Branded

Friends and family will smirk when they learn that I’m staying just meters away from one of the world’s most premier shopping destinations. Orchard Road, or so the tell me, is a virtual Mecca for the fashion focused, with an endless array of brand name apparel and accessories just aching to earn a place of honor in your wardrobe.

The thing is, I couldn’t care less. You see, I’m not a shopper. If I’m buying a shirt it’s likely because I just found a hole in the one I’m currently sporting and have run out of duct tape. Okay, so maybe it’s not that dramatic, but I never understood society’s collective fascination with the full-contact shopping, especially when it comes to acquiring name brands.

Recently a colleague was bragging about a designer computer bag she purchased…albeit for several thousand dollars. Apparently it was quite the bargain. Me, I bought a similar item from Gateway about ten years back that came stuffed with a computer for about a tenth the price. And while I shit-canned the laptop ages ago, the bag has dutifully traveled the world with me, proving sounder than the company its barely noticeable logo endorses.

I mentioned this to her, sarcastically noting the purchase price. She countered with, “yes, but mine is designer leather of premium quality.” First, who talks like that? And second, maybe I’m missing something, but I’ve been to farms and haven’t seen a single designer cow. Who knows, maybe they were at the mall.

Anyway, I realize I’m in the minority and it’s doubtful that I’ll convert the masses. So if you get to Singapore, by all means, stalk the streets in your Jimmy Choos, searching for the next big bargain. There’s no shortage of deals to be found.

I’ll be watching, just chilling at the corner café, sipping a plain black coffee and bouncing my Converse to the soothing sounds of the Piano Man. You see the thing is, your feet hit the street no matter what’s on them and not every boulevard is paved in Versace silk.

White Noise

Words have always been important to me. Granted, I can’t spell most of them and grammar was never my favorite sport. Still, I have an unending affinity for stringing them together, albeit haphazardly, in hopes that they somehow stir the emotions of those who stubble upon them.

I’m uncertain as to the catalyst for this desire. I’m sure there’s an English teacher or two who deserve some of the credit…or the blame, and like other romantically inclined, yet challenged individuals, I attribute a portion to good love gone bad.

Despite the reason however, the curse continues, encouraging my sophomoric musings, much to my reader’s delight or disdain….depending on their level of intoxication. Yes, I’m the auditory answer to beer goggles. I sound better when you’re drunk. So grab a beer, assign a designated reader, and knock yourself out.

Anyway, we were speaking of words. Living in Singapore, I’m often surrounded by ones that mean to me what snowshoeing does to a tree frog. The sounds stalk me through the market, to gym, to the bar most of all, poking fun at my ineptitude, my local illiteracy. “A writer? Ha! Not in my country, bucko. Not by a long shot.”

The taunts began as a tirade of unidentifiable grunts, ruthlessly ricocheting off my brain. I wanted to respond. It’s my nature to join the conversation, to contribute, to solve whatever problem is being discussed. After all, I’m a fixer. That’s my profession. The only thing I’ve ever really been good at. I see the complex for the simple it is and ruthlessly redesign. I’m serious. Back in April there was an issue with closet and an over abundance of sport coats. No more. Ruthless I say, ruthless.

Wait, there I go, off topic again. See, that’s the trouble. When you can’t join conversations, you make them up. Have to keep that English fresh you know. Witty banter is like any other muscle. Don’t want to wilt away into a doughy mass of knock-knock jokes.

Still, the time off is welcome. It’s like I’ve been paroled from charm school. I can walk through the crowd, expected only to offer the occasional smile or nod. No conversation required. I’m social wallpaper whenever I wish…and sometimes when I don’t.

And so I’ve let myself off the hook. The sounds no longer stalk, they sooth. As white noise they comfort, protect and even nurture my creative process, giving me license to daydream. It’s been a while since I’ve allowed myself the luxury of a lost moment. And moments, for all of us it appears, are becoming fewer.

I’m heading out now, to the noisy quiet that’s become my reality. It won’t be a long walk, just a block or two, a quick word with the stranger I’m getting to know a bit better each day.

Shake Shake

One of the things that truly impresses me about Singapore is its cultural diversity and tolerance. The other day I caught sight of two women chatting. One was dressed like an early seventies go-go dancer and the other like a sandal-sporting Darth Vadar. The funny thing is that neither seemed to mind.

While countries are waging war and chicken-shit terrorists blast the innocent, these two were providing a perfect proof-of-concept for Rodney King’s much haggard imploration. When left to the individual, yes, we can all get along just fine.

As I reflected on the recent attacks in this part of the world, the image of the two women encouraged me beyond measure. Perhaps there is hope for humanity. Of course, being the sarcastic bastard I am, an image of Harry Belafonte somehow sprung to mind. He or perhaps he wine I was drinking led me to rewrite his famous 1956 hit, Senora. Sorry Harry. Hope you enjoy the stupidity.

Shake, shake, shake Mohammad, shake your Party line.

Work, work, work Mohammad, it’s fighting all the time.

1^st Verse

My neighbor, he wears a turban. I tell you friends it’s disturbin’.

First he starts with the praying.

Next thing you know he’s thinkin’ of slaying.

Chorus

Allah makes the rhyme, rule the Christians in time.

Okay it’s a Jidhad.

Allah makes the rhyme, rule the Christians in time.

Okay it’s a Jidhad.

2^nd Verse

You can talk about my man Buddha, Jesus or even Yoda.

A fanatic’s god has no humor.

Do what he say, or he’ll give you a tumor.

Repeat Chorus

3^rd Verse

Terror takes no vacation, except to learn aviation.

And fellas you've got to watch it.

When crazies get pissed they’ll strap on a rocket.

Repeat Chorus

4^th Verse

We should be dancing calypso, cause hate my friends is a no-no.

Everyone’s caught in the high stress,

But I doubt God cares that much for an address.

We make the rhyme, learn from each other in time.

Okay it’s a party.

We make the rhyme, so love each other in time.

Okay it’s a party.

Towers Never Tumble

More than a few have asked me how it was spending the 4th abroad. The assumption was that I’d feel a bit like a jack-o-lantern on Christmas Eve. Truth be told, I didn’t think about it much, never really have.

To me the 4^th was always about fireworks and foot-long franks. Sure, you pledge allegiance in one-way or another, but more as an afterthought. For the most part, I was always focused on drinking beer, catching up with friends, and publicly shouting “oh and ah” for socially acceptable reasons.

This year however, I spent the holiday at an American Club BBQ held at the local naval base, a surreal setting to be sure. It was like taking a time machine to the 40s only with fewer machine guns and more self-serve ice cream. A welcome change no doubt.

The setting caused me to recall my Grandfather and the many lessons he taught. I pictured his face. Then I didn’t. Crying in public is something I’m still not comfortable with and I do miss the man terribly.

As you know, about a week later I found myself on line to see the Petronas Towers. They call them the twin towers, but you and I know there’s only one of those – gone but not forgotten.

I pictured the shocking scene that is now forever etched in our collective consciousness. Images flashed before me – images of terror and courage, misery and heroics. And so there I was, once again red-eyed in a see of smiling faces.

It’s embarrassing to admit how much that moment affected me. It wasn’t ground zero. It wasn’t even New York. But they called them the "Twin Towers" damn it and right or wrong, silly or not, that really pissed me off. Not for the name, but for the memory it evoked.

I thought that was behind me, but then I realized it never will be, it never should be. And I guess when you break it down, the 4^th isn’t a yesterday thing either. It’s very much a now thing and one we have to earn and reaffirm each day.

Buildings may fall, but people - our people stand….towering above what just yesterday we thought impossible. Those towers never tumble – never have, never will.

Keep Dreamin’

RC

Checking the Noose

No sooner did I launch this unfortunately titled literary catastrophe then did one of its faithful readers playfully note that it is actually an anagram for “Help(s) Tim, Check Noose”.

As I considered my witty retort, I couldn’t help wonder about the comment’s underlying intentions. Should one be moved to rush in and prevent my demise or rather ensure that it is carried out with proper precision in accordance with my apparent desires? Knowing the source, it’s safe to say she’d promote the rescue option. Good thing, as the gallows is one sight I’m not ready to see.

No, no cry for help here folks. Sure, we’ve all had our moments – our days, weeks, perhaps even a year or two when life seemed dipped in a vat of skunk-scented monkey manure, but clothes clean, smells fade and people, even your worst critics are suckers for the come-back story you’ve yet to write. And write it you will.

PSA - Aviator Sunglasses

The following is a public service announcement for the international Asian community. Aviator sunglasses are no longer cool. This is especially true if worn after dusk, while dancing the Roxbury shimmy to that “Wild and Crazy Guy” skit you have playing in your head.

Sunglasses at night were marginally acceptable for a total of 13.347 minutes back in November, 1983 when Corey Hart, that monumental, name-dropping, Canadian jackass released his aggravatingly catchy hit single of the same title.

But it’s time to stop the madness. I can tolerate the Fast and Furious hairdos, the miniature all-in-one electronics that make my blackberry look like a rotary smoke signal, and even the incessant assurances that “cheap cheap” and “best for you” pertain equally to my next apparel purchase. But please, the glasses have to go.

Sure Tom Cruise rode the trend all the way to 1986, but it was a movie for God sakes and he had a jet. So please, resist the temptation to merge onto the danger-zone highway. If left unchecked you may end up joining a cult and bouncing on couches…definitely not cool with sunglasses.

Meow Meow

Things are different here. Some little things, like driving on the other side of the street, other side of the car. Some big things, like a zero tolerance, automatic execution policy for drug offenses and of course the occasional public canning for chewing gum. And other things are just friggin’ weird.

I was listening to the local top 40-like station the other day and “the Meow” song came on. What is the Meow song you ask? Well quite simply, it’s a bunch of cats meowing, surprisingly on-key to an early 80s techno beat. As they worked into the bridge (yes, I listened that long) a chorus of humans joined in, harmonized, and then worked a couple of riffs before the big feline finale.

Not sure what to say about that. I never thought a song could leave me speechless, confused and yearning for an acoustic upgrade – perhaps a bit of death metal bagpipes with accordion accompaniment. Anyway, I thought about calling a shrink or diving head first into a bottle of red. Instead, I slipped in my ear buds and let the Piano Man usher me into a State of Grace. You may not get a prescription with that option, but the vino selection triples and is based on whatever kind of mood I’m in tonight.

I’m not quite sure what that is just yet, but I’m certain that if the grapes don’t sooth the soul, the music will. Thanks Bill.