yes man is dead

this character has just been assassinated. you all move along somewhere else.

this, a long one

the motivation is dead. silence is golden. for now.

boys and toys

happy new year, you all!

until i can recover from the obsession with my civic and e-500. later guys.

alive and well

sorry to all for not updating snippets and shots of this character for a very looooooonng time. been busy with work, although now i'm coasting on that side. thanks for the heartfelt emails.

sold the motorcycle. missed it so much. bought a car and coming from a motorcycle background, i've been obsessed with trying to get the ride confidence right. out with the stock suspension, wheels and tyres. spent a bomb on those. i'm broke. looking at replacing the brake system soon. performance? damn.

got rid of the ancient 3.2 megapixel camera which i won during a dinner lucky draw years ago with an olympus e-500. been taking pictures but have not downloaded to process them further. the car is taking too much of my camera and blog time. got to go now. i want to tune the suspension. too soft in front and i don't want to oversteer. and it's past midnight. bugger.

rip sondra.

impersonations

the imitation of representations of lifestyles somehow bugs me. them poseurs are my pet peeves of the month. the law must persecute these counterfeits. we have laws against impersonations. i mean, we don’t impersonate a minister, police officer or a nurse. last i heard a boy got into deep shit for writing scheming emails, pretending to be our then education minister, admiral teo. unless you’re a member of the village people, this law makes sense because we don’t expect common citizens to walk around in body-hugging shirts, tight-assed pants and fake moustaches directing traffic and chasing thieves. there’s always a time for role-playing and pretence like when we go for fancy dress parties, bdsm flogging sessions or drama classes.

anyway, the law society must seriously consider condemning those who impersonate a barber. for many years, i’ve not been to a hair salon for a haircut, except last week unfortunately. i’ve my reasons. my barber is an honest malay man with 30 years of experience and plenty of barbering skills. ever since i go to him years ago, he knows my white hair, moles and scars on my scalp and ear wax better than the combined knowledge of those who know me. he has an arsenal of dirty jokes, is very aware of all the injustices in this world, has a supply of newspapers and magazines, treats his family like royalty and charges nine dollars. last week, you, sir, a hairdresser with a diploma, prepped me for brain surgery instead of a haircut. you acted the part by dressing like edward scissorhands but you don’t have his skills. and instead of giving me the best haircut, you tried to sell me your haircare products. wanker.

also, the law must be extended to those who impersonate a pole-dancing slut. honey pie, if you’re going to wear something so revealing, don’t cry and complain to daddy that you’re forced to play the sexy bimbo role while walking the aisle of a glittering company dinner or the office corridor. you’ve decided to wear the wet whore t-shirt, so act the part. go ahead and run on the white sands of fake beaches at sentosa and make some noise with girly giggles in your skimpy bikini. otherwise, stop the pretence if you’re not comfy with adorning a number on your thong. teaser.

the law must then bring to court those who impersonate lance armstrong. you’ve assembled a ten-thousand dollar racer and spent on accessories and gear enough to buy a jet, thinking that the next traffic light which is a couple of metres away is the steep mountain slope of the pyrenees. you then cycle on the footpath at east coast park with a see-no-hands-on-the-handle-bar stunt, sipping gatorade from a branded water bottle. we don’t want to see your stuffed ass in those spandex heaving up and down, and like a billboard, the screaming advertisements would give a good fight to those on women magazines for the squeeze as many award. and since we’re at it, we already know that you live across the road and pedalled at a record breaking speed of 10km per hour to starbucks for a frappe. sock a jock, you.

of course there need to be a law on those who impersonate a rally car driver. somehow you’re further inspired after watching initial d and you pretend to be the moody jay chou in your mitsubishi evolution. with the 20 inch muffler jet plane ear-splitting decibels, you launched like a rocket in your 20k rpm and 1000 bhp supersonic car round and round the carpark, scaring the neighbourhood cats, children and old women. you slay the fathers in saloons and the scooteratis as you impersonate a street bandit roaring down serangoon road with the blasting sounds of disco techno. i curse you for you deserve to take the bus and watch tv mobile. bunch of retards.

we must also have a law against the impersonation of a fakir. the fact that you attend a weekly yoga session at a cosy boutique yoga studio in a restored shophouse, pulling off a body contorting four-limb cobra about to strike the cat pose does not make you a holy sage. oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. feel it in your loins, the point of universal consciousness, and arrive at the flow and ebb of the interior and bring your being to the centre. in the soft piano music, the incense smoke gracefully drifts. you lie on the mat, all cushy mush, chanting om to exclusive yoga gear and organics vege diet. your self awareness reaches the height of spiritual fitness of modern urban fad. oprah loves you, sucker.

impersonating a member of an outlaw motorcycle gang must also count as a criminal activity. the fact that you ride a harley davidson with an open exhaust and your arrival can be heard even before you start the bike does not mean that i’ll pick you for a fight at a tanjong pagar bar. if i need a lawyer, i understand that you’ll give me a good rate to defend me for not polishing my bike like the gleaming chromes on yours. and can you tell your chief executive officer friend who owns ten harleys that the long distance trip up and down holland village is cancelled this sunday because of a possible inclement weather. you don’t want to ruin the chromes, do you. rebel retards.

the law must also prohibit men from impersonating women with an obsessive penchant for refinement. women of such affordable time spent all their money, or husband’s, on classic pedicure, french polish, aroma therapy body massage, anti-aging facial, detoxifying wrap, laser hair removal, milk scalp massage, seaweed body exfoliation, pampering foot reflexology, anti-oxidant deep pore cleansing and eye-brow plucking at spa centres. you trade in your macho swagger for effeminate endeavours. hail the nippon men! pretty boys like you who rather doll themselves up to be mannequins are an embarrassment to the ruggedness and frankness of mountain men who swore by their tiger beer at the male bastion of sleazy coffeeshops. piece of hairless nostrils.

this list is opened for further nominations.



two years have gone, but who can impersonate sweet adeline?

chant the night away

you tried again the other day and i told my mum to lie. do i have to resort to that? i don’t want to speak to you. ever. but you called. the last conversation we had was an aberration for we promised that we must never be a part of each other. anymore. yet you tried to send signs. through the window, drawn by the moon i’d been tracing our speech. such long drawn nights. to think about it is so wrong. i was seduced by the vestiges of what you used to be. years ago. your conviction, faith and devotion to jah drove you to situate me as a derived. i didn’t understand that. that time. it was painful. and when you chose to live a life of prayers and contemplation, snipped them beautiful locks so short, and faced me with red, swollen eyes, i’d to submit to the never be. chant the tune of y mas gan. chant the night away.

sporadic exchanges

there are points in time when we question the presence of someone in our picture of a lovely universe. but somehow we pretend that it's not a problem because we want to prolong that something before it’s taken away. the exchanges are nice and we hang on to them for circumstances brought us together, an attraction which is reciprocated and converted to fond conversations, which at times, went deep into the night. it’s indeed beautiful and who would not ever experience an intimate conversation, wishing that it would go on and on, to as far as the horizon only to be woken up from the haziness when dawn breaks its first light.



we wish for that to happen again and again whenever we are given a chance to renew these wee hour episodes. but then we stop at just that, sporadic exchanges, preferring silence over the odds of what the night can bring us. we wait for the next night. it goes on and on. we restrain ourselves from going across the deliberate closeness. and so the many nights and the many conversations are a burden for they've become complications in our relationship with other people. the fate of such sporadic exchanges comes to an end when it's impossible to carry on. breaking free from that someone is an understood and unspoken decision. the ordinary relationship beckons and there will never be any late night conversations. is that comforting? i heard somebody say, says devendra.