I had come across this lovely song + making-of video about a couple months past, and as much as I was taken by it, it didn't occur to me to save it to my favourites or properly commit it to my memory. As such, yesterday night I found myself wanting to listen to it again, and couldn't for the life of me remember the name of the band, nor the song. All I remembered was that the band name involved two animals, and I had a semi-confident notion that one of those animals was a dog. Dog and something.
Dog and Bear? No.
Dog and Wolf? No.
Are you sure it wasn't Dog and Bear? Hmm.
Maybe it wasn't even Dog. Wolf and Bear?
Punyalah susah aku nak ingat nama dia. I spent a good fifteen minutes consumed with this activity of guessing animal pairings, and tried googling 'indie bands with names including animals', which yielded a facebook group devoted to such bands but without luck.
Thank God for web browser history. It turned out to be Dog & Panther!
After weeks of whining to Kelly that I really wanted to re-watch The Lord of the Rings, I was in enough of a funk today to convince myself a nine-hour movie marathon would, in fact, be ideal. I scouted out the DVDs on my way back from returning books at the library, and I'm watching The Two Towers as I type this. Hugo Weaving! I had forgotten you were in this!
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Berenang
I can't swim.
Can I? I can propel myself forwards in water via kicking my feet, I suppose. But I don't know what to do with my arms. And I don't know how to breath. Every time I turn my head out of water to inhale I end up gulping water. And I can't do anything but panic if my feet don't touch the bottom.
So no, I can't swim.
I wonder why. I have this very distinct memory of being sent to swimming classes when I was a kid. This was back when we were staying in Kerteh, and mom would bring me to the resident golf/country club for lessons. I have a vague notion of being taught how to paddle my feet while holding on to the sides of the pool, but the strongest memory, the most solid recollection I have of swimming class is being with a bunch of other kids at the edge of the deepest part of the pool. The instructor put a buoy in the middle of the pool, and proceeded to ask us to swim to it and then back to the edge. HOLY SHIT WAS THAT SCARY. I remember swimming and breathing in sputtering motions, wanting to panic and not do it, but everyone else seemed fine and able to. I didn't want to be the only one too chicken to do it(I was six, but I had pride, yo). So I got to the buoy, where the instructor was treading, held on for a while, then sputtered and spewed my way back to the edge. I think he said something about how I could improve, but I think at that time I was just consumed with "TAK NAK BUAT LAGI DAH! TAKUT!" thoughts in my head. I can't remember what happened after that, but I think the way I swim now is exactly how I swam that day, so maybe I stopped going for classes.
Damn. I wish I could swim. I should be able to swim. If I could just do a decent front crawl that can get me from one end of the pool to the other, I'd be happy.
Is swimming something that can be self-taught? Study in theory, go to a pool, practice? One of my favourite Lat cartoons is a scene from Kampung Boy, the one where he depicts how he learned to swim, basically via his dad tossing him into the river when he was a kid. I'd like to believe if someone creeps up behind me and pushes me into a pool my survival instincts would take over and suddenly I'd be a freaking mermaid, but you and I both know that wouldn't happen at all. I'd just flail around and somehow make it to the edge of the pool before trying to kill the person who pushed me in. Swimming skills gained? No. Manslaughter charges? Yes.
Maybe I should coerce someone into teaching me. Kakak? Maybe I could save up money and go for lessons.
Takpe. By hook or by crook, I'll learn how to swim. I'll be a seal in the water someday. A penguin. A water baby. A platypus. A cat with a strange likeness for water. Until then I'll just sigh longingly every time I go to the gym and catch a whiff of the chlorine from the pool.
Can I? I can propel myself forwards in water via kicking my feet, I suppose. But I don't know what to do with my arms. And I don't know how to breath. Every time I turn my head out of water to inhale I end up gulping water. And I can't do anything but panic if my feet don't touch the bottom.
So no, I can't swim.
I wonder why. I have this very distinct memory of being sent to swimming classes when I was a kid. This was back when we were staying in Kerteh, and mom would bring me to the resident golf/country club for lessons. I have a vague notion of being taught how to paddle my feet while holding on to the sides of the pool, but the strongest memory, the most solid recollection I have of swimming class is being with a bunch of other kids at the edge of the deepest part of the pool. The instructor put a buoy in the middle of the pool, and proceeded to ask us to swim to it and then back to the edge. HOLY SHIT WAS THAT SCARY. I remember swimming and breathing in sputtering motions, wanting to panic and not do it, but everyone else seemed fine and able to. I didn't want to be the only one too chicken to do it(I was six, but I had pride, yo). So I got to the buoy, where the instructor was treading, held on for a while, then sputtered and spewed my way back to the edge. I think he said something about how I could improve, but I think at that time I was just consumed with "TAK NAK BUAT LAGI DAH! TAKUT!" thoughts in my head. I can't remember what happened after that, but I think the way I swim now is exactly how I swam that day, so maybe I stopped going for classes.
Damn. I wish I could swim. I should be able to swim. If I could just do a decent front crawl that can get me from one end of the pool to the other, I'd be happy.
Is swimming something that can be self-taught? Study in theory, go to a pool, practice? One of my favourite Lat cartoons is a scene from Kampung Boy, the one where he depicts how he learned to swim, basically via his dad tossing him into the river when he was a kid. I'd like to believe if someone creeps up behind me and pushes me into a pool my survival instincts would take over and suddenly I'd be a freaking mermaid, but you and I both know that wouldn't happen at all. I'd just flail around and somehow make it to the edge of the pool before trying to kill the person who pushed me in. Swimming skills gained? No. Manslaughter charges? Yes.
Maybe I should coerce someone into teaching me. Kakak? Maybe I could save up money and go for lessons.
Takpe. By hook or by crook, I'll learn how to swim. I'll be a seal in the water someday. A penguin. A water baby. A platypus. A cat with a strange likeness for water. Until then I'll just sigh longingly every time I go to the gym and catch a whiff of the chlorine from the pool.
Thursday, June 09, 2011
Parmigiano Reggiano
Yesterday was cold. The kind of cold that provokes the consumption of lots of hot beverages, the exclamations of "Sejuknya!" to the housemate, the wrapping of oneself in blankets, and staring out the sliding door, trying to figure out how many layers I would have to wear to convince myself to go outside(answer:three).
Another one of those telemarketers called. This one talked so fast, trying to get every word of his sales pitch in. For a second I considered (as I always do in these situations) just hanging up on the guy but as always, I never can quite bring myself to do that. I notice that whenever I'm on the phone with someone I am mad with I tend to hang up as quickly as possible, after a brisk "bye", so I suppose hanging up on someone with absolutely no warning or courtesy must be the equivalent of a "fuck you". I haven't mustered enough social rebellion to do that. So I stayed on the line and tried to find some moment I could interject and say I wasn't interested.
I couldn't get a word in, he was careening along the path of a much repeated script. I wondered how many times he must have been hung up on to get up to this speed.I thought to myself, who would want this job? This job that requires you to talk as fast as you can, grasping any extra minute the listener doesn't hang up to stuff as much information as possible, sell sell sell, convince me not hang up just a minute longer, with every minute maybe I'll eventually give in. Maybe the guy didn't have a choice, maybe the job has a good base salary and a decent commission for every customer snagged, maybe he's actually lucky to be doing this. Hey, the guy's actually working. Which was more than I could say for myself.
Suddenly things just seemed weary and sad, so I slumped on my bed, resigning myself to listen. In the background on his end I could hear another telemarketer, probably in the next cubicle, a woman this time. I wondered what the place he worked in was like, was it a call centre like in Slumdog Millionaire, a big room full of people with headsets? I settled myself more comfortably on my bed while letting out the occasional "uh-huh". I wondered what was the success rate of telemarketing.
It had to stop somewhere. In the end, as he was trying to get details from me, I told him thank you for taking the time to explain it to me, but I wasn't interested. I could still hear him trying to catch hold of me, trying to reiterate the benefits of the plan, as I said bye and put down the phone.
***
Every time I go to the market or the shops and pass the cheese aisle, I often resolve to one day save up or cut down on other groceries in order to buy a hunk of good parmesan cheese.
Yeah. I make cheese-based ambitions now.
Another one of those telemarketers called. This one talked so fast, trying to get every word of his sales pitch in. For a second I considered (as I always do in these situations) just hanging up on the guy but as always, I never can quite bring myself to do that. I notice that whenever I'm on the phone with someone I am mad with I tend to hang up as quickly as possible, after a brisk "bye", so I suppose hanging up on someone with absolutely no warning or courtesy must be the equivalent of a "fuck you". I haven't mustered enough social rebellion to do that. So I stayed on the line and tried to find some moment I could interject and say I wasn't interested.
I couldn't get a word in, he was careening along the path of a much repeated script. I wondered how many times he must have been hung up on to get up to this speed.I thought to myself, who would want this job? This job that requires you to talk as fast as you can, grasping any extra minute the listener doesn't hang up to stuff as much information as possible, sell sell sell, convince me not hang up just a minute longer, with every minute maybe I'll eventually give in. Maybe the guy didn't have a choice, maybe the job has a good base salary and a decent commission for every customer snagged, maybe he's actually lucky to be doing this. Hey, the guy's actually working. Which was more than I could say for myself.
Suddenly things just seemed weary and sad, so I slumped on my bed, resigning myself to listen. In the background on his end I could hear another telemarketer, probably in the next cubicle, a woman this time. I wondered what the place he worked in was like, was it a call centre like in Slumdog Millionaire, a big room full of people with headsets? I settled myself more comfortably on my bed while letting out the occasional "uh-huh". I wondered what was the success rate of telemarketing.
It had to stop somewhere. In the end, as he was trying to get details from me, I told him thank you for taking the time to explain it to me, but I wasn't interested. I could still hear him trying to catch hold of me, trying to reiterate the benefits of the plan, as I said bye and put down the phone.
***
Every time I go to the market or the shops and pass the cheese aisle, I often resolve to one day save up or cut down on other groceries in order to buy a hunk of good parmesan cheese.
Yeah. I make cheese-based ambitions now.
Saturday, June 04, 2011
Turning Point
When I start tinkering around with a semi-active(or partially dead?) blog's colours, I can sort of tell that sebenarnya I takde kerja, ni. Well, this wasn't really tinkering. This was just a matter of bleaching all colour and making everything black and white. 2 points for kesenangan untuk dibaca.
The other day I realized I was turning 23 this year. Which means:
a) Jimmy Eat World's song, 23, finally applies to me.
c) I'm practically 25. Well, I'll be damned. It seems like age progression is continuous disbelief over your real age. I see these kids (kids?) who were born in 1994 or 1995 and for some reason I automatically think in my head that they're around 10 or 11, 1994 doesn't seem that long ago, but then I realize it's 2011 and they're 17 or 16, and I'm 23! 23! 25! 30!
***
I know this is one of those mundane domestic mishaps that doesn't need to be shared, but I let my guard down to the monster that is my washing machine and it decided to gnaw off the hooks of my favourite sports bra. Shame on me for being too lazy to hand-wash it and just chucking it into the known terminator-of-delicate-clothing, but seriously. Seriously?
Let me tell you about this washing machine. It's been here since my first year, and I have no idea how old it actually is (I would cut it through the middle and count the rings like I would a tree, but then I wouldn't have a washing machine). It's a front-loader, and it has analog dials on the front. It's loud and clunky, and spasms alarmingly when it goes into spin mode.
It eats bra hooks. Out of spite, I bet.
Monster that this machine is, it serviced our laundry needs adequately, with the peculiar exception that when I set the dial to cold wash, the clothes that came out of it were warm.
Then, in my final semester, the monster decided it had had enough. It went crazy, and refused to run on normal settings, or would start and then stop halfway, and generally was a pain in the ass. Especially when it was assignment/exam season and I didn't have time to worry about not having clean clothes. Boy. That wasn't a fun time. At one point I found myself sitting on the floor, leaning against the monster, crooning Padi's Menanti Sebuah Jawaban to it, in some bizarre, desperate belief that singing jiwang, Indonesian songs to a whacked out washing machine would somehow convince it to work properly.
Flash forward to now, and we're still stuck with this machine (long story). It works, in a way, but obviously is still eats bra hooks. Spiteful thing. Maybe spanish songs next time? Or mumbly french ones. Maybe it's an European washing machine.
The other day I realized I was turning 23 this year. Which means:
a) Jimmy Eat World's song, 23, finally applies to me.
c) I'm practically 25. Well, I'll be damned. It seems like age progression is continuous disbelief over your real age. I see these kids (kids?) who were born in 1994 or 1995 and for some reason I automatically think in my head that they're around 10 or 11, 1994 doesn't seem that long ago, but then I realize it's 2011 and they're 17 or 16, and I'm 23! 23! 25! 30!
***
I know this is one of those mundane domestic mishaps that doesn't need to be shared, but I let my guard down to the monster that is my washing machine and it decided to gnaw off the hooks of my favourite sports bra. Shame on me for being too lazy to hand-wash it and just chucking it into the known terminator-of-delicate-clothing, but seriously. Seriously?
Let me tell you about this washing machine. It's been here since my first year, and I have no idea how old it actually is (I would cut it through the middle and count the rings like I would a tree, but then I wouldn't have a washing machine). It's a front-loader, and it has analog dials on the front. It's loud and clunky, and spasms alarmingly when it goes into spin mode.
It eats bra hooks. Out of spite, I bet.
Monster that this machine is, it serviced our laundry needs adequately, with the peculiar exception that when I set the dial to cold wash, the clothes that came out of it were warm.
Then, in my final semester, the monster decided it had had enough. It went crazy, and refused to run on normal settings, or would start and then stop halfway, and generally was a pain in the ass. Especially when it was assignment/exam season and I didn't have time to worry about not having clean clothes. Boy. That wasn't a fun time. At one point I found myself sitting on the floor, leaning against the monster, crooning Padi's Menanti Sebuah Jawaban to it, in some bizarre, desperate belief that singing jiwang, Indonesian songs to a whacked out washing machine would somehow convince it to work properly.
Flash forward to now, and we're still stuck with this machine (long story). It works, in a way, but obviously is still eats bra hooks. Spiteful thing. Maybe spanish songs next time? Or mumbly french ones. Maybe it's an European washing machine.
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