My Singapore Soundtrack

City slickers walk more than their suburban counterparts. Sure there are trains and busses and taxis galore, but the to and fro is largely Nikey-based and often it’s simply easier to forego mechanized transport all together and just hoof it around town.

I occasionally take these opportunities to soak up the sounds of the city, but more often than not, I’m disconnected, bouncing about to the various rhythmic wonders my IPod offers. It’s interesting to view the world as if it was set to music, and sometimes your choice of song determines what you see and how you see it.

Friends know that (Billy Joel obsession aside) my musical tastes are as scattered as a Tourette-afflicted Schizophrenic’s poetry readings. I’ll smash the heavy bag in time with DMX’s rants, croon along with Harry Connick while stirring spaghetti sauce, and then clean the garage while Linkin Park belts out some auditory motivation. Rock, rap, and R&B. Country, classical and cool jazz. You’ll find them all on my play list, awkwardly slam dancing about in ways that would make any radio DJ cringe. Ah the shuffle-feature, how it laughs in the face of format.

But that’s inside. My organized existence can handle the dissonance. Outside, our chaotic world screams for more consideration, a specialized, thoughtful, committed selection. And so my walks are deliberate, my accompaniment thematic. One artist, one work – that’s the rule.

Of course in this era of digital singles the art of the album is sliding quickly into obscurity. (Yes I’m album old, though not quite 8-track antiquated.) Regardless, my incessant ambling affords an ideal opportunity to breathe life into what may be destined for obliteration.

And so, as I walk I drink in the places, the faces, and all the spaces in between the where I was and the where I’m going. Today Sara Bareilles was my guide. They day before it was Alanis. It’s been a week of thoughtful, quirky women, the kind I hope to meet someday if only I’d unplug and actually risk a conversation.

Funny how I listen so fully when they are not around…not really real. I remember details, not just of what they said, but where I was and what I was doing when they said it – a feat I could never muster in the context of an actual relationship.

Just yesterday I was waiting for the #14 bus in front of Lucky Plaza, newly purchased yoga block in hand when I heard that an old man turned 98, won the lottery and promptly died the next day. For some reason the song got stuck in the moment and now I’ll forever equate that line with that location. I’ll be in New York next June, hear it, and instantly I’ll be in Orchard.

Sad really that I can’t recall even the most important events without such musical cues. The last words of my last lover…. gone. I recall only the click of the door and the silence that followed.

Isn’t it Ironic. Don’t you think? Maybe we needed a soundtrack. Maybe we needed a song.

A Girl Named Citi

Have you ever been set-up by a well-meaning friend? Of course it’s not your typical thing. No need, right? You do fine on your own. A guy like you…how could you not? Still, in my case, the friend was persistent. “It’ll be the perfect relationship,” he assured. “Easy set-up. No strings. Just what you’re looking for till you head back home.”

Again, I’m a pretty self-sufficient guy with a healthy ego, but after some badgering and few lone wolf stumbles, I reluctantly agreed. After all I was new in town, lacked a defined network, and well, desperately needed the promised services.

The first meeting went well, actually happened in the coffee shop downstairs from my office. I was surprised at such accommodation and thought if this were a sign of things to follow, maybe the rumors were true and I’d be a happy boy in Asia.

Sadly, what started as an all about me thing quickly reversed directions. In a matter of days a series of rules, procedures and dare I say demands were proposed, transforming this once attractive prospect to something as appealing as a hump-backed, plus-size rodeo clown decked out in a spandex skirt and hooker heels.

And that was just the beginning. Soon more ugliness was unveiled. Something analogous to: “Yeah, I got three kids, but they live with their baby’s daddy on account of I was in the joint till last summer and still need to call into my PO till I officially kick the crank. It’s all right though. Just another 60k to the bookies and I’m clear. I can probably work that off… if you know what I mean. Might catch the clap again, but that’s a fixer. Boy you’re quiet. Maybe I won’t need that ball gag after all.”

Yeah, it wasn’t pretty. Her name was Citibank. And after months of being manipulated, bamboozled, and flat-out cyber-stalked I just had to break free. Sure, by this time I was in deep. I had three accounts, four credit cards, and about 17 non-working PINs, the sum of which failed to allow me to book a ticket on Tiger Airlines or use a local ATM without being battered about by a series of international “convenience” fees.

Maybe I wanted too much. Maybe I refused to see the flaws, read the fine print. It’s all a blur really, like someone slipped me a financial roofie. One minute I’m sipping coffee with an articulate sales rep, talking interest rates, seamless wire transfers, and free checking. The next, I’m hopelessly cursing at a Bangalore-based customer service agent whose phone script may as well have described the operational procedures for a 72’ Honda snow blower.

Still I’m not bitter. Citibank may be the devil, but I got out of my deal free and clear. My accounts are closed, my cards torched, and my cash, while crinkled, will someday find the strength to bank again.

I heard of this new girl recently – D.B.S. I call her Debs. Maybe she’s the one for me.

Let’s Get Physical

There are certain things you can’t undo – flick off a policeman, masturbate to Britney Spears, or ask “wow, how far along are you?” to a woman who seems pregnant, but isn’t.

The same is true for coming to the realization that you are hopelessly out of shape. Once you know, you really can’t un-know. Sure, you can deny it. I know plenty of people who have a P.O. Box in denial. But deep down, the truth of your blobiness is out there, staring mercilessly at your double chins.

Now, truth be told, I’m no porker. If anything, my time in Singapore has served me well – more walking, better food, high priced beer. That said, I’m not the man I was when I was awesome – er– est.

My moment of clarity came when I tried to hang with my 19 year-old stepbrother during a recent trip to Mexico. We went drink for drink, punch for punch, and allegedly even attempted to woo the same cocktail waitress. The bad news is I lost the wooing contest. The good news… she may have been a chubby 59 year-old man named Paco. The next day I wished the happy couple well and apologized profusely to my liver, back, and self-esteem. They, as yet, have not accepted.

Some people claim to have a religious experience during these life-altering moments. Mine came in the form a hell-battling vision who looked remarkably like a holy version of Madonna’s ex-boyfriend. Yes, Sean Penn Jesus saved me from an impossibly real death dream and “healed” some massive chest pains, which in retrospect was probably more heartburn than the massive coronary embolism I imagined. Note to self - an extra spicy burrito at 2 a.m. is always a bad decision.

Still, I’m not one to balk at a deity’s dedication. And so, since a rather large birthday is looming and I swore that night to clean myself up, I’ve recently embarked on an SPJ inspired quest to look and feel 10 years younger by the time I hit that magic milestone.

I share this with you TLC fans mostly out of timing. If things go right, I’ll hit my goal about the day I board a plane back to the States. Also, like my body, I expect future entries to be leaner, more powerful, and ready to dazzle with a nimble, sarcastic style. And won’t that be nifty?

So here’ to the SPJ lifestyle – and yes I’m toasting with my water bottle – oh joy!