Something Is Wrong With This Picture (Contains Language)

I need to get something off my chest, and I'm not talking about an under-filled bra.

1. Dad gets to work a half-day today thanks to Michael Schumacher and Nico Rosberg of the Petronas racing team. As you know, the F1 carnival has come to town and everyone who's anyone will be begging for tickets to the paddock. It will be like a giant car show, only you don't get to sit in the car, honk the horn, wrestle the steering wheel and test the suspension.

What does his [North American] high commission have to do with two Europeans driving for a Malaysian outfit? Nothing, expect that the roads around their building and the general area will be closed from 2-7 p.m. today for some race demo thing, so they've been advised to leave early.

I remember dad mentioning how the route has been newly tarred to provide a smooth driving surface. We don't want to be known as the country whose potholed capital city killed two competitive drivers, do we?

2. I thought I was jaded as far as Malaysian "punctuality" goes, but even I cringed when Robert Rainford had to wait 1.5 hours to serve his painstakingly prepped barbecue stuff. It's okay to be horrendously late for a gala dinner as long as you're a "dignitary". I'm not a fan of barbecue, but I felt sorry just looking at his disheartened mug on the TV screen.

For shame, you as-yet-unidentified "VIP" (the minister of tourism, really?). If the proles, bourgeoisie and hoi polloi can arrive on time, early even, without the assistance of outriders, then what's your excuse?

I missed the first 15 minutes of the show, which was filmed in June 09, so I didn't see how six (6!) of X number of chefs wound up going AWOL on the big day. I know when that happens though, you're definitely in Malaysia and it doesn't bode well for the rest of your day.

3. Watching E! News makes me hate myself. The presenters chortle about the latest celebrity sex scandal (tape/mistress/mistress on tape) and in the next breath, squeal about how disgusting it was to hear that Lady Gaga asked Boy George to sign her v-a-g-i-n-a (he declined because he didn't have a pen).

In fact, they work themselves into a state of near-apoplexy trying not to say the word, settling instead for clever euphemisms like "nasty bits", "down there", "hoo-ha" (what the fuck, are you in grade school?) and (my un-favorite) "vajayjay".

I feel like Joseph Conrad's savage. How can you gleefully report who's having sex with whom and yet shrink away from pronouncing anatomic terms correctly? That is some serious fucked up bullshit.

Operation Losing It: Day 35 Progress Report

I… have been derailed. I've bought a(nother) cake recipe book and can't wait to try it! You can't blame me, there was a sale! Pineapple upside down cake! Surprise cake! Is there no one who doesn’t like cake??

Not all is lost though, as my revved-up metabolism continues to allow me to wear my clothes without looking like an overstuffed sausage as long as I hold my breath.

Today, whether you want to know or not, I will explain what palm-sized portions constitute:

Every portion of food you take (meat, veg, carbs, fruits, SWEETS) should be able to fit into the cupped palm of your hand. I'm sure you already knew that. Eating this way can make you feel like you're depriving yourself, but it reinforces the habit of eating constant but smaller meals, which provides a continuous source of energy.

That is the theory. In practice, your life will not be a happy one if your hands are as small as mine are. There's also the 9-inch theory and the 1/3 theory, which leads me to believe "methods" such as these were dreamed up by men, since they're always so geeky about numbers and sizes and things like that.

Thank you and good night.

Progress Report Day 28: Diversion

This week's report has been held over because:

#1 – speculating what Smuggler the Shady Neighbour may have gotten himself into is more interesting, and,

#2 – no one really wants to read about how adopting better running posture, decreasing stride length and increasing cadence has helped me run more comfortably, although it has and I'm very chuffed about it. I feel ready to justice to a marathon right now hur hur hur. No, not really, but close enough.

So, my neighbour from one door down is an object of curiosity for me. He keeps to himself, and I used to pretend he was a smuggler because he comes and goes at the oddest hours and his car windows are fully tinted (mum: you are so kaypoh, you know that?).

On the other hand, he has the coolest garden, which has a sort of shabby neglected chic vibe in which bird-of-paradise flowers thrive very well. Maybe I'm just a sucker for cinderblock structures and Buddha heads entwined in vines.

However, other people's business is not my business, until last weekend, that is. On Saturday evening, Smuggler parked his shady-looking car under his porch instead of outside on the drive as he usually does and the license plate had been covered up. It was just sheets of white paper stuck together with cellotape, but what morally-upright member of society does that anyway?

When a police car stopped near the house on Monday night, I was absolutely certain that they'd found the body and traced it back to Smuggler. Instead of kicking down his doors though, they questioned some other guy who'd apparently been sitting for too long in his car for some resident's comfort.

The car remained "inside" all weekend until yesterday. Mum reported that visual contact of Smuggler had been made and there was a moving truck outside his house. Clearly he's going to go underground for a while.

The Effort Counts

Bro2 (uncertainly and apropos of nothing): Dad made me a sandwich once.

Me: Huh.

Bro2 (face twisted in distaste): I took a bite and was like, "Eargh, what is this?"

Me: And?

Bro2: And he said, "Garlic butter and jam!"

Me: *rofl*

Mum: That's not really a sandwich.*

Bro2: Garlic butter and jam!!!

It's certainly nothing you find on a sandwich menu. As far as I know, there's no jam in the fridge either.

* A sandwich is two or more slices of bread with filling (meat, veg, not butter) in between.

Solomon Kane makes me stupid

What a big… sword you have there, Solomon Kane.

Viewers, meet your antidote to the execrable Percy Jackson.

I've been trying to write about Solomon Kane ever since I watched it on Tuesday but this is all I get: LONG LEAN LEGS WAHWAHWAH LONG STRAGGLY HAIR WHY IS HE SO HOT DROOLDROOLDROOOOOOOOOOOL OMG IS HE POUTING. Suits you, James Purefoy.

What I found incongruous though was how quickly he turned from snarly, evil bandit-type scoundrel into a sniveling, cringing "God, why hast thou forsaken me?" sap upon being told his soul is DAMNED.

That was not a spoiler. In fact, it's the entire premise of the movie. You might even be tempted to draw comparisons to Angel in BTVS, but without the sex and ultimate happiness bit. This is because Solomon Kane is a Puritan (this is important).

Anyway, dude has fought, raided and slaughtered his way across the Dark Continent, presumably in her royal majesty's name (?). Did he really expect to get to heaven for his deeds? Oh wait, Solomon Kane is a Puritan. That explains everything. Puritans don't go to heaven, they go to America, and they angst a hell of a lot on the way there too.

This means there's no romance in the movie. I hate romantic movies. Romantic movies suck. I didn't watch Valentine's Day. Valentine's Day is a movie for young girls and people who don't actually have romance in their lives and can only get some at the cinema. Or who have major, desperate joneses for Shark/Wolfboy.

I'm not bitter, just unkind. The best romance I ever saw was between the Joker and Batman.

Solomon Kane angsts over everything. He broods when he's not angsting. Maybe he's upset at how much he resembles Hugh Jackman a la Van Helsing. It's possible he carries more emotional baggage than Bruce Wayne. Speaking of Batman, Enfant Terrible is certain Batman would win a fight against Solomon Kane.

They're both superheroes anyway, because they both wear cloaks. Sorry, capes.

Because Solomon Kane* is Puritan, it also means there are a grand total of two topless scenes in the film, both completely contextual. I love alliteration and that was not a spoiler either.

You know what Solomon Kane should jettison though – the dialogue. Dialogue appropriate for speech bubbles doesn't translate very well into actual speech. I liked the setting though. There was loads of mud, ensuring that all misery displayed was authentic.

Here is a brief evolution of the Solomon Kane look:

Classic

Dream, is that you?

Well, hallo thar!

Love the hat. All the cool dudes wear one. Alucard has one.

Fun facts: Doug Jones (recently seen in Hell Boy I and II, Pan's Labyrinth, Quarantine… Richie Rich) does not play any of the monsters in this movie.

* There's just something about the name that requires it to be said in full, like Chuck Norris, e.g. Solomon Kane doesn't angst, he anguishes.

Operation Losing It: Day 21 progress report

Portion control just doesn’t fly well when your dad insists on a sit-down dinner every Sunday. Still, it's only one day in the entire week, right? I'm just happy it's not a dinner party for which I have to cook!

On the bright side, I'm getting back some of the wicked definition I had, oh, 2 months ago. The party-pack has yet to accept its destiny is to be a six-pack, but we shall overcome! In fact, Enfant Terrible and I arm-wrestled at the BLR* and it ended in a draw.

It's also ironic that my foot feels so much better now considering I'd bought a bandage for it yesterday. I think it means the bandage is some sort of magic device. Ice works great too!

* Banana leaf restaurant, naturally.

ETA: I have been advised to clarify that ET allowed the arm-wrestling to end in a draw, and that this episode does not reflect unfavorably on his own manly self. 

I should be working

Smart: stuffing ice cubes into a sock then stuffing that sock into another sock to make a cold compress that won’t fall off your foot.

Not so smart: keeping it on so long that the ice melts and soaks both socks, resulting in a curious sloshing sound when you walk around.

I have managed to sprain the top of my foot somehow. It has greatly impaired my ability to scuttle swiftly away from creepy old dudes in the park (yes, we're still on that topic). Speaking of the dude, he's now taken to dressing like a regular old dude, i.e. belted, pleated polyester* trousers neatly tucked into a casual collared shirt. Well, you can't fool me, mister!

Why the resentment? It could have everything to do with me being polite enough ("idiotic") to chat with someone whose friendship I have no interest in cultivating. This person doesn't even remember my name and wants to go for a teh tarik "nearby" and suggests he drive us there. 

THIS, despite the fact we're merely park buddies ("nodding acquaintances" as it were), I've spoken to him a grand total of FIVE times and you just don't get into cars with strange men wtfwtf.

So yes, I felt strangely threatened by this strangely babyish, gnome-like, toothless** dude. It might be I don't know what to do with adults who are smaller than I am.

* These trousers are always made of polyester.

** "What are you afraid of? I don't bite!" yeah right.

A Little-Known Fact (PG-13)

Q: Why is it called an "O-face"?

A: Because when you see one, you mutter to yourself, "O my lord, that's (insert adjective here)…."

That is all.

Operation Losing It: Day 14 Progress Report/Weekend Review

Trousers A fit much better now. I still need to work on Trousers B. Portion control has suffered a slight setback thanks to the concerned manager at my banana leaf haunt, but it's nothing a few laxatives can't purge (I'm kidding).

That's it, really. And the weighing scale doesn’t creak as ominously as it used to. Go, me!

I also have sunburn from watching tennis over the weekend. The announcer had an uncertain accent and Ning Baizura needs to work on her "pitching" because god knows no one can accompany her on the national anthem if she keeps using that tone of voice with me.

Still in the vein of physical wellbeing, Uncle Toni obviously knows something about physiotherapy that eludes the rest of us. The "raunchy" Shakira Gypsy video* wot features one Rafael Nadal at HCFoo's is about as sexy as a bag of kittens despite some serious skin being shown.

Wafa was gauche, though he obviously looks nice when he's dripping wet, and appeared awkward when flirting with her. At one point, I'm pretty sure his expression is saying, "Look mama, BOSOMS!" If you've seen the way he fidgets during TV changeovers, I'd guess it took a lot of willpower (and numerous takes) for them to get those shots of him sitting quietly, although the pretty lady dancing in front of him probably helped a lot.

He was might have been wondering why he had to take his shirt off and was probably immensely relieved to take off running from said chair (also a pointless scene).

I didn't think much of the song either – it sounds she like set out to do something bluegrassy but wound up with something James Horner left out of Avatar.

Conclusion: next time you want a co-star, it might behoove you to ask someone in the entertainment industry, and not just any random Spanish-speaking tennis player. In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Fernando Verdasco should have been in the video.

* Lyrics include "I'm a gypsy/I might steal your clothes/if they fit me" 
... I AM SO SCANDALIZED.