Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. Am I Only.
I heart Peter Hayes.
Joy Division. Transmission.
Corbijn's Control got me hooked.
Got a zippy new hairdo and invited stares. And comments. If I don't look like a mannequin / Nokia-ad-chick-from-the-future, I look like a dorkier Amelie Poulain of Montmatre / Geeky antique dealer. Hmm. Even the birds at home don't really know me anymore.
The poets at Death Cab For Cutie may someday just as great.
I think I'm going slanty for her. Shite.
NOT Seb Fontaine. But pretty good, still.
Wing Shya. Always the favourite. Think you can see why.
Trainspotting is banned here.
Huh, only sex and drugs what.
If I hadn't already seen Renton, Spud
I'd have killed those censorship people.
I realise the folly of my ways.
I thought I was bloody good at wasting away, wasting time.
Apparently, to a most limited extent.
Two weeks of it, and I’m bored already.
I realise I am very bad at being a useless person.
In art school, you’re taught countless valuable skills
(the people who disagree are stupid/lazy/very stupid)
And not using them when school’s out makes you a useless sod.
I realise I am no good at doing absolutely nothing.
I must do something, anything.
Have already traveled about on whim many times now
Done everything that's struck my fancy, what next.
I realise I have just become fascinated with what people get up to
Get up to between eleven to four when nothingness sets in
And they don’t want to crawl into the sheets just yet
All the boring, mundane things you don't talk about.
I despise pretentiousness.
It is a sign of sheer weakness.
It is very rare you come across a good writer, even rarer if s/he is completely without airs / snarkiness.
Local journalists should just be concerned with consistently churning out pieces that will still resonate ten decades on (i.e. lose that self-important, me-so-clever tone), instead of worrying if they get invites to the ritziest parties of the minute.
The plot’s lost on them—they’re not in it for the writing but the parties and hobnobbing / getting chummy with people who will not even remember them the next morning. It's utterly pathetic.
There are just too many of these ________ (fill in favourite expletive) people around that I need to turn to foreign magazines for fodder now. Very tiring to peruse local flotsam, yes.
Why so serious?
Because Heath Ledger was, Kurt Cobain was—anyone worth anything would be.
Paulo Melim Andersson for Chloe s/s '08.
Loveliest collection I've seen in years.
I have a recurring dream.
I am a granny with a green cardigan. I am walking towards my garden beyond the white French doors of my house. The walls are so white, the light is so gentle. Everything feels so pristine, so clean. I take a sit in the rattan chair in the garden where birds are chirping, and take a long lasting look at the woods beyond.
Because of Majid Majidi's The Willow Tree, I have come to the conclusion that that place is in France. Where thick woods still exist.
I liked The Willow Tree. It's most definitely one of the best films made about blindness, to date.
Wouldn't mind doing another internship. At The New York Times.
Imagine how much I would pick up.
Wishlist of Coveted Albums.
The Virgin Suicides OST.
Broken English OST. (Doesn't exist, shame, but)
My Bloody Valentine's Loveless.
The Radio Dept.'s Pet Grief.
On another note, I can hardly wait for Sean Ellis' The Broken to play here.
The other review's published!
(Birds chirp, flowers sing)
Am so elated relieved pleased.
The last line's been altered and may sound a tad botched, garbled but that's fine. I'm just glad the review's out there. I was told it wasn't going make it to print due to space constraints, originally.
Finally, something totally mine has seen the light of day. Yays. Will swing round Dempsey for a round or two tonight.
Set up shop at idyllic Tanglin Village.
There are a just a handful of run-down unoccupied shophouses left.
I'm thinking a film rental place of my own.
With all the cult darlings I'm infatuated with.
Death In Vegas. Girls.
Kevin Shields. Are You Awake?
Dear Kevin Shields
I pray you never ever sink six feet under. My Bloody Valentine is the best thing that ever happened to the world. Ok, one of the best things. Let's not forget Curry Fish Head. Which by the way is something you should have to check out. Samy's at Dempsey is a good place to start.
But oh, I digress.
Urm, well you're awesome so don't overdose on crack and then die on us like all the other dickheaded musicians.
XOXO
Checklist.
First and foremost, an absorbing, original idea.
Then a good script with sharp repartees.
Then the cinematography.
Then the direction.
Then the sounds.
Then the clothes.
And finally, the cast.
In that same order. Though sometimes the cast bit skips upwards to fifth place.
Zoe Cassavetes' Broken English was marvellous.
Absorbing idea, check. Good script, check. Great cinematography, check. Good direction, check. Swell tracks, check. Parker Posey's, Melvil Poupaud's wardrobes, you want to raid them I tell you. Stellar cast, check.
Best thing about Broken English? It's got an ending I can believe in. No and-so-they-live-happily-ever-after. I hate those. There are no such things as happy endings lah. I think Hans Christian Andersen was just delusional. Either that, or he's just one idealistic bastard.
P.S Sofia Coppola, David Fincher, Tim Burton, Michel Gondry, Christopher Nolan, Wim Wenders: Please make more films. So I'll have a ball of a time at The Picturehouse and Cinema Europa. :)
The Piano Tuner of Earthquakes was just surreally odd, oddly surreal. See it at The Picturehouse only if you've got absolutely nothing to do. Or if you fancy fucking senseless hoity-toity art-house films that celebrate beauty and little else.
No, scratch that.
Even if you do, just catch Cashback. There is hardly anything out there showing that can trounce it. For now.
Make damn sure you don't pay to watch Piano, because you will want to strangle the Quay brothers when the curtains sweep shut, I promise.
Amoy.
Char Kway Teow, The Fish Set and Black Pepper Chix puffs.
Maxwell.
Hungarian Beef Goulash at Stall 16.
Havelock Road.
Turtle Soup. Sashimi in sesame oil.
Prinsep Street.
Viet Pho and salad at 44A.
I hate having my work edited.
I hate having my work edited.
I hate having my work edited.
I hate hate hate having my work edited.
Been ravaged for length beyond fucking recognition, the review, and I'm stark-mad. If the original draft had been full of crap, I wouldn't so much as squeak. But it ain't. Thing is, it is not pretentious nor boring-conventional.
I would never profess to know anything about Hitchcockian tension, what the bollocky fuck. Despite watching flicks since I was seven, I've only seen one Hitchcock darling, The Birds. Much as I 'd experienced the signature mute-film-and-still-grasp-story quality of Birds and greatly admired the man for it, I would never try to be smart-ass about it and make references. He doesn't live in my time, heck. I would sooner speak of Jean-Pierre Jeunet or Sofia Copolla than Hitchcock. Besides, it's lazy journalism to simply draw references to his style when writing about thrillers.
And, I never link my sentences with not only that, but; it's amateur-ish and utterly clumsy. Sure says a lot about the staff writer who'd edited my work and added it.
He should just have added his fucking name to the foil and removed mine. I'd be less embarrassed then. Now that the stint is coming to an end soon, I'm worried too. I've not much to show for it. The three months have flown by like nothing. Much as these months hand you what you would take four years to discover in communications school (assuming you major in journalism), it still feels like time wasted. Urgh.
Ask me for the draft. Tell it to my face if you thought he did a great job and I did not. Tell it to me like he didn't. Guys without balls, je les deteste extremement.
Forget Ann Siang.
Traipse down Telok Ayer, Amoy Street.
And then there's pretty Far East Square too.
Which could be prettier, sans Angmohs.
P.S: BooksActually on 125A Telok Ayer Street is a must-see too. Them book stores should all look like this. Or at the very least, Page One at HabourFront.
P.P.S: I'd just known about this phenomenal guy who lives in Chinatown. Chinatown with all the lovely eats. How fucking great is that?! Lucky tosser.
Marion Cotillard in La Vie en Rose.
Most Singaporean men dress shoddily, period.
But they're not to blame, really.
Had been making the rounds looking for material for spreads, and it's been utterly difficult to lay hands on decent stuff that are easy on the pocket. Given that they're a bunch who'd much rather be using their hard-earned pennies on Rickenbackers or amps or whatever it is that boys buy, they're just bound to look like crap.
Poor things. They never have it easy here.
That said, I completely admire men who look impeccably turned-out. They're the ones who'll have a bit of Topman here, a bit of Granddad's stuff there. You'll be hard-pressed to take your eyes off of them.
I like getting me hair cut.
It always feels as though I'd become another person (this time, I'm a French fille, according to you) when the men are done.
And I get to daydream, while they're at it. This time, I'm daydreaming about heads of curls. They're very sexy, aren't they? If only on men. Think Ian Somerhalder, Rodrigo Santoro.
But I like Wes Bentley and Dave Annable too, so I guess it boils down to the eyes. Deep-set eyes. No, actually, I'm just dead bored sitting there.
I like Carla Bruni.
And her cover of Mr. Gainsbourg's La Noyee.
I adore wispy voices, abhor weighty ones.
Your ears don't ring, and it's easier to dream away.
Nic Fanciulli's set last Friday night was mind-blowing. So, it's a pisser he's not getting as much attention here as he deserves.
Bet this is the worst crowd he's ever had to play to. And that he'll most prolly not want to come back unless offered fuckloads of money.
Goes to show how Singaporeans largely head to Zouk for the hype, to be seen. What's House music to them? Oh, absolutely nothing. Especially so if it's not blasting at Zouk.
Most don't even know about one + one. And when asked if James Zabiela's just some Brit dude with crack to spare, they'll prolly say yeah now ask him to pass me some on the sly.
I say, scoff scoff.
New Order. Temptation (Secret Machines Remix Edit).
Saints + Lovers. Like It Was Yesterday.
One of the most stylish men in the world Lapo Elkann.
With pixie-faced Doutzen Kroes.
Shot by Testino.
Now this is what good photography is about.
Vivid colours, sharp character, proper focus.
You know it's him even before you check credits.
Screening Room at 12 Ann Siang Road.
Utterly brilliant place.
Fantastic nosh, cocktails, rooftop.
Yank yourself over.
Blonde Redhead. 23.
Die Romantik. Narcissists' Waltz.
Keren Ann. Au coin du Monde.
Arctic Monkeys. Fluorescent Adolescent.
I don't eat much every day not because I don't want to.
I just can't.
I take one sniff of your grub, its taste gets in my mouth. And I tend not to like what I'd sniffed. I'm all for the unusual and all that's in your plate usually doesn't cut close, so don't bother dangling your filthy l'il sausage at my nose and quipping, 'Can you resist this?!' I can, and I'd much rather eat a dildo, baboon. I'm not huge on desserts either, so forget that pint of B&Js as well.
Oh but if we could swing by different nooks daily, and have what's not regularly on the menu or in lights, I'd be your favourite friend to go for a meal with.
Note.
I'm not asserting that food in Singapore is boring, because it never is. It just bloody takes a Vespa to get to the good stuff. A heck lot of money would help too.
I'd always wanted to be a detective of sorts. But after Fincher's Zodiac, (and oh yes, the fact that I'm not dabbling with anything even vaguely involving study of crime) I'm goddamn sure I'm not going to be one.
If I'd actually gone on to become a detective, I would spend every second thinking about the criminals, I've no doubt of that. I'd woken up several times in the past night, from seeing flashes of the killer's face in my sleep. Was not spooked, no, but just casually wondering what it'll be like to nail him. Doesn't sound like a good thing? Am none too wild about it either.
I know I haven't been normal of late.
Ok so maybe I'd never been normal, but that's besides the point.
All that hush-hush, rush-rush these days is for a reason.
I've made my bones, earned my stripes, whatever you want to call it.
My virgin feature story is published. Hooray. Yay. Bring the Mumm.
Yes, I love my job despite not being paid a single cent. The exclusivity in boutiques, restaurants, clubs pretty much makes up for that.
Oh but no, not everything's fucking rosy.
Yeah, get a copy of I-S; just don't expect to see much of my writing style in it.
Narcisco Rodriguez. For Her Eau de Parfum.
Am desperate to own this.
The first time I'd caught a whiff of it two years ago, I knew it was that one ribbon of scent that I wanted on me.
I'd never forgotten it. I never forget particularly delightful smells. And now that I know what it's called, I'm going to get it.
Then there's the smell of smoke coming off Marlboro Red cigarettes. It's a very distinctive, very robust scent. And non-smokey clubs are like filling-free macaroons--fucked, like it or not.
If you think DJ Dixon looks delectable here, let it be said that he looks even more so, in person. And he's definitely in the business less for the sex, more for the music--he's such a genius, with his killer tracklist. Which now makes him God.
I think Justice is swell too. 14 days to album launch.
Fast forward fast forward fast forward these 14 days.
BrusselsSprouts was pretty good. But only so.
Nothing mind-blowing, just good simple nosh for regular nights.
T'was nice Belgian Moules et frites, but question: do all Norwegian mussels come this small?! I like my mussels humongous.
And I think they think that if they fill you up to your nose with the fresh-oil thick-cut steaming-hot fries you can stuff into their (good) mayonaise, you'll forget about that bothersome detail.
I did.
For awhile. A very short while.
I like intense people.
I also like to stare.
And stare.
And stare.
And stare, at them.
Phoebe Killdeer is one. She'd thrown herself completely to the wind. Wildly thrashing about, whirring around on stage, jerking head and tresses, and shaking that dress which would have looked disastrous on a lesser being.
She was in a trance; I was enraptured.
And then there is the Swedish camera-man with his mohawk and moustache (less hair on the head, more hair on the face - always a good thing) in the front row, getting Nouvelle Vague on film. Nothing comes between the man and his craft. Nice.
Zouk always draws the best people in.
Ok, maybe not all the time.
The greenhorn-clubber bitches with their urgh let's-pretend-to-know-it-fucking-all behaviour and who are really queue-jumping aunties in disguise, come in droves. Schticks. You want to take sticks and drive them up their arses, I promise you.
Oh, and the irritating latecomers who conveniently forget to get in line, and schmooze with 'mates' to get priority access. Eh, you think your grandfather's club ah? If you really have to do that, do it behind me ok, bastards. Pity they were all guys who were at least two times bigger than moi. Otherwise, I'll cut them down like trees.
Plus, the guys who whistled at girls, and bade adieu loudly in full view of the other lads in their company. Girls don't like that lah, half-wits. Ok, I don't - so utterly schmucky.
P.S: Canele's Chocolat Gateaux was yummy. Mummy was beaming, yay.
I like Van Cleef & Arpels.
You should, too, if you hadn't already.
Can hardly wait to traipse around in the Louboutins, shiver.
Am thinking of its red lacquered soles every day.
A picture of the luckiest woman of the moment.
Kirsten Dunst and Johnny Borrell.
Kirsten Dunst with Johnny Borrell.
Borrell, the highly attractive cocky bastard.
Mother: Oh, this is with chocolate dribblings. Splendid.
Boy: Like duh, it's written on the menu. (eyeroll)
Kids say no, not the darndest, but the wickedest things. The kid's maybe only 7, and he's already squeezing his mum's heart into the shredder.
Mother: I wonder if this is any good.
Girl: (darkly) Oh it'd better be, or else.
Boy: It'd better be. (sinister chuckle)
She's 9. I think. She sounds like she's 14, though. Naughty naughty? Shrugs. That'll be a understatement, really. Mother's Day is just round the corner, give the poor dame a break, you little knuckleheads.
Just when I was going to write them off totally, smart-arse precocious boy and girl decide to surprise me. When the frappe and cake swung around, the devil's spawn became angels that ooh-aahed. And through the night later, they were very pleasant little people - the girl's quite a funny chilli padi and the boy is actually quite the shy tyke.
Ok, so they were just hungry. And clever. Clever people liked using words that carry cleavers. Can't spank them for that, can you? I'll want to see them around again, these amusing beings. They're funny.
Tanjong Pagar is such a bloody bore, you have to look for good chow to keep from feeling suicidal.
The Amoy Street Food Centre reminds me of Kreta Ayer Food Centre - I miss that place, it was flooding with nice old folks. Nice old folks who spouted Cantonese. It's very endearing, the dialect, reminds me of the mooncake-chinatown book in the blue library of my primary school and of the wet markets of yesteryears.
Used to traipse down those ancient tiled floors, scouring for fresh ingredients with Mummy every Sunday morning. I'd bawl if I wasn't allowed to go. I liked the polyglot of languages ringing in my ears, the smell of spices, poking at vegetables, seeing blood smears of legged creatures fish squid scallop crabs frogs, tasting the tau huay and the beehoon with tons of beansprouts. Oh and who could forget that circular fried prawn fritter? I love the marketplace. And helping Ma prepare dishes afterwards - yay!
This Szechuan noodle dish I just had at Amoy had black long-ish strips of mushrooms (?) swimming in it. And if there is anything I like more than mushrooms, it's weird mushrooms. This skinny one makes me think of flagella, of woody black fungus. How very absolutely delightful.
Placebo. The Bitter End.
It will spin round and round in your head.
Bitch bitch bitch.
I don't like doing this all that much but fuck, I don't want to get out of it. Simply because I like the smell of pastries and cakes, and to smell of cakes and pastries when I skulk home at night. Oh right, and because I need to have at least some money to support my day avocation, which by the way, is no walk in the park to take on. I can't just bloody quit because I hate some boogerface coming in.
Most distasteful: The amorous SPGs bursting at the seams with you know which pheromones. By letting your ang moh boyfriends paw you whilst looking through the menu, do you know that you are telling me that once they foot the hefty bill, they can screw you later, you slut, so why bother to act all dignified when speaking to me? Eyeroll. On the same level, the women who think they're goddesses because they have ang moh fiances. Such wacks. And what's the fixation anyway, the size?
Rather distasteful: Those who put on the scary (makes my hair stand on end, that's why) fake slang that sounds none too Brit, none too American or Aussie (they want to cater to all Caucasians, I think), dwelling on certain syllables of their words, curling the tongue and stretching said syllables for maximum effect. To the extent I don't get what's uttered. I'm floored.
Distasteful enough: Strong aversion to the delivery of those lovely thank yous and sorrys. What, your parents never taught you to say these words issssitttt?! I'll throw you out, I tell you, no mannerssss!
Not distasteful but plain irritating: Bucket heads who ask me if I'm Chinese. Guan ni pi shi! Like, what's that got to do with the food? I mean, wtf?! And that's when I turn into something else. Something quite blunt in manner, curt in speech.
What am I asking for? Simple. Just polite people who didn't exact their statuses (or faux statuses) unto waiters. Just people who understand that it's not easy being a waiter. Just people who don't turn atas all of a sudden when they come through the doorway.
It takes a lot to stay ahead in this game. You've got to be snappy, be able to remember truckloads of faces and petty demands, look spiffy enough so as to not have the truly fabulous stare you down, and reining anger in when all you want to do is stick your heels up the offenders' noses - heck, it might even make their faces look better - because they're doing the whole I'm-too-exquisite-to-be-nice-and-being-nice-means-I'm-not-exquisite thing again.
Oh and why do you think so many thespians that eventually made it to the red carpets had waited on tables before? Urm, because the dining room is the perfect training ground / acting school, with the seething artfully concealed behind neat smiles attached to the cursory acquiescence to demands? McBeal moments are aplenty, no shit, but the arse will be on the line if a Satan turn is made. And that's not an option for many of us who've come to do this, all for the goddamn money.
Sometimes I feel like I'd lost that spark in me. And feel like crap for not having smashed the quiches in faces for objectionable behaviour.
P.S: I think I'm in love. With Desmond Harrington. I like the criminal, dark looks. And the fact he was a hellraiser in college.
It constantly amuses me how the same hairdo in one picture can be interpreted so differently by different hairstylists. People always think you'd chosen some other new cut.
Anyhow, I like this one better. But it's always good to not stick to one, so I'll go see Claris' next time round, clap clap.
Ricciotti's Morbida Mocha Passion was good.
Stefano Deiuri is one genius of a pasticciere.
And yes, I'd gotten to eat cockles last night.
I am dreaming of the chinchalok, and the garlic chilli vinegar dip.
Escargots, squid, pacific black cod at Le Pont de Vie.
That's right, I lurve my seafood. Fresh seafood.
I thought the chef de cuisine was being cocky when I saw only fistfuls of dishes on the menu - it seemed like he was saying, 'This is the little that I have and it is all I'm going to make, if you don't like it, tant pis!' (No pauses there) But after the pleasant dining experience, I have to say this: less is more. You can concentrate better on the individuality and quality of each dish then.
All the entrees ordered were genuinely good. Nothing fanciful, just simple French fare, with startlingly fresh ingredients. Maybe because it was a Saturday - you know what's said of fish on mondays.
Chuang and Kev's meat dishes were sumptous. When the juices spilled forth, they revealed that the meat had spent adequate time marinating in spices, acid and oil. I do like the zucchini with salmon roe canapes, and their truffle butter accompanied by soft bread.
Oh, and the Gateau de Chocolat Chaud caught me off-guard. Thank you for the surprise, was extremely stunned.
I hope I get mussels, clams, cockles, oysters, raw tuna, sea cucumber for dinner tonight, ho.
Alan Rickman? Nah. Bobby Gillespie.
The Jesus and Mary Chain. Just Like Honey.
Ok. First things first.
All wait staff are human beings. Remember that.
We are not a breed of people who are beneath you, slower than you are, or anything your silly mind might conjure. More often than not, we have better etiquette than thee, and better education than you'd like to think.
At the new chi-chi bistro that I moonlight at, with throngs of supposedly classy post-show crowds filling in seats, I was expecting to espy fewer crass people. But it was not to be.
When unrefined people are in a world-class Arts venue, they have a habit of putting their faux-classiness on display. They think that if they turn their noses up on others (on top of wait staff), drape themselves with pashminas, speak with a very pronounced slang, or crow with brimming arrogance of their holidays in Paris, they're polished apples. Which is all quite appalling.
That is not the way cultured people behave, twats.
Cultured people know that their treatment of others reflects on their upbringing and shows the world what they're made of. Furthermore, they know better than to adorn pashminas for sartorial cred, which have long ago ceased to be in vogue. Above all, they speak normal, and of trips to the humble hawker centre to slurp turtle soup (nice!).
I'll remember the evil people and every detail about them, but only to make fun of their lipstick smears, stray nose hairs, jiggling legs (quelle horreur), hokkien helicopter engrish, inability to speak softly, to hear what others have to say, their perpetually-broken wrists..oh shite, the list goes on.
I imagine they think they're the envy of the masses, when truth be told, they're unloved toads that've forgotten that they ought to go sit in a corner because they're quite a sight to behold. But I am always amazed just how bold they can be.
Second.
When you watch a theatre production, be sure to know what exactly went on on stage. Or else, shut it.
Plus, if it is some critically-acclaimed production you are going to see, have the decency to at least know a small bit of information on the play, as a mark of respect to the actors. And to keep from looking like a dolt.
Emanuel Ungaro. Fall + Spring 2007.
Narciso Rodriguez S/S 2007.
Doo.Ri S/S 2007.
I like Graham Coxon.
And all the art-school geeks with their recondite thoughts.
Cillian Murphy and Liam Neeson.
Two of the finest Irish actors.
Ricci. Shrunken and looking good.
Baudelaire had taken opium and gone traipsing down the streets.
I hadn't.
Baudelaire had then taken to the 'frou frou' sound of swirling skirts.
Oh I had, too.
I had always thought men who became apneists at the mere glimpse of skirts, were depraved. No less. But I have come to understand the delirium since. Skirts, swishing or not, long or short, are all lovely to behold.
Then there are the dresses, which are just as delightful, if not more.
I particularly liked these McQueen pieces.
Zut Alors! Can't seem to put Kitchen Confidential down.
Both literally and not so.
Bourdain is wicked. In every sense.
No two ways about that.
She's a cross between Renton in Trainspotting
And Margot Tenenbaum.
You can't run away from her, she's everywhere.
But that's alright.
Because I like a nice face.
Irina Lazareanu's nice face.
The Versace Ruched Jersey dress is lovely too.
Off the Fall / Winter 2006 Collection.
When people leave, I think of planes.
Big, fancy planes that fly high in the sky.
Jana is jetsetting for Sydney to see the Opera House.
I think I will miss her laughter.
And the way she gags when speaking of fish eyes.
Or of the glut of peculiar stuff we Chinese swallow.
And I guess the preconception's correct.
The Germans do love their Krautrock (forget the Brit slur).
Her collection of electronic music nearly blew my ears off.
Now if only she hadn't taken such a huge liking to planes.
Elliott Smith. Needle In The Hay.
The Postmarks. Goodbye.
Isabelle Antena, Federico Aubele. Smooth.
I like Jean-Michel Basquiat.
And David Shrigley.
And Quentin Blake.
But Shrigley more so, because of Forced to Speak With Others.
Garibaldi was quite impressive.
Hats off to the waiters with impeccable manners.
The sea urchin sauteed in white wine was bloody exotic. Nice.
But I personally liked the beef ravioli with Porcini mushrooms better.
I can't wait to go to Valentino to see if they have it all better there.
And Le Pont de Vie too.
Then Birthday Chip Kev wanted to go Viet. So we all did.
And it was great. Morning Glory was nuts.
Au Revoir Simone. Through The Backyards.
Architecture In Helsinki. Like A Call.
Plasticine. Loser.
M83. Don't Save Us From The Flames.
The Teenagers. Sunset Beach.
Explosions In The Sky. Your Hand in Mine.
I'm waiting for The Other Boleyn Girl.
Brazilian Girls. Last Call.
Pacha Massive. Cruisin'.
Forward Russia. Nine.
Land of Talk. All My Friends.
White hot.
The thrift shops here cannot rival those in the UK.
BUT they're getting better.
Vivienne Westwood, Comme Des Garcons at pee-pants prices.
And the people thronging said shops are looking better over the years. No more odd crummy schticks, just more kentang ruffians.
Net, we might just find you those coveted Fred Perry kicks.
No need to jet set to Vietnam lah.
Stars. Your Ex Lover Is Dead.
Let's Go Sailing. Sideways.
Good Shoes. All In My Head.
Have to check out the vid.
This is lovely too.
It reminds me of kindergarten illustrations.
How I miss the old people.
All of us who were already old when we were ten.
But I saw Kai yesterday.
He still has those eyes that sparkle when mischief crosses mind.
How goddamn neat.
Carson should hold another gathering.
To go see Paris Je T'aime.
71 Bencoolen Street. That's where it's all at.
I know I can do this for the rest of my life.
If you know what I'm talking about, sshhhh.
If you don't, it's perfectly alright, just don't be a schtick to ask me.
Nooka from New York is pretty goddamn fab.
And I'm not even crazy for watches.
The Mandarin Gallery was nice, but missing these.
Fushia and Satin. Lethal, I feel.
Oh, I want a petite jade pendant with intricate colourful / gold
carvings of birds. SO badly.
I miss cassette tapes lying around the house.
Cocosuma. The Servant. Bam!Tululu!
Austine. Leitmotiv.
Like how I stumbled upon the lovely coiffeuse at capitol building, took a chance with him for an outre cut, and got pleasantly surprised; I stumbled upon these scents, and laid charmed.
Dolce & Gabbana. Light Blue.
Estee Lauder. Beyond Paradise Blue.
They smell of oceans, lakes and flowers.
Mmmm-mmmm.
Roman Revutsky. Incomplete.
I think of Anais Nin when I hear this.
Ellen Allien. Your Body Is my Body.
Jose Gonzalez. Heartbeats.
Chicks on Speed.
Fischerspooner. Emerge.
New York art-pop pair worth its weight.
Hot Chip. Boy From School (Radio Edit).
BUT Heineken Green Room should let me have Debbie Harry too.
The Adored. Tell Me Tell Me.
The FutureHeads. Meantime.
The Rakes. We Danced Together.
Blokes with brill songs and clothes.
Broken Social Scene. Elevator Love Letter.
Datarock. FaFaFa.
Peter Bjorn & John. Young Folks.
Jem. Finally Woken.
Radiohead. Sail To The Moon.
Is it possible that people can smell like..flea markets?
Apparently, yes. And the scent is intoxicating.
The Knife. Silent Shout.
Tapes n Tapes. Insistor.
From the first time I'd seen this months ago, I've dreamt of watching it. But I'll have to sneak in. Grumble grumble grumble.
The Postal Service. The District Sleeps Alone Tonight.
Wolf Parade. Shine A Light.
I heart Canadian bands.
Take a swig of cider and hear this.
My dearest Mumsy should not have even thought of that. End of story.
Mum almost took ye olde darlings to the trash bin.
And threw a fuck lot of money down the dumpster.
A psychedelic skirt from Paris, Italian-made leather bags, all gone to the dogs. Imagine that. Shed-blowing, ain't it?
Could have fetched hundreds of dollars if I sold it at flea markets. But hell no, am SO not going to do that. Will keep those babies for myself.
Cocteau Twins. Lazy Calm.
For the runway, for BCBGMaxazria.
PJ Harvey. The Slow Drug.
Snagged a yoga-guru / hippie blouse yesterday.
Bjork. Army of Me.
Massive Attack. Black Milk.
I do think Mezzanine is a stellar piece of work.
Frou Frou. Shh.
Saint Etienne. Sugarhouse Lane.
Edward Furlong.
The real pretty boy.
Hello.
Let's play Chungking Express and In The Mood For Love again.
Frida Hyvonen. Drive My Friend.
Francois de Roubaix. Chapi Chapo.
Sounds pretty much like Muppets on Helium.
Or Sigur Ros, toddler Sigur Ros.
Once a fan, always one.
Viktor & Rolf.
Black for Spring / Summer '07 Collection.
How very exciting.
Madeleine Peyroux. The Summer Wind.
The Maccabees. Just Like The Rain.
Moloko. The Time Is Now.
Roisin Murphy is the bomb.
Air Traffic. Get In Line.
Black Photographs. A Perfect Landing.
Editors. Bullets.
Traipsing down scores of alleys proved to be hazardous.
To our pockets.
In a matter of hours, half the (great) paycheque's shelled out to the good people of White Room, Salad, Black Clover, Miss Selfridge and Topshop.
Shite, I'm feeling the pinch now that the statements have arrived. Hmph.
But they're mostly cult items, so I rest my case.
P.S: You said Mr. White Room is nice and pretty hot, n'est-ce pas. I say aye. He's got a certain je ne sais quoi. And nay, he's no ching chong man lah, fool. Those types don't know how to appreciate Keane.
P.P.S: The staff at Agnes b. are the best around. No contest. They weren't the least bit pissed, ha.
I've always hated all things in vogue, all things that are adored by the masses.
But, I simply cannot hate dj Sasha. He's a walking god. Plug in, hear every one of his records, they're all swell.
Oh. Another thing.
Pageboy / Edie Sedgwick -styled tunics, long-sleeved tops and jet-black skinnies are MY thing, alright. And no, I really don't wish to see them selling like fucking hot steaming cakes. Please, no one buy them. See, when I openly declared coloured leggings and stockings were pretty years ago, many sniffed. But these same people are stocking (no pun) up on them now.
And ditto for vintage polka-dotted, kitschy multi-coloured dresses.
And ballerina flats.
And tweed shorts.
So I stopped short of wearing them. Because they're hot as kilns. Baah.
Cut Copy. That was just a dream.
Omg Omg Omg Omg.
Two nights ago I saw the most glorious light in my entire life.
Like Woah.
But I knew I wasn't leaving anything behind.
No my life did not flash before me eyes that's why.
Wires intertwined fuse blew power tripped.
Gorgeous vermillion, orange, indigo, silver sparks flew.
Too stumped to move a bone.
Should have caught it on tape the strangely beautiful scene.
Kev looks pretty as a baldie. No doubt.
Pity those hippie locks had to go though.
Actually, all you guys look great. Really.
Leonard's a man already. Wow.
Kids, they just grow up so fast these days.
And he's fallen in love.
Oh and he said huffily, I know she knows I like her, but I'm just going to fold my hands, do nothing, and see what happens (should see Linet's parody of the guy, freakin' funny). Yeah, you go ahead and do just that, let's see when she drops onto yer lap, dear. Hmm, how about NEVER?
Guys expect hints. But when you've given them that, they do nothing and what's more, they think you're a hussy. Ling, even if he fancies you, nothing's going to happen, because he's the tight-lipped type. So if it's courtship you want, he's not the one. He could tell you one fine day if he really is into you (the words of many wise men), but that will be in years to come. Ok?
Grandcamp in FilmArt: Saint-Cyr reminded me of us.
Sticking at the back of classes, sniggering.
When confronted, we conform.
With somewhat terrifying results.
We Are Scientists. This Scene Is Dead.
Boards of Canada. Beach at Redpoint.
P.S: The songs are dated way back. All are noted down for self-reference. No responsibility will be undertaken if they do not cater to mainstream tastes and preferences. No, I do not give two hoots to the non-subversive, you're correct.
The knives are out.
Crass and class-less, C____ and C____. With such a poor command of Engrish, do not attempt to even squeak. Unfortch, the clowns did, and showed that they could not understand the words, 'No, I do not mind, yes, I do mind.' But being the cool cat, I simply threw them a look that said, can you get any more stupid than this. Now, if they had appeared offended, you might actually think better of their intelligence quotient, but no, the nitwits did not. Omg. I'd always thought they were giggly gormless twats in high school, but this is beyond..redemption. I wonder what Gen's doing with them, really.
With village idiot acquaintances like these, who needs reunions? Net says to go laugh at goons, but there ain't so much to laugh at as nonsense to stomach, so I'd rather go catch Borat. The snippets I saw were CRAZY, so let's sneak in.
Hello, Eunice and Min (such darlings), next time we'll go knock on dear old Ms. T's door and take her to Holland V / Rochester Park (v.near, yes?), along with the rest of the F girls. This time, I can and will leave the stun-gun at home.
Another thing. For people who frequent Topshop, Mango and Zara, hear hear: they are high street (read: far from high-end) labels in Britian and Spain, so quit acting like you've just bought a piece of London or Barcelona. It would only reveal the fact that you're a discerning shopper, not. Let me say this, the shops in Far East, Bugis Market sell similar stuff, except that the clothes bear more dubious labels. Quality-wise, same ol' same.
By purchasing these imported goods, you're paying cut-throat prices plus, contributing to foreign exchange leakages. But I'm not saying you should stop, because even fabrics used in local clothing lines are imported. Go for hard-to-scour-for items, or better, support local designers if they may produce what you want. Oh, and these days, the numbers of Chavettes skulking into said shops are on the rise, so are you sure you want to throng these places..? I've moved on to ssh, shophouse-boutiques. But on odd days, I prolly will still make trips down. It'll be a loss to dismiss them totally.
Am going to Ikea now (yeah, I remember the words of Tyler Durden: the things you own will end up owning you), but heck, yays. I love Scandinavian home-products. They're like Marks + Spencers' toffees; they make you happy. In particular those at Style.Nordic.
La vie peut etre triste mais elle est toujours belle.
The year's best + grossly underrated musical.
If it was shot entirely in Cantonese, it'd have blown my mind.
Perhaps Love.
No one speaks of great Chinese films.
Which is such a shame. Here's another.
The Banquet.
Cansei de ser Sexy.
Let's make love and listen to death from above.
Primal Scream. Some Velvet Morning.
Modest Mouse. Dance Hall.
Metric. Empty.
Hottest thing now. To me, at least.
Familiarity breeds contempt. Or so we're told.
It sure does not apply to all parties thrown to remember Christmas Day. Same faces, different places, right. And we're not even talking about the dinner spreads with our folks yet, or the bubbly, or the pile of flicks waiting behind the curtain. Then the yakking..?
With Amanda, the chat went on and on till the last bus chugged away and my lids could take it no bloody more; with the nutters at MOX, the crazy hoots from reminiscing colourful pasts were good as the drinks (invigorating, but super taxing on the pocket, shoot). The Scarlet can wait, Erskine Road can hold, till we get paid, ho.
Ms.Sex-on-the-beach-who-is-dying-to-go-to-church-to-see-ze-angels. Hey, and you people better stop asking moi to go to church. I. am. not. moving. an. inch. of. me. arse. thanks.
Mr.CHINK(haha)-Mohjito-man-who-just-wants-some-Little-Britian-before-joining-other-green-men-in-barracks. We ARE going to HAPPY to say bonsoir and au revoir, so you won't turn gay on us (no pun). Don't know how we're going to do that though.
Mr.Nightswimmer-I-drank-on-an-empty-stomach-and-almost-died-last-night. Eat greasy eggs with oysters (orh what?), bananas and down mefenamic acid with sour plum juice.
P.S people who favour taking pictures where every idiot has a dewy expression: For Chrissakes, take intelligent shots that are with stuff to talk about already, because all watering holes, restaurants look the SAME anyway and there is nothing new about your retarded facial expressions. Just so you won't piss your pants in embarrassment when staring at them ten years on. I care for you people, honestly. It's the spirit of giving, yeah. Giving advice.
Aight, am going to catch up with Mum now. :D
