Monday, May 30, 2005
Can't Touch This
Excuse me if I switch to full-on drama queen mode. My desolation is so colossal that it should have its own zip code.
I’m feeling completely devastated after witnessing Kimi Räikkönen (McLaren F1 driver extraordinaire) lose the European GP title to Fernando Alonso (Renault)despite leading from the get-go (overtaking P1 BMW-Williams’ Nick Heidfeld on the starting grid) when the silver arrow’s suspension collapsed, hurtling the MP 4-20 spectacularly off the track, on the absolute last round of the 59-lap Nürburgring race. It would have been his third consecutive title of the season but like me apparently, the guy has the luck of a turkey doomed to grace my sandwich-and-salad lunch tomorrow. Just unreal.
Kimi is easily the gutsiest, most talented and most competitive driver in the F1 circuit. Why he isn’t winning left and right is thus, a riddle harder to figure out than any that The Sphinx could probably come up with. Lady luck is an utter bitch! He’s just sooo unlucky…as I am. In fact, I’ve had my own fair share of such misfortunes (See entry, “The Rumors are True…”) that it’s almost surprising Kimi and I weren’t born twins…I would have loved to be blonde (hopefully not dumb) and green-eyed (literally, not figuratively…)
And speaking of dumb, what’s up with the people in this country? Everyone seems distressingly insular and it’s supposed to be a cosmopolitan city! You know how most Filipino girls have “Maria” as part of their first names in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a practice that we acquired from the Spaniards who introduced us to Catholicism? Well, it’s no secret that there are a lot of Filipino domestic helpers in Singapore (blame it on the corrupt Philippine government for not being able to provide decent jobs to perfectly capable people...Here’s wishing GMA and her cronies will rot in hell…grrrr…) a lot of whom incidentally have “Maria” in their given names. Now locals automatically think that one is a domestic helper, which isn’t necessarily bad, but then treat her accordingly (read: with disdain), if she happens to be a Maria never mind if the person in question is a Harvard Law graduate who speaks half a dozen languages (including Basque and Swahili) and who discovered the antidote to the H5N1 virus recently. It’s moronic, really.
Of course, if you happen to be white (Caucasian or mixed, not Block&White-fair…) or simply do not have the usual ethnic Pinoy features and are decked in a YSL Rive Gauche dress complete with Hermés platforms and a matching twilly, plus a pile of croc-hide Gucci accessories, then you will most certainly escape such narrow-minded resentment. It’s not at all acceptable either way not especially when I also happen to be a “Maria” albeit practically no one outside of my family knows.
Don’t get me wrong, surely a lot of people here are quite unprejudiced and urbane but the bigoted minority just pisses the hell out of me! It’s the 21st century for heaven’s sake and humanity is supposed to have banished its barbaric ways. Racist tendencies should have gone with those
gigantic pants that MC Hammer wore in the early 90’s. So, can everyone just please stop acting all superior and just see things objectively? I mean, how hard can it be? It certainly wasn’t with those hideous genie pants and weren’t you glad you chucked them?
I’m feeling completely devastated after witnessing Kimi Räikkönen (McLaren F1 driver extraordinaire) lose the European GP title to Fernando Alonso (Renault)despite leading from the get-go (overtaking P1 BMW-Williams’ Nick Heidfeld on the starting grid) when the silver arrow’s suspension collapsed, hurtling the MP 4-20 spectacularly off the track, on the absolute last round of the 59-lap Nürburgring race. It would have been his third consecutive title of the season but like me apparently, the guy has the luck of a turkey doomed to grace my sandwich-and-salad lunch tomorrow. Just unreal.
Kimi is easily the gutsiest, most talented and most competitive driver in the F1 circuit. Why he isn’t winning left and right is thus, a riddle harder to figure out than any that The Sphinx could probably come up with. Lady luck is an utter bitch! He’s just sooo unlucky…as I am. In fact, I’ve had my own fair share of such misfortunes (See entry, “The Rumors are True…”) that it’s almost surprising Kimi and I weren’t born twins…I would have loved to be blonde (hopefully not dumb) and green-eyed (literally, not figuratively…)
And speaking of dumb, what’s up with the people in this country? Everyone seems distressingly insular and it’s supposed to be a cosmopolitan city! You know how most Filipino girls have “Maria” as part of their first names in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a practice that we acquired from the Spaniards who introduced us to Catholicism? Well, it’s no secret that there are a lot of Filipino domestic helpers in Singapore (blame it on the corrupt Philippine government for not being able to provide decent jobs to perfectly capable people...Here’s wishing GMA and her cronies will rot in hell…grrrr…) a lot of whom incidentally have “Maria” in their given names. Now locals automatically think that one is a domestic helper, which isn’t necessarily bad, but then treat her accordingly (read: with disdain), if she happens to be a Maria never mind if the person in question is a Harvard Law graduate who speaks half a dozen languages (including Basque and Swahili) and who discovered the antidote to the H5N1 virus recently. It’s moronic, really.
Of course, if you happen to be white (Caucasian or mixed, not Block&White-fair…) or simply do not have the usual ethnic Pinoy features and are decked in a YSL Rive Gauche dress complete with Hermés platforms and a matching twilly, plus a pile of croc-hide Gucci accessories, then you will most certainly escape such narrow-minded resentment. It’s not at all acceptable either way not especially when I also happen to be a “Maria” albeit practically no one outside of my family knows.
Don’t get me wrong, surely a lot of people here are quite unprejudiced and urbane but the bigoted minority just pisses the hell out of me! It’s the 21st century for heaven’s sake and humanity is supposed to have banished its barbaric ways. Racist tendencies should have gone with those
gigantic pants that MC Hammer wore in the early 90’s. So, can everyone just please stop acting all superior and just see things objectively? I mean, how hard can it be? It certainly wasn’t with those hideous genie pants and weren’t you glad you chucked them?
Friday, May 27, 2005
Lost in Translation
"Hello! How may I address you?" Someone please pinch me till I bleed just so I can be sure I was fully awake and not still prancing with giant chocolate Easter bunnies along rainbows in la la land...What? That was one of Homer's Duff-fueled dreams? Oh, anyway...
I had been waiting on the trunk line of a government office for nearly half an hour and was about ready to smash the window with the cordless receiver on my hand in utter besetment when someone finally picked up on the other end and greeted me with such cheerful courtesy which was well, unusual if not absolutely miraculous. Although generally helpful, local customer service reps (CSR) in this country are not exactly known for their enthusiasm on the job. More than the rare display of ardor (albeit short-lived) however, what really threw me off was that I didn't know exactly how to reply to the question I had been posed. I mean, did I need to have some sort of title with which the rep could call me? Most people would automatically use Madam, to address a woman or Sir, for a man, won't they?
"Oh, you mean my name?" I clarified, in case 'Baroness,' which I would have preferred (although Duchess or Empress has a nice ring to it, too), is not the answer that the rep was expecting. True enough, "No," came his terse reply, which to me sounded like a euphemism for, "Idiot" in the condescending manner with which he delivered it. Someone forgot to let me in on the joke. Have I told you locals are not big on customer care?
I merely brushed the question off, mumbling that it isn’t important and then proceeded to ask if he may transfer my call instead to another rep who I had already spoken to about my concern earlier that day. “I’m sorry, madam... (Gasp! He knew how to address me all along!) but we can’t transfer calls...” and again, just barely concealing his (unwarranted) annoyance firmly asked, “So, how may I address you?” At that point I realized that he was in fact, asking not how he may call me but rather, how he could help me. How totally odd.
But uh, okay. Pardon my ignorance then. After all, I can be so dim sometimes, or as local parlance would have it, “blur.” I know, it’s technically not an adjective but there’s no stopping Singaporeans from using the word descriptively, as in “Lisa left her homework again. She is so blur.” Eh, you say? That’s just the tip of the iceberg, dahlinks (TM Ivana). Not too long ago, I overheard someone in the MRT talk about her physical discomfort saying that her back was “very pain.” Well sweetie, as a brochure for spa esprït (5th level, Paragon Mall, along tourist haven a.k.a. Orchard Road) proudly announces, you absolutely need to, and brace yourselves for this - “Be luxed!” Don’t ask me, I’m just as baffled as you are. How about a session of something called “Chai Detox”(It’s not a tea and it’s not curry-in-a-hurry! - Yep, the copywriter had a little too much to drink...I hope...) which should supposedly, “charge the naughty toxins out of your body.” (Whada??? He really had to be pissed drunk to come up with something that silly!) Naughty toxins - I hope they’re not quite so naughty or my compulsively disciplinarian mom (she hates it when I’m naughty...) would spank them to behave like a lady, too...
But perhaps, more than an achy back, there’s nothing worse than having to go to the loo only to find it closed because according to the sign, “The toilet is choked.” I wonder if anyone had thought to apply the Heimlich Maneuver to rescue the poor bathroom fixture from the throes of damnation? Whatever...me thinks they should arrest that girl who was nonchalantly smoothing the hem of her cute patchwork mini. I’m sure she flushed her mobile phone down that toilet as she did say she needed to get rid of it because it was um, “spoilt.” Oh? I had no idea that handsets, like milk, came with sell-by dates! But of course, you don’t need to be formally erm, “orientated” to know that they in fact, don’t?
If someone asked you whether something is possible, never ever say sure, yes, certainly or definitely as you normally would. The reply of choice to such an inquiry is a succinct, “can”. Can you come to the party? Can. Can you fix this for me? Can. Can you do the presentation? Can. And if you’re trying to look halfway interested to make a good impression? Say, “Is it?” repeatedly, gusto, not at all necessary. I saw Jessie last night. Is it? She was with her boyfriend. Is it? She asked about you. Is it? You get the picture. To my scrupulous ears, everyone just sounds like they are constantly channeling Quu and Tee but you know what they say and I quote, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” I wonder if that also means pulling a Brutus and stabbing Caesar...Only then could the real fun begin in my book.
And don’t even get me started on the lahs, lors and hors (eventhough I truly, deeply appreciate that such interjections are wholly inculturated and sometimes even come across as endearingly cute...), the weird pseudo-Brit pronunciation (L’s and R’s are always silent no matter where they appear within a word...), the stilted sing-song accent or the general disregard for standard syntax, usage and conjugation. Whereas reading is supposed to be relaxing, I find my parietal lobes throbbing agonizingly after only a few minutes of sifting through the throng of typos and grammatical errors on local publications. Now, pardon my nit-picky ways but there’s no excuse for it, the published word should always be immaculate, in my opinion.
If Catherine Zeta-Jones only knew, she’d no doubt sue the local edition of Marie Claire that bore her mug with the headline, “Is There Anything She Can’t Do Wrong?” on its March 2005 cover. My, my...Mrs. Michael Douglas is inept, eh? In case it confused you like those er, blur MC editors, the copy should have read, “Is there anything she can do wrong?” or its negative form, “Is there anything she can’t do right?” either of which marvels at how she always seem to do everything right, as I believe what they really intended to say.
Meanwhile, do excuse me if I seem like a snob and a half with my purist commentaries but it can be frustrating when when it's supposed to be English but try as I might, it all really just sound Greek to me. The government’s “Speak Good English” campaign, launched in 2003, has yet to accomplish its goal although an asinine obsession to Constantine Maroulis, who acted like he ingested a truckload of sugar in yesterday's AI finale (which I saw three times because I just couldn't get enough of the guy, embarrassing histrionics and all...aargh!!!) can probably explain that too. Whee.
BTW, Carrie-oke bot V2.0 Underwood, as expected took the AI4 title and god, she really is a robot! She sounded all choked up and her face is all scrunched up in what looks like a wave of emotion while singing that hideous, hideous song, "In Your Heaven" but WTF??? There were absolutely no tears. No tears! I swear! Creepy...
I had been waiting on the trunk line of a government office for nearly half an hour and was about ready to smash the window with the cordless receiver on my hand in utter besetment when someone finally picked up on the other end and greeted me with such cheerful courtesy which was well, unusual if not absolutely miraculous. Although generally helpful, local customer service reps (CSR) in this country are not exactly known for their enthusiasm on the job. More than the rare display of ardor (albeit short-lived) however, what really threw me off was that I didn't know exactly how to reply to the question I had been posed. I mean, did I need to have some sort of title with which the rep could call me? Most people would automatically use Madam, to address a woman or Sir, for a man, won't they?
"Oh, you mean my name?" I clarified, in case 'Baroness,' which I would have preferred (although Duchess or Empress has a nice ring to it, too), is not the answer that the rep was expecting. True enough, "No," came his terse reply, which to me sounded like a euphemism for, "Idiot" in the condescending manner with which he delivered it. Someone forgot to let me in on the joke. Have I told you locals are not big on customer care?
I merely brushed the question off, mumbling that it isn’t important and then proceeded to ask if he may transfer my call instead to another rep who I had already spoken to about my concern earlier that day. “I’m sorry, madam... (Gasp! He knew how to address me all along!) but we can’t transfer calls...” and again, just barely concealing his (unwarranted) annoyance firmly asked, “So, how may I address you?” At that point I realized that he was in fact, asking not how he may call me but rather, how he could help me. How totally odd.
But uh, okay. Pardon my ignorance then. After all, I can be so dim sometimes, or as local parlance would have it, “blur.” I know, it’s technically not an adjective but there’s no stopping Singaporeans from using the word descriptively, as in “Lisa left her homework again. She is so blur.” Eh, you say? That’s just the tip of the iceberg, dahlinks (TM Ivana). Not too long ago, I overheard someone in the MRT talk about her physical discomfort saying that her back was “very pain.” Well sweetie, as a brochure for spa esprït (5th level, Paragon Mall, along tourist haven a.k.a. Orchard Road) proudly announces, you absolutely need to, and brace yourselves for this - “Be luxed!” Don’t ask me, I’m just as baffled as you are. How about a session of something called “Chai Detox”(It’s not a tea and it’s not curry-in-a-hurry! - Yep, the copywriter had a little too much to drink...I hope...) which should supposedly, “charge the naughty toxins out of your body.” (Whada??? He really had to be pissed drunk to come up with something that silly!) Naughty toxins - I hope they’re not quite so naughty or my compulsively disciplinarian mom (she hates it when I’m naughty...) would spank them to behave like a lady, too...
But perhaps, more than an achy back, there’s nothing worse than having to go to the loo only to find it closed because according to the sign, “The toilet is choked.” I wonder if anyone had thought to apply the Heimlich Maneuver to rescue the poor bathroom fixture from the throes of damnation? Whatever...me thinks they should arrest that girl who was nonchalantly smoothing the hem of her cute patchwork mini. I’m sure she flushed her mobile phone down that toilet as she did say she needed to get rid of it because it was um, “spoilt.” Oh? I had no idea that handsets, like milk, came with sell-by dates! But of course, you don’t need to be formally erm, “orientated” to know that they in fact, don’t?
If someone asked you whether something is possible, never ever say sure, yes, certainly or definitely as you normally would. The reply of choice to such an inquiry is a succinct, “can”. Can you come to the party? Can. Can you fix this for me? Can. Can you do the presentation? Can. And if you’re trying to look halfway interested to make a good impression? Say, “Is it?” repeatedly, gusto, not at all necessary. I saw Jessie last night. Is it? She was with her boyfriend. Is it? She asked about you. Is it? You get the picture. To my scrupulous ears, everyone just sounds like they are constantly channeling Quu and Tee but you know what they say and I quote, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” I wonder if that also means pulling a Brutus and stabbing Caesar...Only then could the real fun begin in my book.
And don’t even get me started on the lahs, lors and hors (eventhough I truly, deeply appreciate that such interjections are wholly inculturated and sometimes even come across as endearingly cute...), the weird pseudo-Brit pronunciation (L’s and R’s are always silent no matter where they appear within a word...), the stilted sing-song accent or the general disregard for standard syntax, usage and conjugation. Whereas reading is supposed to be relaxing, I find my parietal lobes throbbing agonizingly after only a few minutes of sifting through the throng of typos and grammatical errors on local publications. Now, pardon my nit-picky ways but there’s no excuse for it, the published word should always be immaculate, in my opinion.
If Catherine Zeta-Jones only knew, she’d no doubt sue the local edition of Marie Claire that bore her mug with the headline, “Is There Anything She Can’t Do Wrong?” on its March 2005 cover. My, my...Mrs. Michael Douglas is inept, eh? In case it confused you like those er, blur MC editors, the copy should have read, “Is there anything she can do wrong?” or its negative form, “Is there anything she can’t do right?” either of which marvels at how she always seem to do everything right, as I believe what they really intended to say.
Meanwhile, do excuse me if I seem like a snob and a half with my purist commentaries but it can be frustrating when when it's supposed to be English but try as I might, it all really just sound Greek to me. The government’s “Speak Good English” campaign, launched in 2003, has yet to accomplish its goal although an asinine obsession to Constantine Maroulis, who acted like he ingested a truckload of sugar in yesterday's AI finale (which I saw three times because I just couldn't get enough of the guy, embarrassing histrionics and all...aargh!!!) can probably explain that too. Whee.
BTW, Carrie-oke bot V2.0 Underwood, as expected took the AI4 title and god, she really is a robot! She sounded all choked up and her face is all scrunched up in what looks like a wave of emotion while singing that hideous, hideous song, "In Your Heaven" but WTF??? There were absolutely no tears. No tears! I swear! Creepy...
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Yes, Mathilda! There is a God...
Oh.My.God!
Scott won't be President of the US of A after all...I'm just sooo devastated...NOT!
I've been feeling a tad bit depressed lately mostly because my birthday is in exactly three months (from yesterday) and I haven't exactly been looking forward to growing old another year after I celebrated my 25th when my jiggly inner thighs began to become immune to any method of firming up and the fine facial lines started to show...
So I spent yesterday curled up in the sofa watching American Idol...yes, I said I wouldn't watch the goddamn show after Constantine got booted out but there was really nothing else on TV save for some Chinese soap called, "My Fair Lady," which weirdly uses Guns N' Roses' "Welcome to the Jungle/Paradise City" as background music...go figure...and a host of entertainment channels all in either, Hindu, Tamil or Malay...So much for knowing Spanish and Japanese, they're not very useful in Singapore...
Anyway, as I expected, AI was a major snoozefest with conclusively less vitality than a drive-by shooting victim in a coma. I could hardly keep my interest on the program that by the time Bo sang "Stand By Me," which wasn't bad but also not extraordinary, I was bored beyond tears that I found myself loading my dirty laundry into the washing machine and actually quite enjoying the erm, 'rush'. Yep, it would be easier to believe that the moon is made of green cheese seeing how I hate doing laundry (as I can never seem to do it right...) but that's how bad I thought AI without Constantine Maroulis was that doing laundry in comparison, is a far enjoyable activity.
Still feeling lethargic from the mind-numbing episode, I had no strength to eat properly so I munched on Bacos while reading through a painfully stupid paperback called, "The Love Trainer"...I know, what was I thinking? I would have tossed the book across the room with an emphatic force that will rival that of the Boxing Day tsunami but I'm the kind of reader who likes to finish everything I've ever started on so I just had to read through the trashy tome, all the while also watching Rob and Amber reach the London pit stop in first place in The Amazing Race with Meredith and Gretchen getting eliminated...uh, no Tino sentiments here...
By midnight, I went to bed feeling as empty as a ravenous Vietnamese refugee's rice bowl and woke up to find out that God finally heard my prayers and sent Scotty "The Body" packing tonight...
Depression, instantly lifted. Scott eliminated is better than Prozac...I'm still doing the Macarena in my jammies, singing "I'm in heaven," to my neighbors' chagrin...Do I look like I care? Life is great...
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Scott won't be President of the US of A after all...I'm just sooo devastated...NOT!
I've been feeling a tad bit depressed lately mostly because my birthday is in exactly three months (from yesterday) and I haven't exactly been looking forward to growing old another year after I celebrated my 25th when my jiggly inner thighs began to become immune to any method of firming up and the fine facial lines started to show...
So I spent yesterday curled up in the sofa watching American Idol...yes, I said I wouldn't watch the goddamn show after Constantine got booted out but there was really nothing else on TV save for some Chinese soap called, "My Fair Lady," which weirdly uses Guns N' Roses' "Welcome to the Jungle/Paradise City" as background music...go figure...and a host of entertainment channels all in either, Hindu, Tamil or Malay...So much for knowing Spanish and Japanese, they're not very useful in Singapore...
Anyway, as I expected, AI was a major snoozefest with conclusively less vitality than a drive-by shooting victim in a coma. I could hardly keep my interest on the program that by the time Bo sang "Stand By Me," which wasn't bad but also not extraordinary, I was bored beyond tears that I found myself loading my dirty laundry into the washing machine and actually quite enjoying the erm, 'rush'. Yep, it would be easier to believe that the moon is made of green cheese seeing how I hate doing laundry (as I can never seem to do it right...) but that's how bad I thought AI without Constantine Maroulis was that doing laundry in comparison, is a far enjoyable activity.
Still feeling lethargic from the mind-numbing episode, I had no strength to eat properly so I munched on Bacos while reading through a painfully stupid paperback called, "The Love Trainer"...I know, what was I thinking? I would have tossed the book across the room with an emphatic force that will rival that of the Boxing Day tsunami but I'm the kind of reader who likes to finish everything I've ever started on so I just had to read through the trashy tome, all the while also watching Rob and Amber reach the London pit stop in first place in The Amazing Race with Meredith and Gretchen getting eliminated...uh, no Tino sentiments here...
By midnight, I went to bed feeling as empty as a ravenous Vietnamese refugee's rice bowl and woke up to find out that God finally heard my prayers and sent Scotty "The Body" packing tonight...
Depression, instantly lifted. Scott eliminated is better than Prozac...I'm still doing the Macarena in my jammies, singing "I'm in heaven," to my neighbors' chagrin...Do I look like I care? Life is great...
