Mosquitoes suck

"I’m losing more weight than what I thought was personally possible. I didn’t expect this whole college + work combo to be so physically taxing. This is the second time in recent years that my pants have gotten too big for me. That means I am now, sorta kinda, half the size I was circa 2002. This is inclusive of the act of giving Holland some competition: a drop in bra size from 34B to 32A.

I thought I was making kilo-gaining progress last month when I proudly bought my first pair of non-baggy jeans. It hugged me very well in all the right places, in Large size! When I got home, I took a closer look at the label and read ‘Junior’.

Now with these dance classes literally kicking in, I may have to regretfully re-think my vegetarian training, at least for the meantime. My body is wasting away, and it trembles in protein deprivation. My whole body hurts even as I sit here typing this out. I think I’m burning out..."

This was an unpublished entry I wrote 10 days ago, on the day I started to feel sick. REALLY sick. I couldn't lift my spoon at lunch, a walking pace any faster than a shuffle would make me double over in pain. I forced myself to go to college after work, but Jayaram literally dragged me out of class and took me home before I collapsed.

For the next few days, I was writhing around in bed in cold sweat. My head felt like Hindenburg, my body felt like roadkill. Panadol didn't do nuts. I thought it was an extra nasty flu. My brother and little sis also caught it a day later. My brother got it so bad that he needed painkiller shots.

My parents took him to the hospital for a blood test on Sunday morning. My mom gave me a call when the results came back an hour later.

"Pack your things, I'm picking you and Stephanie up NOW."

The three of us tested positive for dengue fever.

I just got discharged yesterday. I'll talk more when I get back to work next week. In the meantime I've got a blood platelet count to re-cultivate, late assignments to submit, and the rest of my messed-up life to catch up with.

Music mayhem

Fête de la Musique this year was awesome. The music was mindblowing, and the emcee jobs at One Utama and Low Yat Main Stage weren’t as traumatic as expected; Prem and Jay were accommodating co-hosts who helped cover up my slip-ups and made sure their professionalism didn’t overshadow my otherwise second-rate onstage demeanor. I did not get pelted with fruits either, which in my opinion is a huge accomplishment in itself.

Despite the meltdown weather, I hadn’t had so much fun in ages. It was pure liberation to shed my corporate clothes, get lost inside an XXL tee, relive my blue-streaked days, catch up with old college mates and lead a mambo line down the city streets. Today I’ve still got a hoarse throat from screaming, aching neck from headbanging, sore legs from attempts to fly and a bad back from... maybe just eating bad tofu.

Emceeing with Prem @ One Utama


A rather tanned Elmer Fudd and his wabbit


The lads from Victoria Institution looking a little hungover


French world fusion group, Jabal


Tralala


Jay, my brother from an Indian mother


DBKL cultural dancers awaiting their turn


Didgeridoo player from the Asean Percussion Unit. Jay gave the instrument a shot and made it sound like the death knell of the Titanic.


Experimental tribal group Wwanao. I wwananao where they order their uniforms from.


Crowd @ Low Yat Plaza Main Stage


Mr. Sulay, the wicked lecturer who got me into this mess


Brother Malcolm performing with his band, Greedy Jane @ the Sungai Wang stage. This was taken moments before I ran on stage and screamed down the mic, "MY BROTHER RAWKS DAMNIT!"


My little sis Stephanie was not amused.


My self-photo-taking skills have improved, my photogenic skills have not


Prem slam-dunking his mic into the fluorescent basket hoop


Quicktime Videos:
Victoria Institution Band
Wwannao
Jabal & the student crew Can-Can

Get this freak on

I took part in the hitz.fm Rexona No Sweat Dance Challenge solo rounds two weeks ago. My talent as a ‘dancer’, if such a term can be used, has been cultured from an audacity to perform the funky chicken in the hippest nightspots in town. Conclusively, for the audience’s support being sufficient enough to help me win must say something about the changing standards of acceptable codes of conduct in Malaysia. I had the choice of walking away with RM300, or taking hip-hop classes to culminate in a performance at the Grand Finals for the chance to win RM1000. I could have grabbed that cash and treated my folks to a nice red-cloth Chinese seafood dinner, but I instead opted for the risk of endangering my physiological welfare. My first dance class starts this evening, which is the first of twelve spread over the next month and a half. My individual essay assignment is due on 1st July, my final exam is on the 12th and I've got weekly reports to continue submitting to the boss. Hallelujah.

Fête de la Retard

I was walking to class yesterday when my friend Jayaram called out my name.
"I'll be emceeing with you on Sunday, you know..."
"And me on Saturday!" added another friend, Prem.

I almost let out a little fart in fright. Emceeing with Prem AND Jay is like Britney Spears performing a duet with Christina Aguilera and Madonna. Hold on, that's already been done...

Anyway.

With my college being one of the main organizers for Fête de la Musique in Malaysia, most of the event management crew are student volunteers. Emcees for the festival are also sought after, particularly from the ever-so-hip American Degree department whenever necessary. This year, the event would be spread over 2 days instead of one, and will expand from Kuala Lumpur out into Petaling Jaya.

On Tuesday I was called to the office of my old lecturer, Mr. Sulay, who asked me to help out this year: Saturday at One Utama, and Sunday at the Main Stage at Low Yat Plaza.

"Good God - Main Stage? I have no idea if I'm capable, Sir!" I yelped in horror.

"Don't worry, I'm sure you have the skills to pull it off. And I don't just give the Main Stage to anybody... Only to people who I am really confident in," he assured me in his thick Sierra Leone accent.

I presumed that his usage of the word 'skills' was based on merely two emcee jobs I did back in in 2003: one for a college summer variety concert, and the other for Fête de la Musique (on one of the smaller stages). But I did both with the same dude. Now I'm no spontaneous wisecracker, but Jeremy and I clicked like two peas in a Gatorade-saturated pod. We fueled each other with interdependent zaniness. We were the Bonnie and Clyde of Retardation Nation.

Now he's studying in Australia. And who do I get to do co-host with this year? A hitz.fm Cruiser and a hitz.fm radio announcer. Two guys who friggin' speak for a living.

"Can you handle it by yourself, right? We'll just come in when you need help la," Prem and Jay casually tell me.

So, if you'd like to know what a retard looks like having a good brick-shitting session, you can catch her from 5-10pm this Saturday 18th June at the New Wing of One Utama, and from 12-6pm the next day at Changkat Bukit Bintang. If choose not to offer support, it's cool - at least come for the good music. It's free anyway.

Motherhood

This is the closest I can get to a tangible outcome of my childhood crush on Leonardo the Ninja Turtle.



I haven't seen my baby yet, but I'm betting she's gorgeous and has my eyes.

If you're also interested in helping out in turtle conservation, check out the follwing websites:

http://www.kustem.edu.my/seatru/
http://www.geocities.com/tjjturtle/

Dream of the Latin Lover

My mates and I had an easy night out on a recent Saturday, absorbing some light jazz from the live band at Bangkok Jazz. I noticed one of my friends and her cousin looking a little restless after an hour or so, with my friend finally muttering to me, “I wanna go dancing…” My other friend Ash and I were quite content where we were, but to try and appease everyone’s appetite, we moved on to Qba at The Westin just a stone’s throw away. The music was good corny fun (Dr. Alban, anybody?) and the resident band – featuring its own Las Ketchup clones with garish costumes and synchronized dance routines - played upbeat Latin music. Professional rump-shakers paired up and twirled and gyrated to various salsa, cha cha and mambo numbers. My friends and I sat back to devour the visual feast and dream of the day that our plans to take Latin dance classes would finally materialize.

An unassuming little character then stepped onto the dancefloor. Dressed in an oversized white shirt and baggy jeans, he looked like a disillusioned hip-hopper. I observed his offer to dance with an equally pint-sized lady and the moment he placed one hand in hers and the other on her prominent hip, I was spellbound. He danced like his life depended on it. The sharp glint of his eyes, his sprightly steps, his swiveling hips, his tight, passionate embrace – every movement was a detailed masterpiece framed behind a thin veil of cigar smoke. My friends gaped and hooted at the distinct sensuality of it all, and I was reminded of what it felt like to swoon for a non-medical cause.

As he took breaks to chat with his friends, send text messages on his mobile and grab a glass of water from the bar, I eyed him like a passive predator. I didn’t care if he couldn’t speak English, if he was married with 3 kids, if he was an armed and dangerous Cuban druglord. I wanted to… needed to… absolutely DIED to… talk to him.

My friends noticed my trance and they egged me on to approach, but my legs denied me of any productive movement. As the night was coming to a close, he left the bar and hopped up a flight of nearby stairs. I watched him do so longingly, and after figuring that whining wouldn’t help much, I shook some life back into my legs and told my friends I was leaving for a while.

“Where are you going?” They asked.

“To follow my heart!” I valiantly declared. Fists clenched Superman-style, I ran across the dancefloor and faintly heard my friends chanting out my name as I bounded up the stairs.

I reached the next floor, which led me to an empty restaurant. I looked around and not having the slightest idea where I was headed to, I walked down a corridor which thankfully opened to the hotel lobby.

And he was there.

Sitting on a sofa, chatting to a male companion.

Out of shyness I was about to turn around and retreat but his head turned in my direction. He gave me an inquisitive look. Crap. I’m such a retard.

I held my breath and walked over to him.

“Excuse me, but I was watching you dance just now, and… I think you're really, REALLY good…”

“Oh, thank you, but I’m not really. Come, have a seat!”

Trying to hide an explosion of innards, I sat next to him and heaped more praises on his physical prowess. It turned out that he was a local dude who only picked up his moves from dance videos just six months before and had already won a few Latin Dancesport Championships. And to make things even sweeter, he taught Latin dance classes in Ampang on Thursday nights at an affordable price. His humility tickled me in all the right places. This dude was whack. And his friend was, too.

My friends managed to find us and we ended up chatting together for a little while more before leaving. As my friends helped find my jellified footing on the sidewalk to get to Ash’s car, Ash said “I think he and the other guy are… y’know.”

I shouted at him in love-drunken defense.

“WOMAN! Your gay-dar needs serious fine tuning! It was quite obvious!” My other friends agreed.

I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I got a text from him the next day asking me to join him at Qbar the following Thursday. I wasn’t able to make it. But at least he sent me a text. A text. To ME. Which meant that he now knew of my existence. And I couldn’t possibly ask for more.

Watch me blush, hear me roar

I went for a print ad shoot for some new real estate property the other day. I was required to bring my own clothes, which they eventually didn’t utilize. Their own selection was mildly unnerving.

The art director allowed me to take back some Polaroid test shots.

No offense to certain bloggers, but to me, if evil was a colour, it would be pink. I’ve always harbored an aversion to it, visualizing all the little shades of pink as minions reporting to their fuschia leader. I, like all fellow females of the species, have endured a childhood lavishly blooming in rose-tinted frills, lace, ribbons and every other pink peril at every formal occasion. When I grew old enough to form my own decisions, I flipped a middle finger to my gender-typical roots and I sought refuge in the cool comforts of blue.

The pink was one thing, the crushed velvet was another. Not that I completely abhor the textile type – I used to think it was the hottest thing to wear, especially to boyband performance showcases at shopping malls. So whenever my bony fingers glide across that undulating fuzz, it reminds me of a long-sleeved lime green disaster I wore in an attempt to seduce the Ultra boys as they autographed my tattered Smash Hits poster.

I was expecting the sight of bright pink crushed velvet to burn my eyes, but the damage wasn’t as severe as I had expected it to be. In fact, it didn't look all that... bad.



I was just about settling into the blouse when they pulled out the next set of clothing for me to try. This one was just... cor.

I’ve never, EVER made bodily contact with leopard print. I, if anything, have made sure it doesn’t get anywhere within a 5 mile radius from me. Not only was I forced to wear this top that had an 80s cut ending above my navel, rusty snap-on buttons and reeked of mothballs, but it also was made of material that had a feel likened to steel wool. I ripped it off after the shoot to check my skin for hives.



I was required to specifically pose like this, but I would have had a justifiable motive for putting my hand to my face that way. And if you look closely, that smile can actually double up as a polite grimace.

I showed the shot to my mom. As predicted, she loved the garb.

Not-so-FAQ

I normally don’t engage in this sort of thing, but I thought this was an interesting game to participate in. If you want to give it a try, read the instructions below (I’ll post up your questions in the comment window). Many thanks and big love to Rei for the mondo-cool grilling session.

1. If you could have chosen your own nationality, what would you have chosen to be and why? (Hint: Anything BUT Malaysian, because you already are one :D)
Yes you must have seen this one coming… I admit that it would be interesting to live up to the pseudo-Japanese hype. It’s a fascination with the language and its people: the orderliness, the creativity, the genius, the bow. British comes a close second; they generally come across as a lovely bunch who don’t cut queues.

2. Self-renovation time: you have the ability to change any three things about yourself. What are you going to make over?
It would be so beauty-queen-like to say that I wouldn’t change anything, and that’s boring. So I would do something about
- My godawful habit of procrastination (which ironically is the driving force behind this blog)
- My compulsive-obsessive tendencies
- My parallel parking skills

3. Davina, you're my Malaysian Idol. What three songs would you have sung in the finals, in the event you'd actually made it that far?
Why thank you, Rei. And you're my Filipino Fairy.
I’m not sure if this is a question based on my current vocal capabilities or if I’m allowed to imagine beyond, but my three choices as a diva would be:
Karyn White’s ‘Superwoman’ (the song I had aspired to sing as a twelve-year-old dying to enter Asia Bagus)
Anastacia’s ‘Not That Kind’
Incognito’s ‘Don’t You Worry ‘Bout A Thing’

Realistically speaking:
Alanis Morisette’s ‘You Oughta Know’
Dakota Moon’s ‘A Promise I Make’
Still sticking to ‘Return of the Space Cowboy’ or anything else by Jamiroquai

If all else fails:
Yellow Submarine
The Hamster Song
Prodigy’s ‘Firestarter’

4. Funny girl, what one thing or situation or person has the power to make you sad?
Ignorance. One form that makes me deliriously sad is people not taking animal rights seriously. Just because they don’t have a voice to bitch doesn’t make them any less significant.

5. What are the three things you will believe in, no matter what?
- Saying no to drugs, ciggies, alcohol or sex before marriage, and still lead a kick@ss life
- What goes around comes around
- God is waaay too big to fit into one religion.


Now, for the Official Interview Game Rules:

1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying “interview me.”
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person’s will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Itchy Bun

A wonderful bloke from Astana International, the production house involved with the recent TM Net ad series, has passed me soft copies of the ‘Japanese Girl’ commercial. For the benefit of those who are overseas, don’t have television or just like taking the mickey out of my hairclips, here they are. Both files are in Quicktime format.

One is the original as seen on TV; I can’t play this file on my PC; I’m not sure if anyone else would have better luck with it but you can give it a shot if you like. On a trivial note, the jingle playing at the end was specially composed for the ad; the lyrics, translated from Japanese, are: ”I love you, but I don’t know how to tell you!”

Japanese Girl (Original version)

Warning: The next file is gargantuan. It features a second-choice cut, without English subtitles or color adjustment (i.e. my real hair color shows) and with a different ending. (I love how the cameras were left rolling at the end.) I’m actually surprised that this was presented to the clients, because we only did this version in one take just to try out one of the director’s spontaneous suggestions.


Japanese Girl (Alternate version)

The links will expire soon so let me know when they do and I’ll upload the files again.

Update: I'm trying to get a properly-working file of the original ad and a *compressed* version of the alternate one. Hope you can hold out with me!

Hooray

Sorry for not updating in a while. My excuse is simple: I just stopped procrastinating at work.

But while I’m in a much-missed digression mode, I might as well put something up.

I was supposed to reply to a guy in college about taking part in this year’s inter-college road relay (Yes, I’m back in college. The explanation.) He used to rope me in for a lot of athletic activities, at an age when I could still afford to waste energy on keeping fit. Our team got Gold for the relay in 2003, and everyone was happy. But to repeat the feat now? He was better off telling Paris Hilton to drop down and give him fifty.

I had the weekend to decide, and when I opened my eyes on Monday morning, I was still stumped. It was a great start to feel healthy again, but I wasn’t sure if I was able to commit my time to the training. And turning a deskbound woman into a Flash Gordon in 2 weeks is, mind the pun, a pretty fat probability. With these thoughts running through my head, I climbed out of bed halfway and whacked my cold knee right into the corner of my little sister’s drawer left slightly ajar. My leg gave way, oozed some plasma and I was left wailing on the floor for a good ten minutes. My first decision of the day was made for me, and thus began the mother of all bad days.

I went to the office and realized that my camera was not at my desk. The entire day before, I had been looking around for it in my house. My worst fears were confirmed: I’d lost my digital camera a few days ago, when I took it out of the house for a long day out. I had no recollection of removing it from my bag, so I could have left it at the post office, the bank, the grocery store, the bookshop, in college... It was too extensive a feat to continue my search.

When I got home, I suffered the wrath of a father also having a bad day, and got ambushed with a barrage of pent-up frustration I played no part in provoking. Already disillusioned by the events of the day, I had left the front door of the house open before going upstairs into my bedroom. My older dog sneaked in and devoured an entire black pepper chicken that was left on the dining table for dinner. The rest of my family came back from their jog and they finished off whatever was left of my mangled self-worth.

I bitched to one of my friends on the phone about my crappy day and muttered “It can’t get any worse than this...” He warned me not to say that because people always get proven wrong with that statement. True enough, I took off my spectacles to go to bed, and realized that one of the little stems that rests on my nose had completely broken off, which explained the strange fit for the last part of the day. I don’t know how or when it happened, and I couldn’t even take a picture of the damaged frame or that last contorted look of desolation I had on my face as I buried it deep into my asthma attack-inducing pillow.

Cheers to a better tomorrow.