Gerald reminded me that I needed to go buy CDs to burn some files. Since there is only place to go to get technology of any kind, we met at Bugis one Thursday evening do the walk to Sim Lim Square. We asked the regulars whether they would be keen to do dinner of the spicy kind. Apparently, only Carolina was free and interested in hanging out with us men. From Bugis, we entered the dark underbelly of the neighbourhood - the market that is the alley. Recently upgraded to blow visitors away, we stood enthralled in the breeze generated by a giant, multi-blade contraption fixed 10 metres above us. It had good rpm and we understood why there were typhoons in the Indian and Pacific Oceans. Someone had disturbed the universal balance. Ok, that was over in 15 seconds.
At Sim Lim, we were quite chop chop. We lingered a little around at this shop that had iPods in displays right up along the walkway to attract Creative users. 8GB new one at $348. OK, next. We escalated to the 3rd floor and I entered the nearest shop with towers of shiny, blank CDs for sale. As I paying, I asked the lady if they sold USB lights. She looked at me funny and said "over there". I went over there and found China-made USB-powered LED illuminators. In response to question from Gerald which you also must be asking at this point in time of enjoying this verbose narrative, I replied I needed a USB light to plug into my Macbook to type in dark surroundings. Not dark dark but less than adequate illumination to see my black keyboard in low-light conditions (like when my living room light isn't behind me). Whatever. I asked to test it my selected model, the lady who took my money told me "Yes after you pay for it.". Errh?
So we were done. We took a bus one bus stop away to Tekka Market. We entered the hallowed halls of fine Indian cuisine at reasonable prices, Anand Bhavan (I think). (it's opposite the ATMs at Tekka Market). There I had the Onion Rawa and a Vadai which i split with Gerald who seemed less than content with his single plain Thosai. Carolina had two fried Pooris with potato masala and chickeas. Mmm mmm mmm. Topped off with a masala chicken thigh smothered in decadent red-orange creamy spices. Mmm mmm mmm.
That's it. Oh yah, there was some amazing IN-TUNNEL advertising featuring Bee Movie adverts between Little India and Dhoby Ghaut. Go check it out.
Tracey was the first person to interview me for my current job. In that short while when talked, she came across as a boss who listens and appreciates.
In the work we have done together, I have found her to be curious and encouraging, and she seeks to bring the best out in everyone.
She also tells it like it is. If things don't work, she isn't one to gloss over it. All is fair and open for discussion when work is up for review.
Tracey shares. Her work, her home, her stories. It's fun to hear about her English adventures, her 11 years in Singapore, clients and all the fun she's had messing with their minds, and her cat-scapades.
Well, she's going to work in New Zealand to work, with Ron. Remember you met in this posting.
This is just embarassing. It's not funny when a rap doesn't work - this one doesn't even rhyme well. I bet it was a gahmen official who came up with the lyrics and in true SG style, crammed all bits of information into densely-populated stanzas so that it would appease the higher-ups such that nothing, absolutely nothing, would be left out from each and every MDA department's mission statement. So it seems.
Nonetheless I applaud these office folks for getting down and dirty, and putting on those robotic smiles for the camera, bouncing on green screen. Lots of energy and finger pointing (although rappers don't really do that). Maybe it was Mediacorp that gave Basic Hip Hop lessons to these bemused civil servants. Where's the bling? No Poh Heng or Soo Kee to sponsor the "ice"? And "Yes. yes, y'all' is so 2002. I would have expected a "Yo, yo, yo" somewhere. Perhaps Sheikh Haikel's out-of-favour status dealt a blow to potential superstardom.
Do we need to discuss the not-so-clear waste of taxpayer money? (Is entertainment value a saving grace?)
I've been away on reservist for a week, my second in-camp training ever. It was a "low-key" stint, which means that it's less intense and lasts about 5 days, as opposed to being massively painful and long-lasting with many hours in the jungle and not in bed.
We learned about what to do if we were attacked (by the enemy that is) while transporting stuff to the folks at the battlefront. I can't tell you any more than that or I would might get a call from some fierce people.
In the past week, I made a few discoveries/judgments: - Reservist life is reassuringly not well organised. There is massive inefficiency and time-wasting. - Men on reservist fall into 2 main categories: a) not interested but co-operative and b) not interested and unco-operative. The latter are a lot harder to deal with and it is not easy to respect them as people, much less counterparts in green. - Men in command should be taught how to inspire men who are interested to get work done. It's a matter of authority tempered with consideration with hints of human psychology and herd instinct. EQ plays a part. - Lunch and dinner are relatively expensive but lousy, still. The army pays SFI for catering services at a rather distressing cost. The Chinese food on Day 1 had green chicken and no, it wasn't in Thai Green Curry. The $2.30 chicken rice at maxwell beats the food we ate from Monday to Friday. - It's hard to focus on a target with an M16 at night. Pah-jiao and hence quite bo-bo. - There are friends to make with each ICT. And some of them can really talk cock.
Was at Archipelago after the football match. Was there with Ariel and people she knows and now I sort of know. I ordered what most others were drinking, a dark frothy beer. I took a sip and I cringed. It was tasted molassey, sort of like burnt sugar. It was weird, and hard to swallow. Sorry man, ain't having that again. Archipelago is on the street behind Boat Quay, at the corner where the beng discos start and decency ends. Opposit Golden Cafe where average zhichar goes for average prices. It seemed like a place for older folks, you know 40-somethings. Nice, short leather seats. Well that makes conversation all the more important.
I can't upload. I can surf because that's all download. I can't put my pictures up on Flickr because that's an upload. I can't add stuff to Facebook or to this blog because that's an upload. That's why there haven't been pictures. Even Hotmail CSS doesn't come down properly. Goodness. Singnet says they are investigating. The service guy on the phone tried to bluff me with "if you can upload to Singapore server, can already." Yeah, right buddy. I'm gonna MIO your ass.
It was a match of epic proportions - Singapore versus Tajikistan (someone said that it was just Tajikstan without the second "i"). It was a World Cup qualifier, for the 2010 proceedings. "2010" is the magic number for Singapore, etched in history when some minister for sports and difficult things declared that Singapore shall by all means try to make to the World Cup finals in 2010. He wasn't talking about the World Cup for robot-making or maid-abusing. It was football! Goodness, we haven't had a good local team since we took the Malaysia Cup from tanah Malaysia (furious the locals) and promptly decided to leave the federation. The following year the not-so-happening, not-so-well supported S-league was born. Singapore renewed their faith in the Barclays Premier League and sunk money into cable TV and spent many weekends screaming at their TVs, crying over betting slips and alienating their wives.
Back to Friday. I started snapping pixes the moment we crossed over Nicoll HIghway. Ah the lights, bright, bold, obvious pillars of positive illumination. Click snap click snap. Teck Ghee reminded me this was the "finalest" or the "lastest" match. There has been so much medis about the stadium's last hurrah and later complaints for over a year now. it seems uncertain when the grand old dame will suffer demolition or encounter cannonballism. Haha. http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif We got in late because the most important man, Eric, man with the tickets (bought the day before because we would save $2 each), took the wrong bus. Some buses have an "e" next to their numbers and which mean they don't stop everywhere. "E" for "not everywhere" or "eh" as in "eh, why the bus didn't stop?" or "eh uncle, this bus go stadium or not?". Teck Ghee and I got there about 7pm and he was starving. He raced to the several makeshift stalls outside the stadium steps, joining the crowds surrounding the fishballs, fried popiah, Ramly burger and ice cream. This is the Kallang spirit man! Food and football!
When the gang appeared (Teck Ghee, Eric, Say Wee and George), we made perfunctory noises and laughs, and skipped up the steps and entered the field of dreams (some long gone). Not many pple, perhaps 3-4 thousand. One area populated, lots of empty space around. The exposed grey concrete a testament to the lack of interest. There wasn't much publicity and pubs are more enticing to start off the weekend than 22 unfancied men tossing about in the grass.
We found seats in the upper middle centre section. It was important we were surrounded by fans driven by passion, expressed loudly. All this was part of the experience. On our right front, we had a group of noisy Malay teens; on the left side an angry Chinese boy and behind us, a man who talked too much negatively and his kakis who respectfully kept mum at his loud blurts of pessimism. Nice.
Soon the action began. Aleksandar Duric, the oldest player on the pitch and the newest Singaporean, scored first. The crowd erupted in cheer and I shouted till my head hurt. The match progressed, at times a little slow and I yawned a few times. We were blundering more than necessary and the Tajik hardly threatened. Then Mr Duric scored number two. More cheer. 45mins came to a quick end.
I scooted up to the top row to take more pictures of the chaotic scene before me. I had never been to the top row of the stadium seats before. I could see the city, in the glow beyond the floodlights. The wind was strong, lifted up against bowl of the stadium such that it blasts against your face as you look over the top edge railing. I felt like a kid sticking his head (and tongue) out of a window in a fast moving bus. I managed a brief chat with a smoker who was among the scores burning their ciggies faster than usual. He asked me what was worth taking pictures of and discussed the outcome of this game and even estimated crowd turnout. A bit of banter with a fellow fan.
The second half (or part two for the ladies) started with Tajikistan starting without guns blazing (and a few of us drinking Bandung, official drink of the stadium). The lions looked lackadaisical as ever. The Tajik number 14 was good and scared Lionel Lewis a few times. Then we had to go spoil a few good chances. Some more sighing, some cursing/booing/swearing and more exasperation from my end of the audience. The die-hard fans were strangely content with the 2-0 scoreline while the folks around me were cursing for not seeing 5-0 on the scoreboard. (One of the dolled up die-hard fans came over to our end to make us start the Kallang wave. He was duly ignored and dismissed.) Yes, I concur. The boys should have made more out of it, especially since the next leg at Dushanbe might see them freezing their asses off while the well-accustomed Tajiks attempt at teaching the lions a lesson. Well, let's not get our hopes up to high.
We left the stadium in a flash. No one really wanted to hang out. Once out of stadium, we went separate ways. I took a bus into the city, and since it wasn't yet my bedtime, met Ariel for a beer.
The shoulder and neck are better. There is a twinge of pain still but enough for me to walk-run my usual and pull myself up 8 times. Not bad eh. I also went out in my Asics today because I started to feel the withdrawal symptoms of not exercising. I remember in an interview Henry Foo did for the hostel newsletter (Sixians who were in Hall 6 from 95-99 will remember the wunderkid) he mentioned that he needed to go sweat once a day, usually ending up at the basketball court. Am I turning into an athlete? Nah. But can I wear size 32 jeans. And I wanna keep it that way.
Diwali today. It ain't the Indian New Year by the way. One of ladies who sells bread at Bread Pitt (a stall that sells great buns and muffins at Maxwell Market) wished me "Happy New Year". I walked with a smile on my face but knew she was wrong and also that if I told her she was she may go back on the discount for the muffins I had bought (They are so good. The chocolate chip muffin is sent from heaven. Buy 5 for $6 and get 1 free).
Anyway, there are different interpretations for the Indian New Year. There's the Sikh Vashakhi which happens on April 13 to mark the initiation of the Sikh faith. It also coincides with harvest time. There's also a Hindu festival that is celebrated at the same time. Diwali or Deepavali has its basis in Hindu folklore where Rama rescued Sita from Ravana. The stories are actually quite interesting. There was a TV show on the Mahabaratha some year's ago, full of men in traditional garb with superpowers and defined objectives. It was quite fun especially because I could read the English subtitles.
There wasn't much to do today. I ate a lot of sugar and fried things at home. Traditional fare. More please.
I went swimming on Saturday and I tried to emulate my form from a year ago - 40 laps breaststroke, the only stroke I am generally ok at. I was proud of the fact I could do the 40.
I went home and promptly started sneezing. The sinus activity subsided about midnight.
Sunday morning started ok. I showered and then sneezed once. That started a funny pain on my left shoulder/back. The pain then spread across the upper back and neck by evening. I popped 2 Anarex tablets and applied Tiger Muscle Rub to little avail. I could not sleep well. I was trying to find a position that didn't result in pail. That proved impossible.
Getting up was worse. It is suprising how much strain the neck takes supporting one's head. I felt it was I struggled to sit up. I felt like I was paralysed between my chin and my shoulder blades. Every movement simply hurt. Ow.
So I went to see a doctor this morning. She skeptically gave me a day off to rest. Plus 20 tablets to help relax my tense muscles. They are supposed to make me woozy. Woohoo. Work tomorrow should be interesting on drugs.
I was watching Feast Bazaar on Discovery Travel and Living on Sunday - it was an episode on Morocco and they use a lot of olive oil. As the mule was driving the mill and the olives were being ground into a pulpish mass, my sister asked what difference there was between extra virgin olive oil and any other kind. Well then, let me enlighten by copying some stuff from Wikipedia: - "Extra-virgin olive oil" comes from the first pressing of the olives, contains no more than 0.8% acidity, and is judged to have a superior taste. There can be no refined oil in extra-virgin olive oil. - "Virgin olive oil" has an acidity less than 2%, and judged to have a good taste. There can be no refined oil in virgin olive oil. - Oils labeled as "Pure olive oil" or Olive oil are usually a blend of refined olive oil and one of the above two categories of virgin olive oil. - "Olive oil" is a blend of virgin oil and refined oil, containing no more than 1.5% acidity. It commonly lacks a strong flavor.
It turns out that olive oil helps the heart and keeps skin looking good, from the inside. That's why Mediterranean women look so good and the men live long to run the mafia. One spoonful each morning will do you good.
I read a book on travels and life in Israel and there was one bit where the owner of a oiive farm introduced the writer to a secret vat of olive oil. Apparently it was the best, valued like gold. They took a shot of it.
Last year, SM Goh did a tour of Tunisia and apparently we're due for an influx of the good stuff here. I hope that happens soon, because a litre of the cheapest olive oil in NTUC costs about bloody $12.
Oh man. I haven't been able to wake up early enough to be at work at the "usually late" time of the morning. This happened from Tuesday to Friday, the tardiness getting worse progressively as the days passed. I got to work on Friday at 945am. Not good, especially when the nearby colleagues are discussing and typing away and probably thinking I'm having post-holiday blues. Or not.
What's worse, I tended to doze off more readily as the day approached dusk. Damn, I feel narcoleptic. I need to get some sleep!
What's worst, it seems like the project I was wading in was somehow turned on its head. With decisions due from far away, and information suddenly being fed in from many concerned chefs who wish to add their own salt to the soup, and lots of grey clouding what we need to do, you can understand my frustration.
I am the problem too. I am happy to say that my previous job 'brainwashed' with a good set of fundamentals in getting some things done. Unhappily, this knowledge helps me see the flaws in what's happening around me know. But it makes me a critical, over-bearing pain in the arse. And I need to let it go, advice I remind myself about when things are not my problem, a simple piece of advice I learned some years back from a remarkable man much younger than I.
I shall hear myself saying that, and complaining less, next week.
One thing that amazes me about Bangkok is the extraordinarily consistently high standards of baked goods. I like my baked products so I am attracted to bakeries and such. The Gateaux House bakery on the ground floor at MBK is a good place to try the simplest yet tantalizing buns and cakes. Oh, the tau sar bun. Try the chocolate mouse cake (pix at bottom of article), a slice for 52THB. Good.
When we were lost around the Chao Phraya river area near the King's Palace in 2004, I spotted a table covered with thick cake slices on sale at the local roadside market, slices like we used to buy from local bakeries. Resistance proved futile at the sight of chocolate. The variety was astounding and the quality good. A slice for 10THB. In the middle of nowhere, cake. How comforting is that?
This time I made a similar discovery in Jatujak. Same thing, rows of eye-popping varieties of baked confection. Some with sprinkles and nuts, others plain or with simple icing. Aiyaiyai. I couldn't resist despite having had lunch less than an hour earlier. I got a chocolate sponge cake. At first bite, I knew this was a classic. Two soft sponge layers separated by sweet icing made with the right amount of chocolate. Each slice looked like the pictures you get on the boxes of cake mixes at NTUC. Perfection at its simplest and most enjoyable. I am a cake man.
We had three types of cake at the Sky Loft at Suvarnabhumi for dinner, before we Jetstarred home.
Someone told me that the smell of baked bread is the scent most attractive to men. Probably a maternal-family thing. Don't imagine Christian Dior coming up with a perfume called Buns anytime soon.
So we were done. We took a bus one bus stop away to Tekka Market. We entered the hallowed halls of fine Indian cuisine at reasonable prices, Anand Bhavan (I think). (it's opposite the ATMs at Tekka Market). There I had the Onion Rawa and a Vadai which i split with Gerald who seemed less than content with his single plain Thosai. Carolina had two fried Pooris with potato masala and chickeas. Mmm mmm mmm. Topped off with a masala chicken thigh smothered in decadent red-orange creamy spices. Mmm mmm mmm.
