crying for tv

Watching television shows is one of my favourite pastimes. I have this incurable urge to see new shows as soon as they come up. It’s through this ‘curiosity’ that I have discovered stuff like Six Feet Under, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Sex and the City, Nip/Tuck, Will & Grace, Arrested Development and 24. It is just so awesome to find a show that you can trust to entertain you through the doldrums of any normal day. When Grey’s Anatomy came out last year, I felt I had to watch it (coz Sandra Oh is brilliant), but I couldn’t get my hands on it. Oh well, I still plan to get the DVD’s and go on a first-class romp with them.

Anyway, the point of all this (apart from sounding like a loser, who cares right?), is that inevitably, a big part of my life is spent watching television or talking about it. Yes, that’s right, I live a sedentary lifestyle. And because of this sedentary lifestyle, I tend to live vicariously through the characters I see on these shows. I don’t see where I am going with this post other than digging my own hole in what has been a very well-meaning attempt in being cool, but I do know I feel unnecessary flushes of emotion when something remotely sad or incredibly joyous happens on the shows. Joyous? Who uses that word these days?

I’ve cried for lot of shows. These are some of them:

Sex and the City

I think there is always at least one episode in each season I can’t stop blubbering over, but the one that stands out the most is the last episode of the sixth and final season. Carrie and Big finding each other, Miranda looking after her mom-in-law, Charlotte finding a Chinese baby to adopt and Samantha realizing she can fuck anyone she want but she’d rather fuck Smith. Too perfect? I don’t think so.

Lost

Perhaps not too blubber-worthy as Sex and the City but still made me tear like a fucking leaky faucet (I didn’t sob; three cheers to me). Episode 212 where Eko baptizes Aaron and his mother is so well done. The soundtrack in the background is perfectly synchronized and very touching. You have to see how beautiful it is.

Friends

I re-discovered Friends today. I can’t believe how fast we’ve forgotten them! The show was awesome and taken in context, really paved the way not only other sitcoms similar to Friends but also inspired new ways of projecting comedy. Friends was funny, silly, somewhat realistic, touching, had the feel-good factor and always accessible. The episode I cried buckets over and can still make tear is the one where Chandler and Monica get engaged. Isn’t it just out of this world? That scene was just a testament to how well the early seasons of Friends fused comedy and emotion into the picture.

Nip/Tuck

Nip/Tuck is not for everyone. It is extremely graphic, has outrageous storylines (more often than not feeling very real) and deals with stuff that not many shows want to deal with. It usually doesn’t sugar coat anything. It tells it like it is, deadpan, matter of fact but ironically, quite sensationalistic. It’s like while you’re watching it you go, ‘Oh please that is sooo far-fetched,’ but somehow it draws you in toward the end and makes you believe! However, last season (the one where they unveil the Carver), Julia and Sean go to the abortionist to do the needful. The scene is heart-breaking because you know both of them ache so bad and feel so battered but somehow they realize they can’t do it. All the while, the most incredible rendition of Holy Night is playing in the background. Beautiful.

That’s it for now folks. Don’t judge me. Look at your self in the mirror and you will see your soul talking to you, emotionless, expressionless and genderless. Let that feeling embrace you so that you can realize that none of us is different.

trash

I hate presumption. I hate hypocrisy, but who the hell doesn't?
Put them together and you get a person you really love and really, really hate.
We fall in love so easily; beauty in every sense of the word is skin deep.
Past the scars, the blemishes that we so magnanimously undertake, we hit rock bottom;
And all we want to do is get away.
All of us. Each and everyone of us. Trash.

imaginary lovers

I have this freaky habit of falling asleep with my eyes open. I know it's freaky coz I've seen other people dozing off like that, and it's nothing short of disturbing. And you know what else? When you 'wake up' your eyes suddenly shoot up like those junkies who've just shot up a pint (or whatever) of heroin into their veins with their sticky needles.

Well that happened to me today. I was standing up in the train, holding onto one or two hand grips, slouched over, probably trying to pretend the air in front of me was my bed at home, listening to my latest obsession Mariah Carey (go Mimi!)... and then blank... I wake up and my iPod is silent, my eyes wide open in suspicion that someone has noticed this dramatic scene in Gautam's life, but no one has obviously. And then, I remember the dream I had. In that span of what was probably 4-5 minutes, I actually had a dream...about a baby.

Baby: Why do you keep staring at my mother when I cry? You're supposed to look at me.
Me (apparently in exasperation): I look at you because you are the one making a ruckus and your mum is just in my field of vision.
Baby: Well, she feels like your accusing her or something. She's not a failure you know!
Me: I look at you and her like a sheep looks at grass or the occasional gay cowboy....
Baby: Benign. You mean benign.
Mrs. Sheriff: Very good vocabulary is the key to a good romance.

That's when I snapped out of it. The baby morphed into my Grade school English Teacher, Mrs. Sheriff. Possibly the best teacher alive. She introduced Reader's Digest to my life and she taught me flowing handwriting. She gave me so much encouragement. And I thought giving her a Parker pen when I passed out of her class was SUCH a big thing. What a fucker I was.

Anyway, that was such a inane dream. I know mothers feel guilty every time I look at their crying babies on the train but really, the crying never bothers me so why the hell would I judge them? And if it were (bothering me), I know how damagingly insidious babies can be, so I would almost always empathize with the parent (unless the parent was spitting at them or caning them).

And I used the words, "gay cowboy" to a baby....living right on the edge baby. These young impressionable minds.....good on them.

One good thing though: Imaginary conversations are so much better than imaginary lovers.
Why? Coz one sets u up for disappointment and the other doesn't. I mean it's not as if I am gonna expect random babies to talk to me on the street. Which by the way, if they could, would be just an extension to what imbeciles they really are.

I really do love babies though.

stepping into the periphery

The time’s 8.55am. I’m 5 train stops away from my work-destination. And to my utter disbelief and pounding heart (what with me imagining empowering angry conversations with my boss who’s scolding me for being tardy), the driver mutters something about being stalled for the next twenty minutes. I hurry off a message to a friend grumbling about how this is a sign that at its core, Singapore is just a first world country with poor, miserable people. That’s a bit harsh. Obviously I love Singapore but when this happens and let me borrow/embellish, hell hath no fury when a late person scored? Hell hath no fury when a person is late-ed? Oh whatever.

Anyway, a conversation strikes up with this guy who’s standing next to me.

He looks at his watch, “Oh Jesus!”
“I feel the same way,” I find myself saying.

He looks at me a bit surprised that someone’s caught his apparent outrage and frustration, “How can this happen?”

“I know! But I come from Sri Lanka so I am a bit more used to this kind of thing.”

Now I don’t know why I said that considering I have never travelled on a Sri Lankan train before but aside from the sickness of talking too much I am inflicted with, I was trying to make polite conversation. I was also bemused at how really irritated he was as opposed to me who’s all ‘outraged’ at the ridiculous delay only for the purpose of making some drama.

But you know coming from a third world country, your expectations are low and therefore your temper threshold is high. You expect breakdowns to happen and when they don’t, you claim it to be the result of your prayers to God/Goddess XXX (Jenna Jameson?). So when this happens in a place like Singapore where everything runs like clockwork, it is and can be claimed to be devastating to the human spirit.

“Oh? You’re from Sri Lanka? I would never know it”

Standard response from everyone, so no biggie. I actually roll my eyes inside. Accidental bad thoughts are not my fault obviously.

“Ha Ha Ha! I’m Indian actually.”

“Oh yeah, you do look kinda Indian. My servants are all Indian by the way.”

“Oh wow! You have servants? How cool.”

OMG. Is this the way I think? And the best part of it was that all this didn’t even register until I was sitting in my office sipping my cup of morning coffee. The racial innuendo….the slur against Indians… terrible, just terrible. But to be honest, he seemed like a nice enough person. Maybe he was just clueless, or he really was irritated? OR maybe I had really bad breath and that reminded him of his Indian servants. Or maybe I am the one who’s racist? Is it REALLY wrong to think of Indian servants having bad breath?

Anyway we swapped about two servant stories each (oh these rich kids these days; by the way, I am broke; Hence no toothpaste and hence bad breath) before we reached Raffles Place Interchange when I had to get off and rush to work.

And that my patiyas is how I made my first commute-friend. I met him again today which prompted me to recount all this but this time around he was less interesting by only commenting about how un-polished my shoes were. I wanted to say how badly crushed his shirt was but I don’t think we’ve established that kind of repartee yet.

I see a few select people every single day on my commute. There’s this one Sri Lankan lady who looks about 35-40 years old and I plan to talk to her one day and see what’s she all about. I need to develop the balls for that though. And pop a couple of mints before I leave.

alchemy

I’ve watched a bunch of really good films recently. It’s incredible how the crowd you go with to see a film can taint the experience.

Anyway, watched Walk the Line first. I liked it. Performances by Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon are definitely Oscar worthy. The music’s awesome too. B+

Brokeback Mountain, the star of this season’s line-up was the next movie we went to watch. This time around, the crowd was better, but not great. It’s alchemy I tell you, and if you’re remotely and persistently non-confrontational, it’s bound to blow up in your face. Oh well, nobody’s fault but one’s own. Oh, but why couldn’t people be nicer?

The movie was beautifully made; the cinematography was just out of this world. It was also languid but the story didn’t plod. Two gay cowboys…. Pretty graphic in some parts but definitely edited heavily by the Singapore censors. And the scenes revolving outside the spectacular views of Brokeback is always more interesting than the meetings themselves. What we see them become feeds into how tumultuous, fluid and fleeting those meetings actually are. And the ending……shit.... knocked it out of the park in terms of the heart-wrenching index. Heath Ledger gives an impeccable performance along with Jake Gyllenhaal who didn’t give as good a performance as his loveeerrrrrr but was also top-notch! Definitely an A grade.

If History of Violence was in the awards race, it would give Brokeback Mountain a good fight, but since it’s not-which is but a travesty- I think Brokeback Mountain should take Best Picture and Direction at the Oscars.

I also watched Constant Gardener. It’s supposed to be a very sad, sad, film but coming on the heels of Brokeback, this was a walk in the park for me. I still really loved the movie though. I though Ralph Fiennes was fucking good (and if he got overlooked by the Oscars, think how good the nominated performances are!!) and his wife in the movie, Rachel Weisz was pretty darn good as well. They showed her pregnant and wiping her bum after a shower by the way. The direction is typical of the director who also worked on City of Joy but the way he has filmed Africa and contrasted it so deeply and so subtly with Britain (or was it the US) is just impressive and admirable. For some reason the way this movie was made reminded me of Closer. I don’t know why. A- for sure.

And this time, we got it right.

breeding ground

I have decided that since I spend a significant amount of time on the MRT and that a lot of that time is spent observing (don't let the ear phones and the manic yawning fool you)the fantastic human condition (!!), a regular feature of this blog will be something about my commute. Perhaps it will be something funny, something sad or just random shit. Pretty much like all the previous entries but atleast this gives me some purpose and kinda forces me to do what I really enjoy....write.

Anyhow, small insight into commuting...The smells. Because of the morning rush hour, and the city-person's obsessive need to get to the office early even though they've left really late, we are all packed into the bloody train in a state where even the deadest sardine will be smirking. Ok that was lame. Therefore you are stuck to other people and your ipod becomes the only true thing in your life. The sun's performing foreplay for the hardcore action we are gonna get around noon and here I am standing amidst the Chinese, Malays, Indians and Others catching a wafts of Chinese, Malay, Indian and Others breath. Morning breath. Ew. Got Colgate? Coming back is better because you have lesser amounts of people (and therefore no need to keep thinking about whether that brush on the ass was intended or by accident), BUT, the body odour is just terrible. I'm pretty sure I smell too. Anyway, who would've thought that the one thing that would preoccupy me on my commute would be smells? Silly stuff.

That's just a general insight. Profound don't you think? Here's what happened today.

I have just gotten into the carriage at Raffles Place and I slump against one of the poles looking absolutely devastated (because you know, to look overworked and extremely intelligent) when I see two cute baby girls playing with each other on the seats. They're around three years old and they are having a gala time pushing each other. Knowing that my friend would love to hear this story (and that she would love to push one out of her vagina one day)I take out my phone so I could call her....But, shock, horror, faint!!!!! The babies start kissing. Full on mouth to mouth action. Mouths are open, no sign of tongue but totally kissing, trying to swallow each other whole (which is probably some baby-game, who the fuck knows?)My eyes pop out and I wonder why no one else is freaking out about this, especially the mother. Lezzy babies. Nature vs. Nurture my ass. If you have a close baby friend of the same sex, you're just gonna be gay ok!!!

Sufficiently recovered from she-baby-love... I get out at my stop at Bukit Batok and boarded a bus at the terminal. I am sitting there quietly, longing to get home to my wonderful bed when I see this guy running toward the bus. Since he was a brown person I tool special notice (we browns must stick with each other). Well this guy was quite short and he had oily hair, thick black frames for his spectacles and white as a sheet. Quite typically a decent Indian boy as our parents would say. Oops but wait... I missed out one important thing. He was hurrying towards the bus with his umbrella open. Not funny yet? Well, the umbrella was huge (it could have protected about 4 of his under there) and the colour was a combination of red, white and green. It had a funny, little black wheel printed everywhere on it. Yes, dear friends, it was an Indian flag. Wonder how he will react if a crow shits on it?

penance

I am in awe of life even if faintly frustrated by it. I am not essentially a deep person, preferring instead to enjoying whatever comes my way and over-analyzing everything around me. Who can I blame for my over-analysis sickness? Technically I can't blame anyone because we are whoever we are but since everything is derivative of something.... there have to have been influences in my life that made me like this. Perhaps it was an education that grades everyone on a curve and rewards those who come up with something new in something old and tested which is why it's such a pleasure for me to look into every nuance of word, facial expression and gesture just to come up with a way of explaining the outcomes of conversations, actions and events. Or perhaps it was having a sister so intent on critical commentary about everything. Or maybe perhaps it's living in a generation where we can be irreverent about anything we want.

Who the fuck knows?

Anyway, like I said, I am not a deep person but these days I find myself thinking about... well.. life. I think it's to do with the amount of time I spend each day alone. The waking up, eating breakfast, coming home after work is such a deeply lonely time that I can barely function. I try to do what comes naturally to me.... which is to completely deny me the privilege of indulging in these feelings but it strikes out at you, like penance you never asked for, when it becomes a habit and nothing changes. I like the fact that when I worked in SL, I used to come back home to a loving family, servants and alone time if ever I wished it. I feel a great comfort (pretty much like the warm sheets I was talking about previously) when I'm alone and people are still around me; in the next room, watching tv or whatever. But feeling alone is so different from being alone. I hate the fact that I have time in my life to think about how wonderful the human body is because it's stocked up with the most amazing organs that can do brilliant stuff(s). I hate the fact that I have the time to float on my back in the swimming pool and examine the stars. I hate it when I get so depressed after watching Brokeback Mountain. I hate it that when the weekend comes, I miss work but still feel god-awful when I wake up on a Monday. I can do without this.

I am so fucking homesick.

work

It's been a week since work started. A measely week. Being the spoilt over-grown kid I am, I wish I could sit at home and order in and count my masses of money. It's like wanting to become thin without exercise. At least with the goal of becoming thin, several alternatives would be available to you: starving yourself, gorging yourself and going pukey-puke later, hoping for a terminal disease, hanging out with typhoid patients.... but with the goal of being rich.... you have no choice but to work. You could rob a bank, marry someone rich or dabble in something exotic like prostitution but I think those choices would be frowned upon by society. Remember to keep in mind that this blog is a testament to my inability to articulate and in this post, the incoherency is particularly manifest.

I like work, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I just wish I had a bed in the office where I could just go for a short nap. I imagine my colleagues being these wonderful sleep-people who can induce sleep with a flick of their wands and me floating in my formal clothes, shedding them one by one until I am in bed in my boxers with the freezing air all around me, struggling to get into my wonderfully warm sheets. Ah well... I must get to work now.