Michelle's hungry

Michelle Williams sure knows how to make people laugh.

No, not that she’s laughable on stage as she "fosse-d" but the fact that her Roxie alterego's littered with saucy and trivial punch lines, she wriggled out of it like a minx (minus the oozing sexiness), the one that's reared by a cat as a baby. Her lines delivered like that impromptu Destiny's Child Concert in-betweeners where she made the audience giggle with perfect comedic timing.

No doubt about her unique singing voice as she offered her sui generis rendition of "Roxie", "Nowadays" and “Me and my baby". Her flailing arms, trying to imitate a dance were rhythmically correct but sensibly funny and sweet more than the intended swelter of pizzazz and allure. Leigh Zimmerman playing Velma Kelly as opposite to Michelle's Roxie Hart was effectively theatrical but the fusion of pop charm that the latter provided was potent enough to fill the stage. Her facial toying resembled a perky little sweet-and-yet-sour orange to a toddler's unsuspecting mouth. Her shimmying hips, bouncing like it's the day before the dress rehearsal. But who cared (that stupid woman whose mobile made its presence known during Michelle’s act and that drunken blonde bimbo who nearly fell over as she struggled her way out of her chair surely didn’t care) about the dancing. She sang and entertained just like her glorious days as one third of that famous girl group. The giggles and gasps of the paying public were enough to gauge that sufficiency and satisfaction from paying 50 quid this recession time.

At the end of act I, few minutes after the red curtain draped the stage, Michelle had just twittered to the big www about her unscathed performance of the first act reading, “.....Who in London can tell me where a good late nite eatery is”. A pro is a pro when you see one. They let you know that neither do they think of nerves nor the major stresses that come before or after it. They just think of good times like in Michelle's case, a good eatery after the show.

Now that’s a good thought. At 10:30 pm, food is all that jazz.

The other side of the spectrum

Today's crap-tastic.

The bloody musical was not a far off reminder of some high school musical where the leads reek of inexperience. It's 8:30 pm and I just cut short my trip to the musical theatre.... Not even halfway, I decided I had enough of some 60s rehashed music and flew out of the stall seat conspicuously, prompting the usher to throw a hissy fit as I fumbled my way out of the Cimmerian backdoor.

The humid air was nauseating to the point of wrangling some old members of the public for having a closed carriage window in this weather.

In the past months, work has been a refuge to my weary professional soul but unfortunately not today, not yesterday nor a week before that. It transported me back to the days where I’d rather slash my wrist and create a drama to my life; not that it's devoid of highs and lows because it's actually all that. Even the manic depressive souls would find it a tad colourful for their liking and too predictable that it'd bore them. I enjoy a challenge but you reach a certain age where proving something is no longer as exciting as getting a job or a promotion... or maintaining relationships.

Then you have stubborn people around you and proving to be omniscient throng of beings, a mere sentence of an advice or opinion is a gargantuan of an effort for them to understand. They shutdown like that morning bus I usually take where you run your mightily might and stand huffing and puffing in front of its door and zoom.... there he goes with great indifference. Bastard!!!!

Over the booming sound system, the train operator wretchedly admonished his flagging passengers to vacate the train as it has lived its lifetime. The day’s torture was just unrelenting. A yet another tube delay stripped the remaining sanity of my patience where an itty-bitty sense of irritation would render me cannibalising another soul.

Boy, I am totally mad with rage today. I don’t even care if this makes sense.

Mr/Ms Clever Young

Evan Handler was alone. Nearly midnight, the northern line was less crowded and occupied by mostly haggard and tired fateful souls just impatiently wanting to feel the soft bed on their backs. On the contrary, Evan Handler looked spritely and smartly dressed for the hours to come. His shirt with a hint of pink was unruffled and neatly pressed; his face devoid of stress of Sunday’s culmination of wear and tear of the week. .. But I forgot, he's a celebrity. Celebrities have means.

Earlier, we as common people were hobnobbing along the Thames for a speck of beauty from the remains of the spent week. We were soliciting for that idea of living life consciously. As we searched for life's balance and the meaning of trials and tribulations' varying spectrum, we also delved on why stubborn behaviour on life's issues affect each one of us in certain ways. There was nothing or no one short of flagging human virtues on existence. One had beliefs of grave importance that compromise is a nonexistent theme.

These are sorts of mambo jambo of pointless statements. Believe me, if you're there at the time philosophies and life's principles were uttered with conviction, you’d say, "STOP! I am just enjoying my beer". Depending on who you hang out with, the glass beer could go far and beyond. I didn’t know that Lord Byron and atheism are good mishmash with quaffed bitter cold beer. But, it's all good. You just realise how others think. Or say, how they differ from you and still keep that taste of beer down your mouth. Our bodies do need elements other than what we think it deserves no matter how bitter it is.

Evan Handler, oblivious to the sniggering and whispering of late night train dwellers, got off of Tottenham Court Road in a jiffy. He took with him things that were synonymous to calmness, vigour and propensity. The train staggered across the rail and so was my will to keep awake. My body ached in a million ways but my mind remained vigilant trying to grasp the continuing philosophical battle about life. It was the antithesis of both mental dewiness and physical debility.

Evan Handler and the people that surrounded me at 00:30 on a Sunday night may not be the basic accomplishment in achieving the base of hierarchy of needs but they feed its higher level. However, after all this internalisation, NOW give me my basic need: sleep.

CH3COOC6H4COOH

The ticking clock is becoming an ominous presence in the living room. Every swivel that creates a tick is increasingly bidding me goodbye to chances of peace and harmony. The vanishing sound that escapes through the thick double glazing of windows and crevices, signals the dictate of the beating heartbeat that amplifies in intensity as calm escapes out of its chambers.

The essay is due.

The minutes of the last two meetings warrant stitching.

The protocols necessitate reviewing.

The old wicked colleague sanctions a kick on his backside.

My mental machinery begs for oil rubdown to increase productivity.

My boo needs a cuddle.


....but not today nor tomorrow. And it is all because of the nasty hangover. Alcohol is an embodiment of grace and the fall from its vertex. The latter stays the latter. It becomes the sister of procrastination we all love to blame and point fingers at.

UP (Underground Perversion)

The man standing in front of me had an apparent boner. The poor woman was unsuspectingly taking on that realisation of a sexual fantasy of a pervy middle aged man. This man, who capitalised on the dense, jam-packed carriage as he consciously, abraded his mindless member against her. He was wearing a tracksuit bottom and that "are-you-happy-to-see-me" arousal was nothing short of embarrassment and social disaster. However, the woman had to silently contend with whatever emotion she's battling in at that moment (which wasn’t my business). She must be in a certain dilemma of mixed emotions but the public eye could be rightly harsh.

I got off and thought of Freud. In fact, “phallocentrism” is not enough. There’s an animal in us waiting for a prey to pounce upon. Sexuality is such a definitive dictum for subsistence if not totally pansophical in nature.

In fact, a 2-second eye contact can be dangerous.

an all-too-human foible

On my way home, I prayed for something sensible to hype. I have made quite a few accounts of my journeys to and fro of my diurnal exploits of working life and encountered a few interesting characters along the way. However, today as I board the tube, I asked for providence. I asked for signs. I pried for a possibility of occurrence of dire portent. I truly wished for good ol' honest-to-goodness happening.

Few more stops and Golders Green is in the offing. It's either I am oblivious to the wishes I ask for, or lacking in my ability to decipher signs or Tuesday is just going to be another one of those hundreds of Tuesdays that remain plebeian; those days where I couldn’t recall something eventful (not to mention my poor memory taking that fair share of responsibility for it).

Cue: Adam Garcia in a slow motion entrance (that hunk cum dancer cum singer cum actor – Coyote Ugly???). He sits next to me and appears oblivious to the attention he's getting. There’s not a smile, a nod, nor a word as he keeps minding his own business.

All I could hear is that tiny voice of his flagrant zit on his left cheek saying, "Pop me, pop me, pop me!!!!”.

hey diddle-dAddle

The past weekend flew me by with a serious intent of haunting me in the next days. Setting goals remained just that; set goals. They stayed targets that I still have to accomplish. I blame Roddick's lack of focus when up 6-2 during the 2nd set tie-break and losing it. Or, the London Pride for my banality. Whatever the reasons were, the deadline is creeping up like black smog accompanied by John Carpenter’s musical score. It truly reminds me of the horror of a consequence if deadline’s missed.

So, today's Monday and the start of yet another week. I must have pressed the snooze button 10 times that I am now running 15 minutes late to work. The man across me who is sweating profusely, interminably types with determination some very important documents on his laptop. He must have had a beer fest with his mates over the weekend that he ended up drooling on the couch and woke up with the mother of all hangovers. And that took most of his weekend quality time trying to cure the banging headache with a dose of some hard drinks and greasy fry ups. With his feet up and remote control in his hand, the day passed him by unnoticed. The “Top Gear” program must be totally entertaining.

He tried loosening his tie as if trying to rid of a choke. He gasped for air before looking back onto the laptop screen for continuance. Maize-like sweats were forming across his forehead as he fumbled through a folder of sheets. He then mumbled incomprehensively letting out a fathomless sigh. The woman in 80’s inspired shoulder padding looked at him and smiled with half pity and half mockery. She must be thinking, "...rightly so" and promptly went by her business figuring out the number sequence in Sudoku. Unable to find a piece of paper, he muttered audibly, "shit".

Yes, it is related to that faecal matter when you don’t reach your target or your deadline. You stink of irresponsibility as you’re ridden with downright lack of perspective for priority. You are shit. Now, as I point my index finger to this man, who by every passing minute will need an intravenous fluid replacement from a flood of sweat, three other fingers point back at me. I am just as repugnant as this man for I have not done a single thing productive all weekend except for the 10- minute vacuuming of the house. I am glad I have few more days to rectify this slothful behaviour.

The only thing is, I always have a problem with the word "start" or "go". I am better at procrastinating than facing up endeavours ahead. It has not afforded me grief or torment since time immemorial thus, I find no reason for that drastic change of priority setting. I have always thrived. There must a reciprocated comeuppance for this behaviour that I have yet to bump into.

BANK Station’s the next stop and in a hurried pace, he flew out of the carriage yanking the laptop in between his wet left armpit and a volume of the now crumpled sheets bundled in his clenched right fist. He was an epitome of stress.

My friend gave me an organiser as a present few weeks ago. I kind of got the notion.

Purrrrrrrrrrr-ide

The 2009 London Gay Pride has cometh.

On the 4th of July, you have the American independence that’s notable and what is more remarkable is the tantalising women’s Wimbledon final between two siblings, the American sisters, Venus and Serena. Torn between the love for tennis and the annual glitz of pride parade, I decided to forego the grunts and green of Wimbledon to take photos of the gay parade. There are only two reasons why I chose to watch the parade: it’s a definite that a “Williams" will raise the Venus Rosewater Dish and repeats of the final will be televised later. It's a win-win situation for me.

So, what do I do to prepare for this parade?
- aviator sunglasses
- decent camera with reasonable memory card
- shorts, flip flops and a t-shirt
- mp3 player
- a friend

There’s only one reason for these choices: no matter how you look, you can never outshine the people taking centre stage this gay pride's parade.

Like what Sasha is, they are just "fierce". And oh, so is the sun.

Abstract

It is now late.

For my standard, going home at 10 pm is late, even if it's Friday evening and revelry is just beginning to tickle a funny bone. Getting accustomed to this lifestyle for years (the one where you work, sleep, eat and play in total moderation - as what they say) makes this late rendezvous in town a rather once-in-a-blue-moon traipse to the wild side. Yes, verging on redundancy, 10 pm is late and I’m aboard the northern line surrounded by people like me who value home than the sound of merriment. I must admit, my mental definition of merriment is home reflecting on the day's events.

Today's events are worth of reflection. They make going home at 10 pm on a Friday night seem like a tasty KFC chicken to a dying vegan. Opppppps, that's totally harsh. Let's say, it's more of a trek to Andes and after that moment of peace, you just want to head home and drink the freshest cold water and eat the tastiest dish. Although in reality, it was a sip of cold citrus “frescato” that culminated my hankering for a juicy, crispy duck.

It was but Janette who conjured up passivity to my yearning for an accouchement of twilight along the streets of Central London that then started the social jive. The consequence of her unflappable nature resulted to a banter of strangers about the known past and unknown territory put to basic, unhinged conversation. The couple, J and A solidified the subjects about “manuka” honey and antihistamines, type A versus type B, my neighbour called karma and change. If this is just an introduction to the day's events, I’m gearing up for a dissertation piece. In fact, I can conclude in two sentences why the amalgamation of the series of events satiates an early resolve to my day.

It’s late but it was fun. Majority will resist this notion (i.e. 10 pm is late) for they usually hunt for that mollifying gradient to fill a rather wide, gaping mental and emotional aperture until 3 am. By 11 pm, Sandra Bullock's already making me laugh (Thanks Jonathan Ross). So entertaining that I almost forgot about my sheer disappointment of the forthcoming men’s wimby finals and the eagerness to write today’s sombre reflection.

The latter, I managed sans conviction. Nevertheless, happiness is relative.