If you saw a female dressed in a suit walking like a cowboy today, that would be me. I managed to re-injure my knee and strain my - for lack of a better word - groin over the weekend. Now I know why those footballers get put out of action for so long.

No, you perverts. Get your minds out of the gutter. I managed to hurt myself while teaching intellectually disabled adults how to dance when I took part in Care to Dance on Saturday.

Care to Dance is organised by the YMCA of Singapore and conducted by the Lindy Hop Ensemble. In a nutshell, it's "all about unleashing youthful energy, developing creative potential, giving back to the community" and is organised as part of the SHINE youth festival. There are four Care to Dance sessions. Each session features two different dances: the Bombay Boogie, a Bollywood-inspired dance, and a dance from the '40s to the '70s, depending on the session. Volunteers will learn these dances in the morning, and teach it to the beneficiaries in the afternoon.

Not that many people knew I was volunteering. The reason is clearly illustrated in the exchange between S., the guy I had that first date with, and I during said date.

Me: I'm a capitalist consumer. I'm not like [mutual friend]. I don't care about people. I only like animals.
[later on]
S.: So what dance plans do you have?
Me: I'm teaching underprivileged kids* how to dance.
S.: Ooooh. You're not so tough after all. You're going to ruin your reputation if you keep that up!
Me: Shhh! Don't tell anyone!

[*I later found out that the beneficiaries for my session had been changed.]

The day started out with a series of dance workshops teaching the 90 volunteers the different dance steps we would be teaching the beneficiaries coming later that day. This was followed by an informational session on how to deal with the beneficiaries. On that particular day, the beneficiaries turned out to be intellectually disabled adults from MINDS, Bishan Home for the Intellectually Disabled, Y Stars and the Association of Persons with Special Needs.

Now, I would much rather have helped out with the sessions that had beneficiaries from children's homes given that I, and I'm sure many other people as well, am not too sure how to handle well, the intellectually disabled. But I was determined to give this my best shot.

During the info session, one of the ice-breaker games that the facilitators suggested was called "Squirrel and Tree," which is a little too complicated to explain here. Suffice it to say that if you're playing the game, and you're a squirrel (and yes, you will be a squirrel at some point during the game if you play it for any amount of time), you will be squatting. A lot. And that's how I injured myself. I'm getting old after all, and I was never meant to be an ah beng.

After lunch, the beneficiaries arrived. Each group took care of a group from one of the charities. In our case, it was one of the groups from Bishan Home. Our group was large enough that one of us was assigned to one of the beneficiaries. The beneficiary I ended up with, FT, was a very quiet, middle-aged (late 40s, early 50s) male and Felix, the social worker from the home, told me that FT liked familiar faces and would probably take a very long time to respond to me, and not to be disheartened if he didn't warm up to me at all that day.

And indeed, that proved to be the case. I spoke to him in a mixture of English and Mandarin, and while he glanced at me, his only response was either a nod, or a hand gesture. The group played a couple of icebreakers (no, not "Squirrel and Tree" which we felt was way too complicated to be played with our beneficiaries) and FT appeared to relax just a little.

During the Bombay Boogie dance workshop, I managed to get FT's attention for a small part of it, and he tended to follow my footwork, although his attention tended to wander very quickly. I decided not to press him too much for this particular segment, because I felt the dance was a little too difficult for even the volunteers, and Felix had asked us not to tire them out too much after all. However, when one of the regular volunteers from the home came around and stood in front of him, doing the gestures, FT's eyes would brighten up and he would follow. I definitely saw what Felix meant about FT needed familiarity.

The next dance was a disco-themed dance and at first, I was worried that FT was too tired to learn, and again I didn't want to push him. He definitely wasn't interested in the first part of the dance, but I kept trying (by gently touching him on the shoulder and doing the moves with him) and to my delight, he really got into the spirit of the second part. I don't think it had anything much to do with me as I think one of the social workers was standing off to the side, encouraging him to have fun. Nevertheless, seeing the grin on his face as he followed my hand movements felt good.

At the end of the entire session, I guided him back to his social worker. As the group left to return to their bus, I gave him a little wave and was rewarded by a return wave, and that definitely made everything all worthwhile.

I went for a midnight walk yesterday for some fresh air to clear my head (I didn't want to do my thinking at home, where all of my stuff would have cluttered up what I wanted to think about) and ended up at Zouk. I wasn't feeling my usual social self (as in I didn't mind being in a place full of people, I just didn't want to deal with people I didn't know well) and wandered into the main room to take in Aldrin's set. His tunes were great, as usual, but he really needs to stop having that many breakdowns, at least in the first half of his sets. It'd be interesting to see if he could keep the energy level up consistently without having to bring it down and build it up what felt like five times in the hour and a half I was there.

After that refreshing time spent in my sanctuary, I felt fortified enough to wander into Twee Like Me at Phuture, which was the set I'd originally wanted to check out. I knew I would enjoy the music, but, quite frankly, I needed the strength to be able to endure the crowd. There's nothing wrong with the people there, just that I tend to find them a little intimidating. I can walk onto the Zouk dance floor without knowing anyone down there and dance my socks off and not give a damn, but can't do that for the indie/pop/so-many-sub-genres-it's-almost-laughable crowd. And honestly, if I had another friend there, I probably would have dragged him or her onto the dance floor and danced, particularly when a series of New Wave and rather Mambo-like tunes came on (True Faith, Take On Me, What Have I Done to Deserve This and Love Will Tear Us Apart).

But I didn't. Instead, I leaned against a wall, watched the dancers and just enjoyed the music, which I found was rather easy on the ears, although my Zouk regular friends really couldn't take it. It's rather odd for someone like me to listen to music and not move. Even when I'm at places like Wala Wala, my friends and I end up dancing at the back of the room.

So why wasn't I dancing? Well, there was another friend there. And recently, with this friend, I've taken on another persona whenever I meet up with this person, as opposed to when I'm chatting online or just texting. That person gets to face me in my Corporate persona on my worst day (i.e. when I'm hard-a**ed, tough as nails and generally, almost b****y). And Corporate Me (CM for short) doesn't dance (mostly for fear of looking like an idiot), and with respect to this friend, CM doesn't - or will not - break, unlike the other Me's that've been hurt, albeit unintentionally, by said friend. And mostly, I guess, I'm afraid of allowing myself to have fun while that person (and that person only) is around, because, well... it's hard to explain. But I'm a little saddened I've to turn off the easygoing, fun-loving person that I am with respect to this person because the costs of not doing so are just a little too high. Thankfully, when other people are around, I'm not CM to them as well, just this one person.

So it was with a certain amount of relief when I headed back to Zouk when I could throw myself into the pulsating sounds of dirty, tribal house and tear up the dance floor. I guess you could say Zouk, and by this, I mean the main room, really is my second home and my (other) church, so happy and fulfilled was I when I began to dance.

I've been on training the past couple of days on a course taught by an Australian. And it's only today that I've learnt what "knifey spooney" in The Simpsons episode: Bart vs. Australia is based on: The Crocodile Dundee movie. I was pleasantly surprised when I made the connection.

It's truly the little things in life which make one happy... especially true in a week when I've been stood up (in a sense) twice!

If you've never had the good fortune to watch that episode (and I have, at least three times), here're a couple of choice quotes... including "knifey spooney"!

Marge: I'll just have a cup of coffee.
Bartender: Beer it is.
Marge: No, I said coffee.
Bartender: Beer.
Marge: Cof-fee.
Bartender: Be-er.
Marge: (spells) C-O...
Bartender: (spells) B-E...

Australian man: You call that a knife? This is a knife!
Bart: That's not a knife. That's a spoon.
Australian man: Alright, alright, you win. Heh. I see you've played knifey-spooney before.

What came first - the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person? People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands - literally thousands - of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don't know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they've been listening to the sad songs longer than they've been living the unhappy lives.
- High Fidelity, Nick Hornby

Thank You For Smoking is a wickedly brilliant movie. Aaron Eckhart is perfectly cast as the guy everyone ought to hate, but doesn't - Nick Naylor, Vice-President and Chief Spokesman of the Academy of Tobacco Studies, the main spin doctor and lobbyist of the tobacco industry. Nick is slick, smooth and glib. He smarms and he smirks, but he exudes likability so much so that you can't help but like him and his fellow lobbyists, Polly Bailey (Maria Bello with a great haircut), alcohol, and Bobby Jay Bliss (David Koechner), firearms. Collectively, they're known as the M.O.D Squad (Merchants of Death) and they compete to see whose products kill off the most people.

A central part of the movie is how Nick deals with his son, Joey (Cameron Bright). While in reality, most people would condemn a tobacco lobbyist bringing his son along with him on business trips, the moments we see them as they bond are oddly enough, very sweet. In Joey's eyes, Nick can do no wrong. And yet, there's nothing in the film itself that I would condemn as being bad parenting. "The beauty of an argument is that if you argue correctly, you're never wrong," Nick tells his son, and indeed, this is the case throughout the whole show.

The funniest scene in the movie (and there are so many to choose from!) must surely be when Nick is sent to Hollywood to meet agent Jeff Megall (Rob Lowe looking good) with the aim of getting movies to "put sex back into cigarettes." Adam Brody is laugh-out-loud funny as Jack Bein, Jeff's assistant, incredibly hyper such that he's either got ADD or on something.

Go watch this movie before its run is finished. You won't regret it. And if you're observant enough, and I'm sure you are, you'll notice that there isn't a single act of smoking shown throughout the whole film.

Lesson learnt from TYFS: To be right, all you have to do is prove the other side's wrong.

The Darkness was wrong. I don't believe in a thing called love. Well, almost. I'm 20% away from total disbelief. Not because of anything that's happened recently, but just because it seems easier.

You know how people say that you shouldn't have any expectations just so you'll always be pleasantly surprised? Well, I never quite understood how to approach something with no expectations, and thus, usually approached with low expectations. I guess I'm doing something similar here.

In my row of desks at work, all but one of the occupants are embittered, cynical, single men. The remaining one is... me. Might as well join the club... insofar as I can, that is.

Sophie Ellis-Bextor was found dead in Zidane's flat.

It was murder on Zidane's floor.

For those of you not familiar with English pop culture, SEB is a female pop singer. One of her hits was Murder on the Dance Floor. Hee!

I went to Baybeats yesterday to catch Concave Scream even though I had only five hours of sleep, was still a little sick from the previous week, and the night was incredibly humid. I'd been meaning to catch the band for some time now and even though they've played a couple of gigs before this, I'd never quite managed to muster up the strength and enthusiasm to go see them. Yesterday, however, I just felt this urge to do something different, and to do it by myself for a change. I succeeded in the former, not quite in the latter (as I found a friend who wanted to see them too).

Concave Scream was definitely a good band to catch. They reminded me of the Smashing Pumpkins off Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. The band opened their six song set (half an hour is just too short) with Caged, and followed up with songs from their most recent album, Horizons, such as Nobody. I tend to love guitar-driven music (and that's really the best way I can describe the sound I like) and hence, liked the sound of Caged seeing as it's loud, dramatic and a little angry. The other songs they played (their newer stuff) felt a little more reflective, which is when I felt their resemblence to the Pumpkins was the strongest.

To sum up the rest of the night, I caught a couple of the bands that were on after them as well, such as Electrico (which I used to like, but not anymore, because I feel their sound is a little, well, generic), Astreal (Ginette plays a mean guitar although I can't make out half the words she's singing) and the Posies (who reminded me of R.E.M, but weren't as good, and got a little boring after a while).

I'm currently listening to Sparklehorse, a band recommended to me by a colleague after I introduced him to Stars. I'm not quite sure what to make of them, to be quite honest. I'm up to Hey, Joe on Good Morning Spider and their sound has varied quite a bit from the first track (Pig) on the album. It's an interesting listen for sure.

The Coldplay concert was one heck of a visual spectacular. The group made good use of the giant screen above the stage and while some of their theatrics were a little odd (like the time Chris Martin was staring at himself in the giant screen), other parts were unbelievable, such as when Yellow came on, and giant yellow balls filled with confetti bounced from the back of the stadium. My favourite effect of the night was when they projected words onto the walls of the stadium during Swallowed in the Sea, the first song of their three song encore. There was just something incredibly mesmerising and soothing about both the visuals and the song.

They played all the songs I love - The Scientist, God Put A Smile Upon Your Face, Clocks, Yellow, Fix You, In My Place - and they sounded awesome live. There's just something about the guitar intro for Yellow which I love and makes my day just that much better. The last time Coldplay was here was in 2001, when they shared the stage with Travis. I went to that concert for one purpose and one purpose only: to listen to them play Yellow. That's how much I love that song. My voice was already hoarse from the cheering for Italy and my screaming and singing along to those songs most definitely killed my voice for the remainder of the week.

I will admit, however, that my enjoyment of the show was a little marred by how tired I was. When I'm tired, some things get to me more than they should, and in this particular instance, that was definitely something I was trying not to think about. During the parts of the show when the energy flagged and I was no longer distracted by the music, I felt as if I was drowning. I did my best to push those feelings aside, but it was really only until the intro of In My Place started that I just closed my eyes and surrendered myself to the relaxing tranquility of that tune. And of course, Fix You was just what I needed at that point in time. That, and a friend who noticed that something was disturbing me, and did what he could without asking any questions. Thanks for that, and also for taking the photos.

Alas, while the concert was a great show, it wasn't that great a concert. Yes, the band are incredible live. However, I found them a little aloof and well... cold (no pun intended). The last time they were here, Chris spoke a lot more with the crowd. Yes, they have a much more sophisticated and polished sound now, but when I go to a concert, I prefer it to have more of an interactive element.

Still, Coldplay remains one of my three favourite bands in the world, and I don't regret going to see them even though I was surviving on two hours of sleep and did some damage to my voice the week of a big presentation.

Check out Coldplaying for more reviews of the concert.

I'm looking through bash.org right now and this particular quote made me laugh.

#427792 +(4259)- [X]
<@Terror> "It's easy to forget what a sin is in the middle of a battlefield."
<@cky> opposite over hypotenuse
<@cky> dipshit

I'm such a geek.

Free booze is always nice.

Yesterday, my boss treated us to a couple of rounds of drinks at a new wine bar at Robertson Quay called Tasting Notes. The bar also serves a delightfully light and not at all bitter beer from Thailand called Phuket Beer.

Today, it was the official opening for Q Bar. The last time I was at this particular venue was at the first Do Yourself In. I love what they've done to the place since, making it an upmarket chill-out bar, taking full advantage of its position facing the river. The upstairs room is really nice too and the DJs (Jasen and Effen) were playing some rather good house and progressive. And they have an extensive range of vodkas too, which I fully intend to partake of the next time I'm there.

There were definitely some service issues though. We waited forty minutes for our whiskey coke (part of the free flow) to arrive, reminded the waiter twice who kept telling us it was on the way and when we marched up to the bar to ask them where our drinks were, they told us we had to pay. I have no objections whatsoever towards paying for my drinks, but to pull that kind of stunt on people is just wrong. And then, there was the waitress who I had asked for the drinks menu from, and the next time she returned, she didn't even look at me and it was clear that she wasn't carrying any menu. I understand it's the opening and that perhaps the staff are very overwhelmed, so I will give them one more chance, but as a member of the incredibly demanding PMEB crowd, I do expect consistently good service, regardless of the circumstances. After all, the same is demanded of me at work and I do usually deliver. If no one cuts me any slack, I'm not going to do the same for other people, lest I be seen as a doormat.

And to top things off, when we got back to my friend's car, we found that someone had broken his side mirror, cleared up all the glass but left the broken plastic casing on the ground and hadn't even left a note. If you're going to do any such thing, be a f***ing man and own up to it, b*****d.

The Mother of All Insults

If indeed Marco Materazzi did impugn Zinédine Zidane's mother as a prostitute or a terrorist or perhaps both (busy woman!) in Sunday's World Cup Final debacle that concluded with Zizou head-butting the Italian's chest, an ancient ritual was being played out. An Italian might well have reflex recourse to such an anti-motherly jibe, particularly when he was embroiled in the shirt-pulling petulance that overtook leading exponents of the beautiful game in the last minutes of extra time in the most important football match in four years. "It's quite important to realise that this is a ritual," says Cameron. "To say something outrageous in this way is part of a provocative ritual rather than reality. If your mother was indeed a sex worker, the insult would be very different and less potent."

It's nice to see that the art of picking someone up is just as cheesy the world over.

Any day you wake up with your head feeling like your brain’s been replaced by warm oatmeal and the first word out of your mouth is “f***!” is usually not going to be a good day. However, this day is different.

I stayed up to watch my beloved Azzurri win its first major trophy in many years and although I feel like begging for someone to put me out of my misery right now because my eyes are so tired and various parts of my body are arching, it was well worth it. It’s been 10 years since I first noticed Cannavaro in Euro ’96 and I’m so proud of how he has guided the Azzurri to their first major title since 1982 and so very happy that Buffon was awarded the Best Goalkeeper of the tournament.

My throat is incredibly sore right now after cheering so much while watching the game at the National Library yesterday. If you were there and you heard someone yell, “Stop f***ing diving, you French f***ers!” after Malouda dived to ‘earn’ a penalty for the French, that was me. I apologise. My closet ah beng comes out whenever I’m watching a game which involves a team I’m passionate about.

I screamed my lungs out when Materazzi scored the equaliser and held my breath whenever the French were on the attack (which means I didn’t get very much air during the second half). I cursed in disgust when Zizou headbutted Materazzi and pumped my fists in quiet vindication when he was sent off for that offence. I closed my eyes and prayed when it came to penalty kicks. I held my friend for comfort and support before every kick was taken. I cheered when Trezeguet missed his chance and screamed my lungs out and punched the air when Grosso scored the final penalty, making Italy the second team ever to have won the World Cup four times. I was so incredibly ecstatic that I almost kissed the friend I was watching the game with, but fortunately, and sensibly, I settled for giving him a big hug.

I would have loved to be in Berlin (didn't it look beautiful?) or Rome so that I could have soaked in the atmosphere (pre- and post-match) but instead, I spent it at a place I never thought I would ever watch a match (much less the World Cup Final) on a 100 inch HDTV screen with one of my best friends.

Indeed, today is one heck of a beautiful day. Forza Azzurri!

Doesn't work feel like this sometimes?

It seems that some of my friends have been incredibly curious to find out how my date last week went. It began with dinner at a lovely restaurant which had really friendly staff. Both he and I arrived early, me in my office attire (a shirt and skirt combo which looks professional but also compliments my figure nicely), he in smart casual shirt and pants (although he came from home). The dinner lasted three hours during which we chatted about anything and everything. Towards the end of dinner, he tried to teach me a breakdance move which I was too shy to attempt. After dinner, we decided to explore the surrounding areas. The exploration begain with a stroll through a park hidden in the middle of the city and ended two hours later with his seeing me home in a cab.

Before all of you hunker forward to ask if anything juicy happened, let it be known that neither he nor I made any physical moves on each other during this whole time. Now, this is both a good and a bad thing. It's good because, as I told my guy best friend, the last time I kissed someone on a first date, that relationship ended in Incredible! Pain! And! Heartache! (To which my friend replied, "well, that's what's supposed to happen before you get it right!") It's not so good because, well... without the move - or an attempt at one - I can't really tell whether he likes me. Therein lies the reason for my cautious optimism. I trust you get what I mean.

In any case, you - and I - will have to wait a long time before there'll be any updates on this. He's gone off for a long vacation.

I love my colleagues. They're great people to work with and chat with.

Just the other day, my English colleague revealed to us that because he didn't subscribe to the sports channel on cable, and he wanted to know the England - Portugal score, he ended up using binoculars to 'spy' on one of the flats opposite his apartment which happened to have a gigantic TV screen. As if that wasn't bad enough...

Colleague: This was about the time it went to penalty kicks. When I looked at their screen, the score was 3-1 to Portugal. I don't know much about the penalty system so I walked back to my television to check the Wimbledon tie-break and when I came back, I saw their TV was off and I thought, 'oh no, I've been spotted!' and that they'd turned off the television and drawn the curtains to hide from me. Then I went on the Internet and realised that 3-1 was the final score.
Me: Ha ha! At least it wasn't the 3 am game because if they'd spotted you then, you'd be in some serious trouble! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
Colleague: I don't think I should have told you that story. It's really not the sort of thing I should be sharing with people.

Indeed.

From today's PostSecret:

So we're now at the semifinal stage of the World Cup. I can't remember my exact predictions but I believe I had Italy and Germany making the semis, but most definitely not Portugal or France.

I haven't watched a truly great game so far; the best that I've seen was the Germany - Argentina match which the South Americans lost thanks to tactical blunders by the Argentinean coach.

What grabs me is the sheer amount of playacting that's been going on in this World Cup, most notably from the Portugeuse side. I dislike the England team, that's known, and I wanted them to lose last night because I didn't want them to have the satisfaction of saying that "hey, at least we got through to the semis" and also because it's always fun to watch grown men cry. But to lose in part because the other team played dirty? That really does suck.

I went for a samba workshop earlier this evening conducted by Güpson Pierre of Attitude Dance Studio and man, was it intense. This was the Carnival-style samba danced in Brazil, not the ballroom samba which is the version of samba I've been wanting to learn ever since I saw it in 1999, but nevertheless, I had lots of fun. My calves and abs ached at the end of the two hour session, and while they don't ache any more now, I'm sure as heck going to feel it in the morning!

One thing Güpson (who is a great teacher, incidentally, if a little scary at times) told us was that people in Brazil "don't have breasts. All they have is the butt. That is why they exaggerate the chest movement so much. The butt... it is easy!" Given my typically Asian bust and rather substantial booty, it sounds like the perfect dance for me to take up.

If you're wondering about the main difference between authentic Brazilian samba and ballroom samba, I would say that your feet have to move a lot faster in the former than in the latter. Within eight beats of a samba song, you would have taken 24 steps doing the former compared to eight dancing the latter. And apparently, dancers in Brazil do this for hours at a stretch during the Carnival. Yowtch.

Watching the Germany-Argentina match with my bosses was surprisingly less traumatising than I thought it would be. Given the fact that I was openly supporting Argentina while my bosses were supporting Germany ('bad career move,' my friend noted), and my tendency to turn incredibly red and get a little giggly after a couple of drinks (although I can drink quite a fair bit before I've reached the wasted stage), I was a little worried about the possibility about my having to clear out my desk on Monday morning.

I was initially rather reluctant to join them for the match as I was exhausted, having been working late the last two weeks, not to mention the date the night before, but after a fellow colleague urged me to go, telling me that invitations from management to join them for the game are very very rare. So in the end, I went home, changed into something more casual, more me, but still more conservative than my clubbing clothes and joined them at the bar. After all, if I have to schmooze, so to speak, what better environment to do it in than one in which I'm comfortable (i.e. football, bar and drinks)?

It wasn't as bad as I thought. My bigger boss beat me 1-0 in table ice hockey (the lowest losing margin of everyone else he played, and not because he wasn't trying) and I didn't do too badly in darts, managing to get most of my darts on the board. And I met some of their friends (one or two in the same industry as we are, and their clients). All in all, I had fun even if my team lost the game on penalty kicks after having started out so promisingly with a goal right at the beginning of the second half.

What's the point in this post? Well, one day I'm going to look back at this and remind myself that no matter how shy I am, I am indeed capable of holding my own when talking to anyone, and that includes senior management at my own workplace. Currently, I'm very bad at it, and my face turns red when I an unexpectedly asked a question during meetings. So the fact that I could chat with them comfortably once means that I can do it again. And again and again if need be. Even if it's back at the office, in an environment where it's not obviously 'my turf.'