My Blog

I’m not an exhibitionist.

I’m just talking about the Volvo C70. What a sweet machine.

With the top up, it’s a sleek coupe. At the click of a button, the top retracts into the boot in one smooth, graceful motion. Topless, it becomes a four-seater convertible. A perfect compromise for any man wanting to deal with his mid-life crisis by buying a sporty little number and his missus who insists on a more practical car with backseats that can accommodate Junior and the pet Pomeranian.

Although, personally, I think that if you have a Pomeranian, you shouldn’t be bringing it into the Volvo with you. In fact, you shouldn’t even be bringing it out at all. It’s a persistent, yappy, annoying little monster. This is the conclusion I reached after taking care of my friend’s Pommie for a weekend. You know what a five-pound Pommie looks like when it’s soaking wet? A two-pound rat.

But well, there are a lot of people who think a Pommie is a cute, adorable furball. Which just goes to show that taste is relative.

And the same can be said of the Pagani Zonda which was showcased at this year’s KL International Motor Show (KLIMS).

I was psyched to finally be able to see it in the flesh (or should I say, carbon fiber) as this sexy beast was on my supercar wish list a few years ago, although many of my friends think it looks plain weird. Especially with the awkwardly positioned side mirrors that my friend compared to Shrek’s ears.

So okay, the Pagani Zonda does lack the more robust, muscular lines of the Enzo and the supersleek stylin’ of the SLR McLaren. But I still think it’s an awesome car.

Almost as awesome as Seabiscuit, my resilient steed. He’s a compact car that thinks he’s a tank. Or maybe I just drive him that way. He’s managed to survive numerous scrapes, fender benders and one particularly nasty encounter with a streetlight, after which he had to undergo massive reconstruction surgery for almost a month.

And even though I love Seabiscuit, someday I will trade him in for a better car. And then trade in that car for a better car…that cycle repeats until I can, hopefully, afford a car like the C70. If I ever drive a car like that, I’d put the top down even though it means I’d be practically choking in the smog of the city while being turned into a puddle of sweat by the blazing heat.

I may not be an exhibitionist but hey, I’m a shameless show-off.

I don’t have many close girlfriends. There isn’t really someone I can call up to tell my boyfriend problems to or just to discuss girly things like how it’s great now that they have panty liners specially made for thongs. (If you’re a guy, you’ll never understand.)

Instead, I have guy friends I tell my boy problems to and with whom I discuss guy things like why, despite being in seemingly blissful relationships, they visit those shady "health spas". (If you’re a girl, you’ll never understand.)

Of course, it isn’t really by choice. It just turned out this way after some of my close girlfriends got into serious relationships and started spending their weekends cleaning house, shopping for sofas at Ikea with their boyfriends and doing all those other couply stuff that couples do.

Guys, on the other hand, always make time for their friends. That’s what I like about them. They will leave their girlfriends at home just to come out to watch football with the guys in virtual silence except for the occasional cheer and jeer. I’m not saying it’s good to leave one’s girlfriend at home, I’m saying it’s great that guys take the effort to maintain their friendships.

And so, this leads to my top 8 reasons why guys make better friends than girls (well, sometimes):

1. Guys make time for their friends. I’m repeating myself but you get the point. And the best part is, when you make an impromptu call to a guy friend for a coffee, he doesn’t say, "Gee, that sounds great but I can only be there in 3 hours because I have to wash my hair, shave my legs and pick an outfit."

2. Guys give good advice when you have problems. "Shut up and have a beer."

3. Guys are good dinner companions. They’re not calorie-counting, yo-yo dieting, Dr. Atkins-reading salad-pickers. Plus, I love this delusion they have that it’s gentlemanly for them to pick up the tab for a girl even if he’s not dating her. Did I say delusion? I meant virtue. Keep it up, guys! Haha.

4. Guys teach you a lot about their species. I found out that a guy I know, who is every girl’s idea of a perfect boyfriend and practically dotes on his girl, had one-night stands with strangers whenever he went out of town on business. He doesn’t feel that guilty about his infidelities because to him, having feelings for someone else is much worse than having sex with them. The worst thing is, he genuinely does love and adore his girlfriend. But whatever the case, his little confessional made me lose faith in all of mankind. Gee, thanks, dude.

5. Guys aren’t sensitive. Slights are quickly forgiven and fights fast forgotten. And you get to give them nicknames like Lardass, Big Nose and Buttface.

6. Guys have much wisdom to impart. One of my guy friends tried to teach me a number of wonderful party tricks to impress people with at my next social function, like how to create a really loud burp.

7. Guys give honest opinions. Girlfriends sometimes lie in order to avoid hurting your feelings - nevertheless, it’s still deception. Whereas you can always count on a guy to be forthright and honest…sometimes brutally so. Guys don’t mince their words. I once showed up to meet my friends with a huge zit sprouting on my forehead and I anxiously asked one of the guys, "Is it really noticeable?" And he said, "Are you kidding? You can see it from space with a Hubble telescope!" So much for reassurance.

8. I know how variable valve timing works now.

Poor Kaavya.

Had a splashing success of a debut novel, signed a lucrative two-book deal with her publisher and there were even talks that DreamWorks was acquiring the film rights to How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life.

Then her shelf life ended prematurely when she was sniffed out like a moldy Stilton. Books pulled off shelves, publishing deal cancelled and if there ever is a movie, it’ll be most likely based on her: how a bright young Harvard student managed to con the literary world.

Don’t feel so sorry for her though. At least she got herself featured in Time magazine. (Even if it was a story on her fall from grace.) Well, she’s not a bad-looking girl - maybe she has a future endorsing things like…baloney.

And if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then young adult novelist Megan McCafferty and chick lit darling Sophie Kinsella should both feel so flattered, seeing as how Kaavya all but carbon-copied large chunks of text from their books.

The 19-year-old’s defence is that she has a photographic memory and had "unintentionally" used phrases from her favourite books, believing the words to be her own.

Many have their doubts. Do I believe her?

Well, it is possible to be influenced by a writer’s style and technique, especially one whose works you admire and have read a number of times. And I think when you’re young, you’re still apprehensive of your own command of your chosen craft - be it writing, art, music or filmmaking. You’re still struggling to find your own identity and voice. And as a result, your ’style’ becomes merely an amalgam of components plucked from various sources of inspiration.

Of course, as an aspiring writer and an avid reader, I tried to emulate James Joyce’s prose or Dylan Thomas’ rhymes.

There will always be bands that do covers. There will always be artists who try to paint like Picasso. And there will always be writers who plagiarise. But there’s simply no joy in reproduction (unless it’s of the sexual kind).

Of course, I know I’ll never be as good as ol’ Ernest or Dylan, and I’m never going to win a Nobel Prize for Literature for writing like Toni Morrison. Then again, no one ever won it for writing like someone else. But in the end, at least I know the words I have are my own and will always be deeply personal even if they don’t resonate with everyone else.

I realized, after all, I have to find my own voice instead of borrowing someone else’s.

And I hope Kaavya finds hers too. As I do you.

Been dining out at fancy establishments a lot lately because of work-related events, the obligatory social functions and countless birthdays. (Why does everyone have to be born in the middle of the year??)

Of course, I ain’t complaining. (And this is where the complaining starts.)

I have to say though that a lot of swanky restaurants in town are grossly overhyped and overrated. First of all, I don’t like it when they take three sentences just to describe what’s a relatively simple dish. I remember the time when I ordered this heavenly-sounding entree that turned out looking like a dressed-up Filet-O-Fish. It was disappointing. I wanted to hurl a dinner roll at the maitre ‘d who recommended it.

In a lot of fancy joints in Australia, the menu descriptions are so highly embellished that they’re almost comedic. They even tell you what you’re about to eat used to eat back when it was still alive. An actual example: "Organic grain fed chicken from Barossa Valley poached in…"

Are we really that concerned about what’s on our plates? Why not go further than that then? Start introducing living conditions and slaughtering methods into the menu as well just to appease those with animal welfare concerns. So it’ll be more like this: "Organic grain fed chicken that was free to roam around Barossa Valley and was killed in the most humane way possible in a certified slaughterhouse, poached in…"

And then pretty soon, going through a menu will be like starting a novel. "Once upon a time, there was a chicken from Barossa Valley…"

But that’s just sheer exaggeration.

And then your food comes.

It’s a very small (I believe they call it "delicate") portion on a very large plate. Sometimes you have to look for a while before you actually find your food. They might bury it under a pile of beautifully arranged garnishings and sprigs of parsley. Sometimes when you actually find the meat, it’s slightly bigger than a postage stamp.

And then the bill comes. Then you wonder why you are paying so much to feel so hungry.

But I do understand that when people go out to eat, they’re not just paying to enjoy the food. They’re paying for the ambience and the snooty waiters.

The snooty waiters part is not all that true though. I have to say that in a lot of posh joints, the service is mostly top-notch. I like to drop my napkin on purpose sometimes just to see an immaculately dressed waiter rush over to pick it up for me. Haha, just kidding, I’m not that evil. Well, maybe I am.

In the end, I guess I’m just a simple girl with relatively simple tastes. In dining, that is. Sure, I love the truffle butter in Cilantro and the pan-seared scallops at Pacifica. But slap some roti canai on the griddle and I’m a happy camper as well.

And besides, why am I whining instead of appreciating the merits of five-star dining? Maybe I should just be punished by being forced to stay at home to eat baked beans.

Sorry, I mean Organic Haricot Legumes Baked in a Condensed Tomato Sauce.

I think it’s hilarious when people drop names just to impress others. They very casually, very subtly slip it into conversations and attempt to act all nonchalant about it. To give the impression that they and (insert celebrity name) are, in fact, the best of pals.

You can be having a conversation about something as inane as, say, fishing.

Then, all of a sudden, name-dropper will say something like, "Oh yeah, I like fishing. In fact, you know Jessica Alba* likes fishing too? Yeah, she told me. During one of our chats, she told me she goes fishing in Kuala Kubu Baru sometimes. She once caught a fish this big and then let it go."

At that point, you don’t know how to continue the conversation. What should I say? Should I respond with:

a) "Wow, golly gee whiz, you know Jessica Alba*??"

b) "Where’s Kuala Kubu Baru?"

c) "Well, what a fishy tale. Fishy tale, tail…hahha, geddit?? God, I’m lame…hahhaha…um, sorry."

Well, my response was b. Because I really don’t know where the hell Kuala Kubu Baru is but it sounds like there’s definitely a lake there.

Name-dropper then looked kinda crestfallen I hadn’t been at all impressed with his fishy anecdote.

What he didn’t know was that I knew Jessica Alba* wasn’t really his friend or acquaintance, or even the person in the elevator you give a half-nod to because he/she looks kinda familiar and whom you could have been introduced to during a drunken office party where you ended up dancing on the table with a lampshade on your head. Uh, sorry for detracting.

The truth, which the name-dropper’s friend had earlier related to me, was this: Name-dropper was an extra in a TV commercial shoot that Jessica Alba* had the starring role in. The commercial involved fishing or fish, or something like that. And despite being in the same ad, he barely even got within 10 meters of her.

Thus, his quest to impress me by associating himself with Jessica Alba* floundered feebly to a premature death.

And the moral of the story is…don’t mislead people because you never know what they know about you. Secondly, you’re not cool by association. And third of all, no, the celebrity in question is not really Jessica Alba. Go slap yourself in the face with a trout if you really thought so.

*Name has been changed to protect celebrity’s privacy.