There’s only so much you can learn in one place
The more that I wait, the more time that I waste
I haven’t got much time to waste, it’s time to make my way
I’m not afraid of what I’ll face, I’m afraid to stay
I’m going down my own road and I can make it alone
I’ll work and I’ll fight til I find a place of my own
Are you ready to jump?
- "Jump", Madonna
Met up with my friend for dinner some time ago and over tapas, she complains about her colleague who claims to be ignorant of her mother tongue and the Rukunegara because she considers herself “American”. Despite spending only a measly two years there for university.
“Tell her Americans are cocksuckers,” I say, making her burst into a fit of giggles.
I don’t know what’s the deal with people going abroad to study for a year or two, then coming back with an accent and this smug perception that mingling with white people have made them more cultured, worldly and better than the general population. I think it’s because Malaysians tend to have this national inferiority complex. My high school history teacher once said that countries that have a history of colonialisation tend to suffer from this complex. Everyone seems to think there’s nothing about our country to be truly proud of, other than two really tall towers.
Sure, Malaysia’s full of pollution, corruption, appalling urban planning and many of the persistent problems plaguing any developing nation…Wait, what was my point again? Just kidding. Frankly, it’s really not a half bad place to live.
I grew up in the US, moving around a fair bit before my decidedly bohemian parents decided to settle down in a quiet, leafy suburb outside Washington DC. After spending my primary years there, we came back to Malaysia where I was enrolled into a British international school. And even then, my parents would send me overseas during the school holidays. Sydney was somewhat my second home. Being shuffled around like a hockey puck as I was, it’s no wonder I’m in the cultural limbo that I am now. (And yes, that also explains my quasi-American accent mangled with the occasional British pronunciation, with a modest smattering of lah’s and lor’s thrown in. So yeah, I know I talk funny, thankyouverymuch.)
After high school, my parents made me apply to a bunch of universities in the UK and Australia but as the acceptance letters started pouring in, I decided I wanted to get a taste of local education (go ahead and snigger). So I turned down a place in University of Manchester to study International Relations and a place in University of New South Wales to study commerce for a law school situated in Petaling Street, nestled between two seedy rumah tumpangan.
Of course, the really challenging thing about moving from place to place is learning and absorbing all the quirks and idiosyncrasies of the local culture. You can go to the same state in a different country and feel like you just crossed into alien territory. An ignorance of these disparities is why senior management in MNCs, usually foreigners, are often mocked by us locals as “clueless mat salleh”. I am appalled when I meet expatriates who have been in Malaysia for a decade or more and never bothered to pick up the local language, customs or cuisine.
How can you be in a foreign place and not soak up the culture, immerse yourself in the surroundings and just saturate yourself in the atmosphere?
How can one possibly cocoon oneself in the safety of the familiar without venturing forth and discovering all the diverse possibilities that the world has to offer?
But after having a rather nomadic childhood, it’s nice to finally be firmly rooted to a place I can call home. It’s nice to finally belong. I probably might not be here for the rest of my life. Like my parents before me who roamed the world in search of home? fortune? happiness? the meaning of life? who knows?, I might venture to other places in the future. But for now, this is the place I call home.
Malaysia negaraku indeed.
November was the longest month of the year. Now that all my major events are over and done with, I have more time to…erm, prepare for next year’s events. Sheesh, work is a never-ending carousel.
Sometime last month, I was so mentally exhausted from work that I left the office early for the cinema and saw The Prestige by myself.
If you haven’t seen it, go get the DVD. It’s about two rival magicians engaged in a game of one-upmanship and hell-bent on ruining each other’s career. It’s not a great film but it’s a great mindf*ck. Chris Nolan likes to mess with your head.
Well, anyway, I don’t know whether this is a weird coincidence or what but the next day, I meet a magician at my client’s office.
Turns out my client’s event management company recommended this guy to create some sort of fantastic illusion for the launch gambit. That would cost a cool RM300,000.
So for that amount, you expect this guy to do more than just pull bunnies out of a hat.
He starts off by explaining that a large part of the cost involved goes into the construction of props, etc. He says he can’t reveal too much, understandably, as they’re "tricks of the trade".
But of course, we all want to know what it is about this illusion that will awe the audience.
And then he goes: "Well, first the audience doesn’t see the product and then…they do! It just magically appears onstage."
The client doesn’t look too impressed but she nevertheless asks, "How is it done?"
Magician says rather enthusiastically, "A projection screen drops down and we play a video. While that is going on, someone comes onstage to place the product on the podium. So when the video is over, the screen goes back up and the audience suddenly sees the product onstage!!"
The client blinks at him for a while before asking the obvious. "Uh, what exactly is the illusion here?"
"The illusion is…now you see it, now you don’t!!" Magic Man explains excitedly. He tries to elaborate further, but it’s clear no one’s buying it.
In the end, we found out Magic Man was a fraud. Well, not completely. Turned out that he was only a stagehand for the real deal and that’s why he didn’t sell the trick very well. It’s actually a lot more complicated than how he made it out to be. And the actual illusionist himself can do all sorts of cool stuff, like make the product appear in different sizes and colours.
But I’m still not sure why anyone would pay a few hundred grand for that kind of thing. Unless, you know, they made one of the Twin Towers disappear and replaced it with your client’s product scale size. Then that might just be worth the money.
This particular illusionist has quite an impressive clientele though…maybe it’s a magician’s natural powers of deception and distraction. Or maybe even big corporations can be suckers too.
Don’t know whether that’s magic or tragic.
But anyway, what’s more unbelievable is the fact that I have managed to survive November, with an average of 3 events per week.
It’s a miracle I’ve kept my mind and sanity intact throughout the month. You know what’s the biggest illusion of all? That my job is all effortless glamour.
Well, it’s not. It’s a lot of hard work and perspiration that goes unappreciated. We PR practitioners are the deodorant in the (client’s) armpit of success. And that’s the truth behind the illusion.
Hocus fucking pocus.
Some people relish seeing their name in print, even if it is on a sad blog only read by a few hundred people with too much time on their hands.
So Zuki, Aby, here ya go. I’m naming and shaming you. 
I know your request was made while you were inebriated (a nicer way of saying freaking sloshed, haha). But consider it my belated birthday present to you, Aby, since the stripper in cake I promised was never delivered. Zuki refused to get in the cake, dammit.
We celebrated Aby’s birthday last Friday at Loft, Asian Heritage Row. The joint was jumping, the boys were hustling and the drinks were flowing (6 bottles, to be precise). Think the boys were also happy that scantily clad chicks kept grinding and gyrating near our table. All they were missing was a pole (well, there was a pillar…) Gotta love them skanky hos.
But before that was a relatively quiet (and sober) dinner at Mezza Notte, the Italian restaurant downstairs. Over pizza, we talk about our jobs, marriage, the legal system, Dave Chappelle, and everything in between…of course, all intelligent discourse went out the window once the bottles were popped. But as Elvis put it, a little less conversation, a little more action please.
So Aby, here’s to a great shindig and many more to come. 
The boys, minus Zuki.
Over antipasto and salmon angelhair at Miss Read’s Delicious, my girlfriend and I agree we’re both bored with our hair and discuss the merits of getting a drastic new hairstyle.
"You’d look good with an Afro," I say.
"You’d look good with purple streaks," she says, studying my face with a squint.
"Great, purple hair," I snort. "I’ll need a new face to go along with my new hair."
"New face??" she cackles.
"Well, yeah, I supposedly look sweet and innocent." I cringe. "So I’ll probably need to get a few facial piercings. You know, to go with the hair."
"But then your face won’t suit you," she wisely points out.
"Hmm. Then I might have to get a new wardrobe. And I don’t think purple hair and nose studs will really go down well with potential new clients."
"Aha, then you can get a new job!"
I chew thoughtfully on a piece of melba toast. "Hmm…that seems too much work just for a new hairstyle, doncha think?"
"It’s all about change, baby."
"Yeah, one change to spark off an entire chain reaction," I say.
And then it hits me. Why of course.
Leave it to women to convince themselves that a new hairstyle can be a new lease on life.
But then again, I’m not really vain about my hair at all. That’s one of the reasons why I’ve kept long hair for so long - because I hardly need to maintain it. People think short hair would be lower-maintenance but I say it’s a fallacy. You gotta go to the salon for regular trims and if you’re having a bad hair day, you can’t just throw it up in a ponytail (which is my way of cheating).
I’ll never have the waist-length, poker-straight, super-shiny hair that most Chinese girls seem to have these days. Why is that every time a guy sees a girl with this kind of hair from the back, he’ll go, "She’s chun!"
Frankly, hair like that’s got no personality. Or maybe I’m just jealous. Hmm…
Well, honestly, I’ve always secretly wanted to shave my head. Of course, I’d get a lot of stares in public and people will probably start assuming I’m a cancer patient. But I think it can be such an empowering thing, to be liberated from the last vestiges of vanity and the shackles of convention.
It’s true I buy way too many clothes, shoes, bags and jewellery. But that’s because I’m shallow and I like pretty things, and goddamnit, retail therapy feels GOOD!! But while I like dressing up, I’m no ardent supporter of the beauty industry. I wash my face with a RM15 cleanser or if I’m out of it, with regular Dettol soap. Never had a manicure or pedicure in my life (really!). Go out with no makeup on weekends (you have uneven skin tone and flushed cheeks, a makeup counter lady disapprovingly told me once). Will only diet if I’m marooned on a desert island with no food.
I mean, not to say I’m super-confident about my looks - sometimes I’ll look at hot chicks in, say, Zouk and I’ll feel a little (or a lot) ugly. I realize I could be better-looking if I had a 7-step skincare, went for regular hair treatments and got my lazy ass on the treadmill. But I believe beauty doesn’t come in a jar and anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to scam you. And I don’t care about being the best-looking girl in the room or in Zouk because life ain’t a beauty pageant.
And no, I’m not gonna start telling you that personality is more important bla bla bla. Because we know looks count. It’s survival of the prettiest in the social jungle. But once you start running that race, you’ll never see the finish line. Now that I have a sunkissed tan, I need a bikini body. Now that I have a bikini body, I need a pair of fake boobs. Before you know it, you’re Posh Spice.
You’re not your dress size.
You’re not the lipgloss you wear.
You’re not your hair.
Or at least I sure as hell hope I’m not. Or I’ll have to seriously start rethinking my hairstyle.
So I end up in the latest gay joint in town on Halloween night. It’s called La Queen (can it possibly have a campier name?).
When we get there at 11pm, it’s not exactly full house yet but I can already see that 95% of the patrons are male. I’m surrounded by good-looking men. Too bad they’re all queer.
No one has bothered dressing up for Halloween except for the club’s staff, although I do see a guy with a pair of angel wings strapped to the back of his super-tight white tank.
The decor is minimal, except for some feather boas (camp) and umbrellas (huh?) that are hanging from the ceiling. The bar is hardly ever crowded, like in other clubs, because you can always depend on gay men to do more dancing than drinking. It’s no wonder the drinks are horribly watered down. Even the white wine my friend ordered tasted like water, that is it to say it had no taste.
And I love this - there’s a little corner selling t-shirts, tanks and shorts near the entrance. Shopping and clubbing, how clever. They have t-shirts with cute or suggestive phrases like: Plow Boy, F*ck Buddy and Tight End (cue raised eyebrows). There was a really cute one that said Lifeguard. "Imagine the pick up lines you’ll get," I say to my friend. "Excuse me, do you administer mouth to mouth?"
"They come in S, M and L," the sales assistant tells us.
More like S, XS and F*cking Small, I think to myself as I look at a t-shirt I would have trouble getting into.
So after browsing through the racks, we make our way to the dancefloor.
Spinning on deck is hard house with a liberal dose of dance remixes. Every time the DJ plays a Madonna song, everyone cheers and packs the dancefloor. I don’t think there are any other females, except for two decidedly lesbian-looking chicks, one of whom my friend says is "so checking you out". Everywhere I turn, there are men with nice hair and toned bodies. I don’t think there is anyone without a gym membership here.
Some guys decide to whip off their t-shirts which seems to set off a chain reaction. A whole group dancing near us decide to go topless and tuck their shirts into the back of their jeans, so they wave about like pony tails as they gyrate.
This is why I love gay clubs. Besides the fact that no one attempts to pick me up, I also get to ogle men shamelessly. Haha.
"Ah bengs," my friend sniffs at the topless group. "Although their bodies are not bad, hmm…" He looks them up and down.
I laugh and dance the rest of the night away, the only girl on the dancefloor.
Once upon a time, supermodels reigned supreme. They stared vacuously at us from print ads and magazine covers, and some even became such big household names that they publicly declared they wouldn’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day (Linda Evangelista famously said that).
How times have changed.
Now you can hardly flip through a fashion magazine without seeing a movie star, a hot new pop act or a young tennis sensation pushing everything from lipstick to lingerie. Even Vogue, the bible for every self-respecting fashionista, has a celebrity on its cover more often that not these days.
Since when was the last time you came across a luxury watch ad with an unknown face? Celebrity endorsements are nothing new but it seems that even designer labels, which have traditionally embraced pouty-lipped waifs, have shown an increasing preference to use celebrities in their advertising campaigns. Uma Thurman and Nicole Kidman smoulder in the ads for Louis Vuitton and Chanel, respectively. Undoubtedly under contracts lucrative enough to enable them to buy a small island somewhere off the coast of Tahiti and modestly refer to it as their holiday home.
A designer was once quoted as saying that he preferred to work with models as they were like blank canvases on which an artist could splash his colours. At least their personalities will never overshadow the brand and they will never carry with them the tacky taint of tabloid gossip. Well, with the exception of Naomi “Damn, missed another anger management class” Campbell.
When Carolyn Murphy was signed on to replace Elizabeth Hurley as the new face of Estee Lauder Cosmetics, some said that it was because at age 36, Liz was considered too old. But mostly, the rumour being circulated was that it was all due to Liz’s chaotic love life being constant tabloid fodder that the cosmetics company was keen to dissociate itself from.
Fresher in recent memory, Kate Moss was dropped as the face of several fashion houses after a drugs scandal that was well-publicised in the media. Of course, she’s bounced back with a vengeance since then, appearing in new ad campaigns for some of the very brands that initially tried to distance themselves from her by denouncing her use of drugs. Clearly, they have a short-term memory. 
What helps Kate though is the fact that she is one of the rare models who have successfully propelled themselves into the celebrity stratosphere, becoming a household name and an instantly recognizable face. And Calvin Klein could hardly care less what Kate snorts and who she snogs in her free time, as long as she helps move jeans off the shelves.
That just pretty much sums up the attitude of companies these days.
Back then, one had to have a squeaky clean image in order to endorse a brand. But as counterculture becomes more acceptable in modern society, so does its icons.
But the question is, as an advertising or PR practitioner, why sign on celebrities to endorse your brand, especially with so much money involved and so much at stake? When Britney Spears was signed by Pepsi, she negligently bit the hand that fed by being seen in public on numerous occasions with a can of Coke in her hand.
Well, it’s undeniable that a celebrity makes an immediate impact. In a world where we’re constantly deluged by a glut of ads in every medium, having a celebrity helps an ad stand out from all the clutter.
And then there’s the power of association – a brand can leverage on the celebrity’s image in the hopes that whatever positive qualities he/she possesses may be transferred to the brand. But of course that doesn’t mean signing up someone just because he/she is famous.
Credibility is an important criteria and the endorser should ideally represent the brand values. Amber Chia endorsing laptops? She may have been Malaysia’s It girl at one point but the fact is, I don’t can’t see her using a laptop. I really can’t see her sitting at some Starbucks with her laptop, working on an Excel sheet. It’s not believable. Why not Hannah Tan, who is some sort of financial consultant when she’s not preening for the cameras? Or even Arianna Teoh, a mother and businesswoman who’s always on the go? Makes sense for them to have a laptop, no?
Of course, you might think, ‘I don’t give a rat’s ass who’s in the ad because I can’t be influenced to buy a product that easily. I decide for myself what to buy.’ Think again.
For instance, take Kate Moss, who is frequently heralded as a style icon. She has an intrinsic coolness that translates to her dressing and this is why fashion brands are so eager to sign her on. She makes high fashion seem accessible to the regular working woman. I credit Kate Moss for reviving Burberry at a time when it was ailing and considered passe. She was photographed on the street wearing a Burberry trenchcoat and all of a sudden, it was cool to wear checkered patterns again.
But seriously, come on, Burberry checks look better as tablecloths or cushion covers, or on little old ladies. And this whole trend of wearing leggings under skirts? It should be burned at the stake. Sure, Sienna Miller looks cute and chic wearing it but she’s got the kind of looks that can make a brown paper bag look cute and chic. For a moment in time, we have deluded ourselves into thinking that we can emulate the quirky style of Sienna and Kate et al. by rushing to the nearest shop to buy ourselves something that doesn’t even look flattering on us. We celebrate their “individualistic style” and then try to copy it. And whose fault is that? Media. Advertisements.
You’ve been beaten before you even ran the race.
That’s why branding is such big business. And in an increasingly celebrity-obsessed world, paying $10 million for some famous person to endorse your product can bring in profitable returns on your investment more quickly that some fresh-faced model. We don’t just admire celebrities – we want to look, dress and smell like them as well.
This is why fragrance companies are tying up with celebrities to develop their “own” scents. Every star worth her wattage has her own perfume, from J.Lo to Sarah Jessica Parker, and you can bet only more will follow suit.
Then there’s Reebok who is collaborating with Scarlett Johansson to co-create a new women’s range. 
Admittedly, Scarlett doesn’t fit in with Reebok’s image - she’s more old Hollywood glamour than sporty, modern chic. But it’s an exciting tie-up because Reebok is making a loud entry into a new market segment, backed by a young actress whose star is only just on the rise. When they talk about Scarlett’s co-designer duties, do you think she’ll be there on the floor, sewing and cutting fabrics? How much creative input do you think she’ll really have in the process? My guess is the only work she has cut out for her is staring seductively at the camera for the print ad shoots.
But would there be the same impact if Reebok were launching this new line of apparel with some dewy-faced model? No.
So note to Miss Evangelista: you can stay in bed because your throne has just been usurped.
Recently watched: A Lot Like Love
Two friends meet up occasionally over the course of 7 years and convince themselves that they’re totally wrong for each other, despite their obvious chemistry (ie they want to get into each other’s pants all the time). But career plans, relationships with other people and the whole "we’re just friends" farce gets in the way. I don’t know why anyone would want to make a movie about two idiots who are too stupid to know they’re actually in love and instead spend their time making silly faces and spitting water at each other because they’re too retarded to have a proper conversation. Maybe they figure girls will see it because Ashton Kutcher is so adorable, and guys will tag along to see if Amanda Peet takes off her shirt in the movie (she doesn’t). But hey, I sat through the whole movie. And it raised an interesting question a friend also asked me recently: "Can a guy and a girl ever have a platonic relationship?" I said yes, it’s possible and she told me to go fuck myself. I’d like to but I have a totally platonic relationship with myself as well. Hahaha…
Listening to: Brighter Than Sunshine, Aqualung
Tied up in ancient history
I didn’t believe in destiny
I look up you’re standing next to me
What a feeling
Reading: Between the lines…Why do you say one thing when you mean another?
So I was watching Entourage on HBO the other day with my dad.
On the show, Ari Gold, the Hollywood agent, is jogging down the street when a hot-looking mom passes by, prompting him to sneer lecherously, “Got MILF?”
Dad turned to me, slightly perplexed, and said, “Why would he suddenly bring up the Moro Islamic Liberation Front?”
I didn’t have the heart to correct him.
A friend once told me he could never imagine me depressed. “There is nothing but sunshine and daisies and rainbows in your world,” he said. “I can almost see the butterflies hovering over your head. A serious problem for you is a pimple or a flat tire.”
Of course, he is completely wrong.
I don’t know why a lot of people seem to think my life is perfect. I don’t have any idea why he would think I’m perpetually on Prozac just because I laugh at all his jokes, even the bad ones (it’s called charity laugh, you unfunny bastard) and don’t feel the need to whine about my problems to anyone who will listen.
The truth is, I’m not very good at expressing my emotions. I’m real good at listening to other people’s problems but not talking about my own. I equate talking or even brooding over my problems to weakness and self-pity. Instead, I immerse myself in work, social activities and hobbies. And because there’s a tendency to want to isolate yourself from the world and wallow in the depths of your despair, I try to spend as much time as possible with people whenever I feel down. Especially people who mean something to me. Just listening to you talk about your trip to Cambodia, or your dick of a boss, or the liberating feeling of not wearing underwear (don’t ask) really helps, because it reminds me that the world doesn’t revolve around me.
That’s the advice people always give when you’re going through a difficult period. Go for drinks with friends. Go shopping. Go do something you enjoy.
But for me, it has not done much. The solace I was seeking was never to be found in the malls and watering holes of KL. Keeping myself busy has made time pass by faster, but the days are still dreary and the nights still desolate.
Even being constantly surrounded by people doesn’t change anything. Have you ever felt so alone in a room full of people?
The trouble is, maybe by not letting myself despair, there is never an outlet for all this negativity. The worst kind of sorrow is the kind not expressed in tears. How do you get rid of pain when you deny it even exists? Where then does it all go? I know where it goes. It internalizes and becomes so well-hidden that it starts eating at you without you even being aware of it. It consumes you from within, bit by bit, until there is nothing left.
Until you are nothing but a void, an abyss.
I quickly laugh at everything for fear of having to cry.
- Pierre Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais, French author
