then just punish yourself, or your family’s table, and not everyone else. Give us meat.

Big Mac anyone?

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

The Shinigami Halloween

For most years, Halloween has always been another excuse to get drunk while dressed in something silly. It has always been unscripted, disorganized – save for last year’s decision to go uniformed-, and filled with memorable moments laughing at other people.

You see, Halloween in Singapore has degenerated to nothing more than a silly costume ball. It is the one time in the year that everyone is entitled to leave the house draped in a table cloth or drenched in paint and still be normal. This is also the one time you can walk out the house dressed like a terrorist and still have people coming up to you for a photo.

Halloween has lost its ghoulish themed costumes and makeup from one of gore and blood to increase eyeliner and lipstick. No one wants to be Chucky’s bride now, especially when you can go as Tinkerbell and look so much prettier.

For women, it's become about having an excuse to pull out that fish net stockings and corsets. It’s about deeper cleavages and shorter skirts. It’s about darker lipsticks and thicker eyeliners. It’s about experimenting and blaming failure as an intentional Halloween get-up.

For some strange reason, Whales tend to think that Halloween is a time they get to wear female clothes – instead of things they should be in like a body bag or straightjacket - like corsets, halter necks and mini-skirts. It’s hard even imagining them in one, so when I actually saw them, I believed that they were perpetuating the scare factor and Halloween night is a riot playground for them.

Me: “These fat people have some of the most creative costumes. Just look at that girl, I think she came as ‘Cellulite’.”

I’m partly guilty for not respectfully embracing the nature of Halloween, because the whole group of us looked like we were going for a Cosplay convention instead. You see, we went as characters of Bleach – a Japanese manga for the ignorant – and if I really had to argue my way about it, I would have said that we were death gods.

This wasn’t a casual impetus, but more of a well thought theme, initiated largely by the fact that Nana was pushing for the Bleach theme because he already had it and there was this shop in Chinatown that had an abundance of these costumes, which immediately solved the problem of finding enough for everyone.

This time, we decided to charter a bus for the 13 of us since there was some heavy mobility drafted out on the itinerary, which drew a subtle protest to our ailing livers but was drowned by an immediate promise of Trance, vodkas and champagne.

When we got to St James, it was just Lapi, RotiPrata, Totti, Faith, Poca, Nana and me, which wasn’t so bad because I would have felt silly if I was the only one in that costume. You see, the thing about costumes is that singularly, you look dumb, but collectively you can make even wearing things like trash bags, pampers or New Urban Male clothes look cool.

Obviously, I knew some people were bound to be clueless on who we were supposed to be, because I get people’s costumes wrong all the time. One year, I shouted ‘Marvin the Martian!’, only to be corrected that he was supposed to be a Spartan.

Some waitress thought we were sushi chefs. I would have told her that we were manga characters but she didn’t look too bright and I figured I might need to explain other huge words like ‘manga’, ‘fictional’ and ‘ignorant’ so I decided to ignore her instead.

We started off with 2 bottles of Belvedere and a table spread of Red Bull – which should be everyone's choice mixture if you know you need to survive another 5 hours partying. Reznor and Bev arrive, dressed to our theme, but entirely clueless on what Bleach is about. Next year, we are convincing everyone to come as transvestites.

When we left St James, we were all decently well behaved. We were still capable of speaking without shouting, walking in an orderly file and insulting people when there is a need to – or maybe it was just me.

Poca: “Halloween is just an excuse for girls to dress slutty.”

That’s only for the normal girls. The Whales have it tough because despite what they wore, they all looked like they came dressed as Teletubbies, dinosaurs or bean bag couches from Ikea.

Me: “Doesn’t matter what they wear, we all know they came from TAF club.”

Em Studios turned out to be the best choice of the night. There was some pretty orgasmic Trance that was teasing my feet and if I didn’t have straw slippers on me, I would have gotten an erection. LB bought champagne, Nana was concocting an insidious mix of whiskey, vodka and Red Bull and next we know, ‘Liquid Cocaine’ – champagne, vodka and Red Bull – became the default toast drink of the night.

When we decided to leave for Butter Factory at 3am, it became clear that etiquette, civic mindedness and volume management was beyond us. We no longer spoke without shouting, though walking was still very much within our abilities, which shows that the more we drink, the more our ears cease to function.

Me: “Where’s Nana?”

This suddenly became a concern because Nana was already wasted before we left Em Studios, and we know this for a fact because this always happens when there is champagne around him. And then we started shouting for him so loudly, that everyone started staring at us. When Faith finally managed to drag him to the bus,

Us: “Where the fuck did you go?! Everyone is waiting for you!”
Nana: “有一个,美丽的小女孩,她的名字叫做。。。”

Yes, apparently he is drunk.

All we needed is a fire and we would have passed off as Church camp having a campfire sing-a-long session, only that we were singing Mandarin songs and a lot of vulgarities.

Then we got to Butter Factory, got off, deliberated over entering, decided we should head straight to Zouk instead and got back into the bus. All except for Nana, who was standing outside the bus, struggling to tie his pants.

Me: “Nana, get in, we’re leaving.”
Nana: “I can’t tie my pants!”
Me: “Get in first. You can tie later.”
Nana: “I need to tie my pants!”
Us: “Nana!! Get in!!
Nana: “I CAN’T! I need to tie my pants! I can’t tie my pants!

There we were, yelling hysterically at him to get in and there he stood, rooted and equally determined to tie his pants. It took us about 5 minutes, from yelling to coaxing to convincing him that he could still tie his pants in the bus. If only there was champagne on board, it would have been so much easier, much like convincing a gay to go for an anal probe.

Then he got on, continued to grumble about his pants and then showed his displeasure by biting Poca on her arm. I don’t really remember what happened on the ride, because I know I was trying to grab his balls, Lapi was making out with MinnieMouse, RotiPrata and Faith were having some religious discussion and the bus driver might have plotted to sell us to Cambodia and we wouldn’t have known.

As soon as we got to Zouk, I got out to see a chick in Sari, so I did what all Hindu film lover – or actor - would have done. I broke out into a song,

Me: “Made in India, made in India..”

She was not the least bit amused by me. Fuck her.

Then we got in and we bumped into KK who told me she was some character that I will not remember with that much alcohol in me, unless it is Sailor Moon, Harry Potter or Hannibal Lecter.

Me: “All you need is 2 oranges and you’re all set for Chinese New Year.”

To MM, who went as some Victoria Secrets persona in a sequined bra no less, with wings strapped to her back. Or perhaps it was white bag. Alcohol clouds my perception of matter.

Me: [pointing to her bra] “From Mustafa!”

Then some girl walked pass wearing a mouth mask,

Me: “This girl came as a H1N1 patient!

She immediately stopped and turned to me,

She: “I’m not!
Me: “Ya, that’s what we all say when we catch a cold.