Research on Men's Grooming

Dear Gentlemen

Myself and a friend are taking part in a marketing and branding challenge for men's products. The stakes are high and we would like to win very very much =).

It would be great if you could aid us in our research stage by taking this short survey. It will take 5 minutes. The survey is pretty basic and just asks about some of the regular haircare/skincare products you use, and your opinion on how their branding strategy may possibly affect your decision. We are aiming for 50 entries by Thursday.

Just click on the link to submit your answers!

http://spreadsheets.google.com/viewform?formkey=clpCaXc0LUdTQ3Y4bnM4QmVpNWJVWFE6MA

Thanks and xx

Ketki

Justice Cometh!

Bernie Madoff deserved what he got when Judge Chin sentenced him to 150 years in prison. I have attached a lovely report from New York Magazine about the trial and its victims. The way the article is written provides a heart-wrenching perspective into his victims lives. Enjoy.

From New York Magazine (online) by Erica Orden

Earlier today, we reported on the 150-year sentence just slapped on Bernie Madoff; now that we've had a moment to collect our thoughts, here's what we witnessed in the courtroom.
At 10 a.m. on the dot, officers at the federal courthouse closed the courtroom doors and Bernard Madoff — eyes cast downward, lips pursed, gray hair coiffed — took his place in front of Judge Denny Chin and a room packed with his victims to hear how he would be punished for perpetrating the world’s largest Ponzi scheme.

Victims' statements constituted the bulk of the proceedings, with nine investors chosen to speak out of the many who wrote letters to the court. (Eleven victims were originally slated to take the mike, but two withdrew at the last moment, according to Chin.) The Ambrosinos were the first to describe their suffering. A retired New York City corrections officer, he spoke of Madoff’s “indescribably heinous crimes,” saying, "As the guy who used to be on the right side of the correction bars, I'll know what Mr. Madoff is experiencing." He added: “I would like someone to tell me how long is my sentence.”

Maureen Ann Ebel, 65, used her opportunity behind the microphone to scold the federal regulatory bodies, saying, "The SEC, in its total incompetence and negligence, has let a total psychopath steal from me." She described the rapid weight loss, insomnia, and paranoia she suffered following the knowledge that she had lost her life savings with Madoff; she has sold most of her possessions and is now forced to work three jobs. She also spoke of her deceased husband, a physician, saying, “He would save someone’s life so that Bernie Madoff could buy his wife another Cartier watch.”

Michael Schwartz, 33, wept as he described the modest, now-obliterated family trust fund set up to care for his mentally disabled brother. “I only hope that his sentence is long enough so that his jail cell will become his coffin,” Schwartz said of Madoff.

With her blonde ringlet curls, yellow halter sundress, and breathy voice balanced on the brink of tears, victim Sharon Lissaur cut the most visually striking figure in the room. In statements uttered barely above a whisper, she pleaded with Madoff. “I was always so careful with my money,” she said, describing how she funneled her life savings from her modeling career into Madoff’s fund. “I’m not asking him; I’m begging him, if he has my money in any offshore accounts that he give it back.” Before she sat down, Lissaur added: “He killed my spirit and shattered my dreams. He killed my trust in people.”

When the victims finished, Madoff’s defense lawyer, Ira Lee Sorkin (whose parents actually lost $900,000 with Madoff, presented his statement to the judge. Perhaps the most unsympathetic character in the room besides Madoff, Sorkin’s plea for leniency (he requested twelve years, just below what he calculated as Madoff’s life expectancy) included arguments that appeared to incense the victims. "There is no doubt that we represent a deeply flawed individual, but we represent a human being. He's not a statistic or a number." Sorkin continued: "The magnificence of our legal system is that we do not seek an eye for an eye." With that, Sorkin drew some grumbling from the victims' corner. But the real jeers and scoffs came with his closing sentences, when he spoke of "the extent that the government has left [Madoff] and his wife in poverty." This appeared to do little to ingratiate him to people like Marian Siegman, who had just spoken of her reliance on food stamps and dumpster scavenging as a result of her financial losses. Sorkin repeated his request for a twelve-year sentence, saying, "There is no question that this case has taken an enormous toll on Mr. Madoff and his family but on the victims as well."

Finally, the man of the hour. Madoff rose, still facing Judge Chin, with his back to the seating area, and delivered what constituted his defense. “I cannot offer you an excuse for my behavior,” he told Chin. “I live in a tormented state now, knowing the pain and suffering I’ve caused … Apologizing and saying I’m sorry — that’s not enough. There’s nothing I can say to correct the things I’ve done.” But Madoff did, for the first time, apologize to his victims publicly and face-to-face. Turning away from Chin to look at the rows of investors behind him, he said “I’m sorry, but I know that doesn’t help you.”

After federal prosecutors repeated their request for the maximum sentence of 150 years, saying that a 12-year sentence would be more appropriate for a “garden-variety fraud case,” Chin began his statement. “Despite all of the emotion in the air, I do not agree that victims or others are seeking mob vengeance,” Chin said. “Objectively speaking, the fraud here was staggering.”

He continued, scolding the defendant before him. “I simply do not get the sense that Mr. Madoff has done all that he could or told all that he knows,” he said, responding to Sorkin’s reasoning that Madoff had been complicit in aiding investigators after he came forward with his crime. Chin also noted that, while he expected to receive the thousands of letters damning Madoff for his sins, he also anticipated letters in defense of Madoff from his family. He received none. “Not a single letter has attested to your good deeds or charitable activities. And that silence is telling.”

Chin went on to detail his three-fold argument for doling out a sentence that would prove largely symbolic, above and beyond what Madoff would reasonably expect to carry out, given his age. And then the verdict: 150 years, the announcement of which caused whoops and cheers in the courtroom.

The prison where Madoff will carry out his sentence has not yet been determined, though Chin said he would recommend imprisonment within the Northeast.

As Madoff’s victims filed out and prepared to congregate for a rally in Foley Square, the largest Ponzi schemer in history stepped out from behind the slick courtroom table, walking his last few steps in in the custom-made suit they helped purchase.

Crazy Talk

This is a piece from our creative writing group exercise re-done and edited. I still don't LOVE it. But I can live with it. (Update: Edited, but I'm still not happy)

Sometimes he felt like a gerbil, running around and around on his wheel in a crazed state of mind. Getting nowhere in life seemed to come naturally to him, stuck in a dead-end unenviable job as a mid-priced car salesman and still living in his parents house was not part of his ten-year plan. Neither was it how he had thought he would have ended up after he had graduated from one of the top law schools in the country.

The girlfriend front was not looking fantastic either. The woman his mother had set him up with had refused to return his calls. He could barely believe the circumstances. His mother had to set him up, and why not too. All that was left of him was his dwindling bank account, the little fringe around his ears, and that hated job which gave him the appearance of a slimeball. Attractive, intelligent and sexy, the kind of woman he used to date during his glory days, could be forgotten. That woman loved men with large titles, larger stock portfolios, and even larger...

"Neil, focus," his psychiatrist's voice cut through his pondering.

"Doc, what can I say? I imagine I'm floating in a sea of sharks." His shrink sighed and scribbled on his paper once again. Neil glanced at all his impressive degrees on the wall behind him. "Maybe he knew a guy who made these for fun," he thought to himself. He could get a couple for himself, and also one that said, "Neil Symonds, New Man". That would do wonders for his self-esteem.

"Neil Neil Neil, what have I said about metaphors? Let's just stick to specifics, shall we?" said the psychiatrist, removing his thick dark-framed glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. Neil was a difficult patient. Their sessions were filled with arguments and intense dramatic dialogues. The wise doctor played along, he knew it gave Neil the impression of the courtroom.

"Okay..." Neil slapped his thighs and sat upright. He tried to focus on the doctor's thick moustache, but its stiff brush-like appearance made him laugh, and he let out a snort.

"Neil!"

"Yes Doc. My life is going nowhere. I still live at home. I am younger than you but you have more hair on your upper lip than I have on my entire head. The last date I had refuses to return my calls and she ranked a 2/10. How the hell do you think I feel?"

"I think we spoke about the 'Fuck-O-Meter', Neil," he reprimanded sternly. Then his face softened. "Neil, talk to me."

"Jeez doc, you're starting to sound like my mother," he remarked with a smirk. Neil swung his legs over the sofa's edge and sat up. He looked at his psychiatrist straight.

"You have been happily married to an ex-news anchor for twenty-seven years, doc. Your kid is in Yale Law and you make a $150 an hour. You don't fucking care, mate."

The doctor was not willing to concede defeat. "Neil, you love soccer, don't you? Look at life as a game. You're the player and the ball is yours. You have the choice to take it right, left, forwards, backwards, or even pass it on to another player. Now until you are in possession of that ball, which I assume you still are at this point in your life, imagine that you need to obey the rules to reach the goalpost. That goalpost signifies every goal you want to set for yourself in the short and long term. The rules of the game signify the discipline you will need to enforce upon yourself in your life and the commitment to follow through. Now Neil, if you break any of these rules, you will get a yellow card or even a red card, which means you will have to start all over again. You follow?"

Neil looked vacantly out the window, mute. He knew what starting all over meant. Like the time Fiona had left him and taken half his life. Or the time he had lost his job together with his law license at Miller-Helms-Dunn.

If some bastard told him to start over again, he would jump off the goddamned building.

He looked at the doctor and smiled, "Sure."

Hair

One hour into my 4 hour hair appointment.

All I do is keep telling myself, 'It's worth it, it's worth it, it's worth it.'

I still wonder how come I don't land enough dates from all my efforts.

Update: hour 2 is up!

Update: hour 3 is up!

Sniffly Cabbies

Dear Singaporean Taxi Companies,

Please monitor your taxi drivers like the government monitors the media.

This afternoon, I had the unfortunate privilege of taking a taxi with a very snotty and sniffly taxi driver.

I do not intend to imply that he is infected with any swine/bird/cow/insect related flu but I do fear for my health.

Also he kept touching his drippy nose. Ew.

You probably will ignore this complaint anyway considering your service has deteriorated despite the various technical upgrades you try to add to the taxis.

Thanks anyway.

Disgusted and grossed out,
K

The Bully (contd. from the post titled Rain)

I could not believe I was intimidated by the big hulking bully who lived next door. Billy the Bully, as he had been aptly nicknamed by all the smaller kids on the block, gorged eternally on marshmallows, puddings, fried chicken and anything his grubby hands could contain. I was surprised that he had not resorted to cannibalism yet. Dressed permanently in a pair of secondhand breeches and an unwashed singlet, I cowered miserably under his dominating stare. I was the poor and unfortunate brown kid he picked on the most.

It was raining cats and dogs the day my mother and I landed in our rattling aircraft in Chicago. It was 1990 and I remember being five years old. I peered out of the grimy window get a glimpse of what the “American Dream” was supposed to look like. It looked wet and unattractive.

We got off the plane at Chicago International Airport, collected our bags and met my father there. He had arrived there four months earlier to start work and set up our home. His handsome face looked haggard with newly formed dark circles.

“You look thin,” was the first thing my mother remarked when she saw him. They hugged. He threw me up in the air and I laughed. I loved it when he did that.

“Let’s go, our new house is waiting.” We followed him to the subway, bag and baggage. My father bought us subway tickets to last the week and I watched as he ran his fingers over the worn out notes twice over. With a sigh, he tucked his wallet back into his pocket. I hugged his leg. He ran his hand through my hair and said, “Everything will be okay, son.”

The subway was filled with faceless people – black, white, brown, yellow – staring ahead from within their big windcheaters. I held on tight to my mother’s coat. Two hours later, exhausted and panting, we reached our housing block ironically named Castle Hills.

I looked up at the dilapidated and graying apartment building unwillingly. Memories of our home in India came flooding back. I dropped my mother’s hand and made a mad dash to see how far my little five-year old legs could take me.

My parents caught up with me. My mother slapped, cajoled and hugged me.“What is wrong with you, ha?” She shook me by my arms. I ;looked at the grounds and refused to speak. We trudged back to our house as the thunderclouds rumbled above us. It was as if they were applauding our arrival to our Diaspora.

As the months passed by, I began to assimilate with my surroundings. I realized very soon that our neighbors were of the strange sort - the Wyndham couple, who lived right below us, put all sorts of strange things in all the brownies to they offered to little children under the pretext of being friendly. Then there was Groucho Mark (as he had been nicknamed) who was grouchy only because all of his five children whom he had put through college had left him alone to fend for himself. Of course, there was my arch enemy, the Goliath to every David - Billy the Bully.

The first day of school during recess, I found myself face down in a puddle of rainwater. I had been pushed. I gathered myself and my leftover courage and turned around to face the bully. It was none other than Billy with a casual smirk on his dirty face. One look, and I ran as far as I could until the playground fence. I turned around to see if the bully followed me, but instead I saw the whole playground watching the scene with a curious fascination.

My chubby fingers grabbed the wire fence and I brought one leg up on it to start climbing, when I felt a warm trickle in my shorts. The playground erupted in laughter. I strained my neck to look up to the sky wishing it would send a flight of birds to swoop down, pick me up and whisk me back into my mother's arms. Instead I felt a drop on my cheek. A slight drizzle had begun. It shrouded my embarrassment and the playground in a fine layer. I stood there in my wet shorts and glum face gazing into the classrooms at my fate. I knew it was not kind.

Part II

"Urinator! Happy Birthday!" Screamed Lars Bennett from the doorway. My ears burned with shame at the nickname; it had stuck since that fateful day at the playground. I had run home crying to my mother and she had rocked me in her arms while I sobbed.

I turned to see Lars holding a small wrapped birthday gift. At least he had gotten me a present. Lars calling me a Urinator was ironic, especially since he sported a sixth digit. Tired of being incessantly teased by the bullies for his sixth phalange, he focused all his attention on the new boy - me. I had worked out very nicely for him.

It was my sixth birthday party and my parents had arranged a cake, balloons and let me invite ten of my friends. I was wearing a clean white shirt, new shorts, and my hair had been oiled and parted. My mothe had cooked Indian food, a luxury in our project, since supplies were expensive. I felt brand new.

The party was a swinging success. The candles of the cake lit up the dark and dingy apartment. My father hopped around the room with a disposable Kodak camera taking photographs at every opportunity. Creamy slices of cake were handed out and gobbled up in seconds. I smiled all evening.

After everyone had left, I helped my parents to clean the house. Bits of cracker and cake, gift wrappers, - out of which I had acquired two books, a fake astronomy set, some new clay, and marvelous color pens - paper cups and plates, all were tossed into a garbage bag. We huffed and puffed everything down the stairs, past the back gate and into the main rubbish pile. I hated the pile. It smelled of rotting meat and diseased vegetables.

My favorite part of the evening was the bedtime story. I snuggled up to my mother in our tiny bedroom surrounded by peeling walls. She began.

"There was once a little boy who was born in Uttar Pradesh, when the British still ruled India and did many unkind and unjust things. He was good, kind, helpful and loving, everything the British were not. He did everything his mother and father told him to do. He worked very hard in school because he realized that good grades were very important." She nodded at me sternly at the last sentence. I nodded back understandingly.

"Let's continue. So this brave boy grew up to be a strong virtuous young man. At the age of twenty-two, he told his mother, "Mother, I want to be a soldier for the East India Company."" She mimicked the young man letting out a low masculine voice and made me giggle.

"His mother was devastated, as was his father. But back in the day, good money was to be made by joining the East India Company. So off he went to Barrackpore in Calcutta with his regiment, his uniform, and his big shiny gun, looking smart and good.

One day our brave son heard a strange rumor from his friend. Our heroes in the East India Company used to bite off caps of cartridges before they could use the gunpowder inside..." she did a biting action to demonstrate.

"...and somebody told him that these cartridges were made of pigs and cows! Can you tell me what's wrong with that?"

"I dunno." I really did not know. I ate everything.

The East India Company's soldiers or as they were commonly known in those days - Sepoys - were mostly from Brahmin families. We are Brahmins too. Brahmins are religious people and worship the cow. Our young man was incensed at the thought of treating something so sacred in such a horrific manner."

My eyes widened. So was I.

"So the Sepoys asked the British very nicely if they could change the ingredients. The Commander-in-Chief at that time was General George Anson and he was an angry man indeed. Said he, "I will never give in to their beastly prejudices!"" She waved her fist mimicking the angry General Anson.

This made our soldier very upset indeed. So one day he did the unthinkable. Armed with a loaded musket, he threatened to shoot the first European he saw. When Lieutenant Baugh, one of the evil British men in the East India Company heard of this, he got on his big horse with his pistols and a giant sword, and galloped to where our brave young man stood.

A raging battle ensued between the two men! Oh how our hero fought! With a final aim of his gun he finished Lieutenant Baugh. But soon he was under siege from more officers, but he kept fighting and fighting until he could fight no more. One General Hearsey finally shot him in the chest wounding him." She closed her eyes with her hand on her chest.

"And then what happened?"

"Well the British were very unhappy about what had happened. They decided he should be punished and brought him to trial. During the trial they accused him of crimes against the British government when really he was standing up for his country and his honor. He was sentenced to death by hanging, but he died a martyr and a proud man!" She concluded with finality. I was devastated.

"But he was a hero, he fought for what was right. He stood up for his heritage, his legacy and more importantly, himself."

"What was his name?" I asked.

"Mangal Pandey," she said with a smile.

"Just like mine! My name is Mangal too!" I quipped.

"Yes darling, now goodnight and I hope you remember what I taught you today. Happy Birthday, " she gave me one last birthday kiss and turned off the lights.

I woke up the next morning to discover a slight pitter patter of rain. I recalled my mother's tale of heroism and sacrifice. I walked into the tiny balcony and stepped into the drizzle. It had been drizzling for weeks, but there had been no sign of real rain. I felt the raindrops land on my face and I smiled. I reached up to feel them on my arms and embrace their wetness.

The next day I walked onto the playground aware of my surroundings. Bullying had become part of my life, but Mangal Pandey's story had instilled new inspiration in me. Billy the Bully had previously "banned" me from the playground so I ate all my lunches in the cafeteria and whiled away the rest of my time in the school's ramshackle library - a once kind donation from the local business community but now a neglected site. As I sat on the bench coloring in a book with my new markers, he sauntered up to me.

In seconds, I saw my brand new birthday markers go flying into the sandbox. The playground had gone very silent. I held my ground and willed the tears not to come. He pushed my right shoulder, then my left. I finally stood up to face him. I noticed that he was a good head taller than me. His eyes were narrowed into small slits, his nose was runny and dirty, his mouth thin and cruel, and his chubby face was covered in biscuit crumbs.

With my heart beating wildly, I edged away from the bench towards the sandbox and started picking up my markers one by one, when I felt the familiar push from behind. I fell head first into the sand and swallowed a mouthful. That was the last straw. I was no longer just Mangal of Castle Hills, but I was Mangal Pandey of the Barrackpore 34th BNI Regiment, and Billy was a pasty-faced Lieutenant Baugh. An explosion of anger shot through me and I rammed my head in Billy's stomach. He doubled over in genuine pain, but I was not finished with him.

They say the pencil is mightier than the sword, and in my hand was a red marker. I drew it like Mangal Pandey would have drawn his sword and attacked Billy with full force, leaving red marks all over his clean white shirt and blue shorts. In too much pain from the force I had rammed him with, Billy lay on the ground grabbing his stomach while I drew crooked lines all over him.

Every child present watched with mad fascination until Mrs. Shreve, the principal, came running out hearing his screams. I was caught, literally red-handed. Mrs. Shreve dragged me by my ear to her office muttering under hear breath but I was too happy to care. My mother was summoned and informed that I was indeed a disappointment. I was "sentenced" to a five-day suspension and twent-hours of community service. I smiled throughout my "hearing".

That evening the real rains began.

Engrish

Found on a tissue paper packet. Those dogs look more sleepy than stupid.

Will Argue for Donuts

So I got talking to Professor Wadsworth, whose knowledge seems to supersede any Discovery Travel and Living show host when it comes to food. The discussion, for some reason, turned to donuts and I was saying how excited I was that Dunkin Donuts is coming back to Singapore. So he disagreed and said well, obviously I had gotten it all wrong and came up with this special "Hierarchy of Donuts" (if you are a communication student, you'll get the joke. If not, look up Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs).

Goes the conversation:

TW: Eh, dunkin donuts isn't that good.

Me: They're definitely better than krispy kreme. They are wayyy too much for me.

TW: Oh no!

Me: I think Dunkin Donuts put in just the right amount of sugar and chocolate in their double chocolate donuts.

TW: You have your donut hierarchy way screwed up. See it goes like this.

1. Local Bakery Donuts
2. Grocery Store Donuts
3. Krispy Kreme Donuts
4. Dunkin Donuts

Me: Hahahahha!

TW: 5. Gas Station Donuts

Me: wtf

TW: 6. Boxed Donuts

Me: Where did you get this?

TW: I have always maintained this notion from my great and knowledgeable experience with donuts.

Me: How many donuts have you consumed to formulate this complex theory?

TW: A lot.

Me: I'll bet.

Liz Gilbert and Amy Tan on Creativity

Elizabeth Gilbert on and Amy Tan on Creativity. Been wanting to read Eat. Pray. Love. almost forever!

Catch 22

Sort of how I'm feeling right now.

And also what I'm reading.

Book Cafe

Found a photo from Streetdirectory.com.

Cute book cafe

Sitting in a delightful place called Book Cafe. They are as 'book' as book can get with shelves of books and magazines placed around the cafe.
They also probably feature the most versatile and interesting menu I have ever seen.

Trying their honey lemon mixture and waiting for my vegetable consomme, which seems to be taking an awful long time though. Love that they have organic!

Wish I could take a photo of this place without freaking the waitresses out, especially the one hovering near my table all the time.

Rain

I'm writing, or at least trying to write a short short story with the running theme of "Rain" (note that I have aptly titled it Rain due to the lack of creativity), and this is what I have written so far.
The basic idea of the story operates on a flashback and then back to the present, highlighting how rain has been present in all the symbolic and incidental moments of this little boy's life. A little cliched? Shoot me.
It is written from the perspective of this little boy and how he struggles with moving to a foreign country, adapting to a different culture, and his main concern - overcoming the bullies.
It is supposed to be a simple and relatable story, I just have to figure out how to finish it =(.

I could not believe I was intimidated by the big hulking bully who lived next door. Billy the Hulk, as he had been aptly nicknamed by all the smaller kids on the block, gorged eternally on marshmallows, puddings, fried chicken and anything his grubby hands could contain. I was surprised that he had not resorted to cannibalism yet. Dressed permanently in a pair of secondhand breeches and an unwashed singlet, I cowered miserably under his dominating stare.

I was the poor and unfortunate brown kid he picked on the most. It was raining cats and dogs the day my mother and I landed in our rattling aircraft in the state of Texas. It was 1989 and I remember being four years old, and peering out of the grimy window get a glimpse of what the “American Dream” was supposed to look like. It looked wet and unattractive.

We got off the plane at San Antonio International Airport, collected our bags and met my father there. He had arrived there a month earlier to set up our home. His handsome face looked haggard with newly formed dark circles.

“You look thin,” was the first thing my mother remarked when she saw him. They hugged. He threw me up in the air and I laughed. I loved it when he did that.

“Let’s go, our new house is waiting.” We followed him to the subway, bag and baggage. My father bought us subway tickets to last the week and I watched as he anxiously ran his fingers over the worn out notes twice over. With a sigh, he tucked his wallet back into his pocket. I realized something was bothering him, and to make him feel better, I tried to show it by hugging his leg. He ran his hand through my hair and said, “Everything will be okay, son.” I just knew it would be okay.

The subway was filled with faceless people – black, white, brown, yellow – staring ahead from within their big windcheaters. I held on tight to my mother’s coat. Two hours later, exhausted and panting, we reached our housing block ironically named Castle Hills.

I looked up at the dilapidated and graying apartment building unwillingly. Memories of our home in India came flooding back. I dropped my mother’s hand and made a mad dash to see how far my little four- year old legs could take me.

My parents caught up with me. My mother slapped, cajoled and hugged me.“What is wrong with you, ha?” She shook me by my arms. I refused to speak.

Link to this blog

If you would like to be listed or linked to this blog, just click on the 'Follow' button on the right and proceed with the instructions. Your blog link should appear.

If you have any problems, email me at abrupt.ending@gmail.com.

"Dating Situation for Caucasian European in Singapore"

I saw this guy's post on a popular forum. There was just something about this post that irritated me - I don't know what. Whether it was how he was speaking about women in general, or Singaporean women, or just his attitude. I don't know. I did not like it. Also, PLEASE TAKE NOTE, no offence meant to any caucasians and Singaporeans.

His lines are in bold, mine are in italics.

I am considering moving to Singapore because it’s been a dream of mine to explore Asia and I find Asian women highly attractive.

If you are exploring Asia, I suggest you go to Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam and Japan. These places are rich in history, culture, language and the arts. Singapore is well known for nightlife and lawsuits on the press publications.

What are the odds of me finding a girlfriend if I move there?

Pretty low if you don’t have a damn job.

I am well-educated, tall, have an athletic build, and a nice and caring personality.

If you are as awesome as you claim, why can’t you find a girlfriend in your own country? Why do you have to move 10,000 miles for an odd fetish?

Do Singaporean girls like Europeans?

There is a particular breed that is partial to them. The species known as the Sarongus Partius Girlius has time and again shown its affinity toward the white man. The Sarongus Partius Girlius, or affectionately nicknamed the “SPG” by cultural anthropologists can be detected in their natural habitat by certain defining characteristics – dangerously high heels that produce a tottering sound while they run to keep up with their partner who is usually thrice their age or same as their grandfather (whichever number is higher), deliberately ill-fitting tight-dress with breasts that spill out for attention-grabbing purposes, and strong smelling Eau de Parfum – a natural repellent to the intelligent homo sapien.

I am basically an atheist, is that a problem?

Only God can answer that question, my friend.

In general, what do marriage minded Singaporean women look for in a man?

It really depends. The average Singaporean woman will probably consider whether the two of you have an emotional connection, which right now I'm guessing is non-existent because from your tone you seem to be headed toward a quick lay. She will also look at your intelligence, which I place to be somewhere between negative and nil. She will then look at your income earning ability, which again I highly doubt, since you are leaving your job and country to fulfill a crazy fetish. Lastly, she will look at your appearance. I am in no position to comment on that since I have not had the good fortune. Your chances of making it here are pretty low since the average Singaporean woman probably will blow you off and the SPG will not even consider you since chances are high you will be broke and jobless.

Is internet dating something you can recommend is it just a waste of time?

I honestly think people strike higher with lame Facebook attempts instead of internet dating sites.

If so, what is the best way to find a high quality Singaporean woman?

High quality. Hmm, hold on a sec. Let me put on one of my pressure-cooker salesman hats and tell you how to pick out a high-quality woman in Singapore. Oh fuck off you big horny dork!

I need to clean up

The Walrus and the Carpenter

I came across the lovely poem by Lewis Carroll called The Walrus and the Carpenter. I cannot recall the whole poem by heart but there are four lines from that poem I shall never forget because they never fail to amuse me.

Of shoes, ships and sealing wax
Of cabbages and kings.
Why the sea is boiling hot,
And whether pigs have wings

The Lie

Lonely, crouched on an uncomfortable hard seat in Miami International Airport, I struggled to keep the tears at bay. I was not ready to be weak. I glanced at the steadily progressing hands of my watch, then at the revolving doors to the entrance of the airport for him. All I saw were clusters of families pouring in to greet their loved ones. Everywhere I looked around me, people seemed to be reuniting, hugging and kissing tearfully. As I touched my face to brush a stray hair away, I felt a tear stop short just below my left eye. I looked up at the revolving doors and blinked as if that one blink would by chance of fate make him appear and he would scoop me his strong arms. Instead, I saw crashing trolleys and happy couples. Suddenly I stopped caring. I was no longer embarrassed to cry.

I came from an old family with our roots buried in heritage, rituals and customs. Honor and tradition ran deep ; lies were simply not tolerated. To my family, I introduced the concept of a “black sheep” – I was direct, but never rude; I was careless; but never reckless; I had passion, but it never lasted more than a month; and I fell in love, but I was doomed to be a heartbreaker. I had giggled mindlessly as an old astrologer had frowned while repeating my fortune to my mother when I was thirteen – how I would wreak havoc upon the family if I did not honor my elders. It all came back to me now, sitting at the airport and chewing down my carefully manicured nails. “Poetic justice” I thought to myself as I laughed bitterly through my tears. I deserved what I was getting.

We had met at a student conference in Sydney, where he was giving a lecture on the advancement of terrorism in Southeast Asia. I was seventeen, he was thirty seven. He was the youngest, yet by far the most accomplished speaker with eighteen published papers, four awards and already a full-time tenure at the University of Miami. His dynamic speeches on public policy, coupled with his eloquence and dashing good looks made up the classic ingredients for a heartbreaker recipe. I used every excuse in the book to talk to him about this and that, the current political standoff in Iran, and of course how my dress looked that evening while shamelessly batting my eyelashes. He complimented my immense knowledge on all topics and offered to take me out for dinner.

I knew what the invitation meant, and I trembled with excitement. That evening at dinner after my fourth glass of wine, he began caressing my thigh. By nine o clock, we could barely keep our hands off each other. The casual dinner invitation had turned into a secret rendezvous in his hotel room. Shame? The emotion never crossed my mind. All I cared was to run my hands through his thick brown hair and cover him in passionate kisses.

"Come visit me in Miami," he said in his loose American drawl on evening after we had made love. I was due on a flight in ten hours.

I sat upright with a jolt. "Really? I might."

Sure,” he responded lazily, rolled over and went to sleep. I laid awake well into the night thinking about seeing him again. I looked at his sleeping figure, leaned over and kissed him. We were practically a couple although he had not established it. Right?

Three months later as I was being interrogated by my parents in our plush living room of our three-story penthouse, I held a steady determination. With fists clenched, leaning aggressively forward, I had to make my point. “But daddy. I really want to go to Miami. You know Jess is there and I really want to go visit.”

“Why of all places Miami?” They did not understand my sudden obsession with the place. My interest in amusement parks had waned at the age of six, it was winter so wearing a bikini was out of the question and “Jess” was just short of being an acquaintance.

“I have always wanted to see Miami,” I replied quietly.

“Yes darling, in summer,” my mother replied, matching my tone.

“Just let me go,” and with this I made my exit. Later on in the night as I lay awake in bed, I could hear my parents arguing on the topic. Guilt shot through me like a speeding bullet but I closed my eyes and wished it away.

Moods were tense and conversation was strained for the next two weeks. We walked around with sullen faces, exchanging words and sentences only if necessary. I refused to show up at the dinner table and ate all my meals in my bedroom. A week later, they caved.

Our relationship had been predominantly over email, he had not given me his phone number. I craved to hear his deep voice. Regardless of my continual hints (I never dared to ask him directly), he insisted that we keep our relationship “online”. With a deep sigh I opened my email inbox and began typing an enthusiastic email to him about my arrival. A week later, his response came – “Great, thanks for your email. Let me know.”

That was it? Was this even the man I had met and fallen in love with? My disappointment was short-lived; at least I had his confirmation. Over the next eight weeks, I made various attempts to keep him updated on my travel details and each time his response was equally chilly. I was confused, was he that busy? Or did he not want to see me? He was responding to my emails, which did mean something. Needless to say, it was too late to have a change for heart for I had told a lie too big.

My parents packed in the whole house with me, or at least it felt like it. I was kissed and hugged repeatedly at the airport as though we were reunited and not leaving on a ten day holiday. My mother shed a few tears. It was a typical scene at the airport.

My flight landed early in the morning in Miami after traveling for nearly over twenty-four hours. I caught a glimpse of myself in the airport toilet mirrors and I saw a woman, ten years older – puffy eyes, runny nose and leftover scraps from plane food stuck to my sweater. I started to dust off all the bits from my clothes and then reapplied my make-up.

The airport was large and navigation was difficult, but with some help I managed to find the baggage claim. I popped my grubby suitcases on a trolley and waltzed it around and out to the arrival hall with my heart beating wildly. He had to be there, I could feel it in my bones. I scanned the sea of loving and eager faces on my tiptoes but there was no sign of him anywhere. Left of the hall, and then to the right, and the left again. I bumped into a kind old lady – “OOOOH!” – apologized and hid my face, but still no sign of him anywhere. My first instinct was to whip out my mobile and call him. The first realization of the superficiality of our relationship hit me then. I still had a shred of optimism left inside of me, and I continued looking.

Weary of my hunt, I moved away from the crowd and looked around for an empty seat among overweight ladies cradling large sandwiches with hunks of meat falling out of them. I felt a familiar rumble rise in my stomach.

“I can’t believe he’s late,” I scoffed inwardly. I started to push my trolley to begin a search for a sandwich place. Luckily, the airport had no shortage of eating places to feed its hungry population. Soon I found myself a hard seat, nibbling on a hot sandwich alone. The uncomfortable seats and harsh lighting of the airport brought back memories of the comfort and warm glow of home. Home, mum, dad. I suddenly felt a rush of emotions. I looked at the fat lady chomping her sandwich sitting next to me and I wondered, was I going to end up like her? Alone, with my meat-filled sandwich, sitting on an airport seat with nobody to pick me up? Just waiting for fate to interfere with my life and ever-expanding waistline?

I was beginning to feel convinced that he was not just late, but he was not going to come at all. I had nowhere to go. Panic-filled thoughts flooded my mind. I was all alone in a foreign country with limited supply of money. A brief calculation brought on the realization that I was carrying enough money to last me for five days, when I was going to stay for ten. I had taken everything for granted. My slapdash lie had come back to haunt me. I felt sick to my stomach.

“Darling, are you alright? Do you need a tissue? Or a lozenge?” I heard a distinct European twang. I looked up to see a middle-aged European woman with two children in tow, bending over holding a clean tissue. She had such kind eyes. I remembered my mother.

“Thanks,” I mumbled and accepted her kind gesture.

“Is anybody here for you, love?” She continued, bending even lower to look at my face. I dropped my head completely. Two nods and a flick of my hand was enough to make her leave. A tide of shame overcame me. Our eyes met as she walked away and I saw her hold her children close to her protectively. I knew then and there what I had to do.

I dialed.

“Mum, I have some bad news.” I started to cry.

Ketki's 5-point Save Yourself Surefire

Due to the current draught in the McLovin' market, my family has resorted to drastic methods - arranging my dates, which they hope will eventually lead to a happy union.

Unfortunately, picking out faceless and characterless "potential profiles", "suitable boys" and "fantastic earners", has taken a toll on my brain.I have come up with a foolproof "save yourself" 5-point plan.

If you ever find yourself in this position, feel free to introduce yourself according to my simple description below by listing some of your best and presentable traits which are permitted to broadcast to your social network. I'm half tempted myself to try this stunt!

1. ___ is beautiful and stunning, as long as you don't mind those mammoth like teeth. But hey, there's some good ivory in those babies. Cha-ching!

2. ____ is a very sociable person. If you don't mind her alcoholism and hard partying ways, you are guaranteed a good time my friend. Hic!

3. ____ has been on television. Oh yes! Celebrity Rehab.

4. ___ is a celebrity? Of course! She is Perez Hilton's all time favorite Z-lister who became famous on Girls Gone Wild! WOOHOO SPRING BREAK!!

5. ____ is definitely smart. She topped the Playboy Mansion's Crash Course in Pleasing and can answer every Ethan Hawke trivia question!

Run! Save yourself!

My open letter to Zee TV

Dear Producers

I have been tormented by the likes of your stereotypical portrayal of women in all of your shows. My mother is an avid fan, and I have to put up with her bad taste in television all because of my unconditional love for her. However, I have reached my limit. Please do us all a favor and kill off every single constipated lip-gloss wearing male character in your television shows as they contribute nothing, except act as a catalyst to the poor quality productions and hysterically funny melodramatic dialogues.
I was a communications student and I now work in media, therefore I know what it is like to see excellent TV. I am disappointed that an organization such as yours has dropped its standards to this level. Please pull up your socks.

Regards,
Ketki M
Disgruntled and Tormented Consumer

Asphyxiation

This is a story I wrote in college. I had titled it “Asphyxiation” but I’m not sure if that’s the best title for it. It’s about Taliban controlled Afghanistan.

In the cold month of January, where the snow is still deep and the trees are as bare as the Siberian steppes, Jalalabad looked like a city of ghosts. The streets were deserted except for an occasional shout or the distant sound of a machine gun firing. I, a human rights lawyer stripped of my profession from the regime, trying to salvage what was left of women in Afghanistan, walked briskly, trying to beat the merciless cold to Aminah Malik’s house, a widow who was repeatedly raped and tortured by the Taliban militia. I was accompanied by my good friend, Asif, who had forged marriage certificates in his inner coat pockets. They said that he was my lawfully wedded husband and we had been risking our lives like this for over two months now. He was forty-five, unwed, a closet homosexual and brilliant but suppressed scientist forced to work as an interpreter, and happy to do anything that would go against the regime. Asif accompanied me to Aminah’s house everyday and dropped me off. He would arrive promptly at five-thirty in the evening to perform the due-diligence.

Aminah's residence was a mud hut just off the main road along with several others surrounding hers. Her husband, Umer Abdul Malik, had been dragged out from his bed in the middle of the night and was beaten to death by the local Taliban officials, who thrust forged documents in Aminah’s face, claiming that he was an informer to the ‘infidels’.

Umer Abdul was a strapping and handsome young man of twenty and six. Despite being born in an impoverished house, he had ambitions, which he put to practice when he received a scholarship to study medicine in Jalalabad’s medical school. He had wooed Aminah since the age of eighteen, and there was no doubt as to why this young and promising man was completely taken by her. She was not conventionally beautiful, but had an air about herself, which had caused several problems between the male population in her district. Aminah had thick and straight hair as black as the night, with almond-shaped eyes to match, which she accentuated with kohl. Her complexion was fair, with a healthy pink glow on the cheeks. Her nose was a perfect ski-slope, and slightly upturned at the end to give her a proud look and she had pouted pink lips.

To feed his family, Umer eked out a meager living as a sweeper during the evenings in the hospital, and on weekends he sold dry fruits at the market. His only concerns were his new bride and his pitiful paycheck, which he received at the end of every month. When he went to collect his paycheck on the evening of that fateful day, the administration informed him that it was not ready and officials will visit in the evening to deliver it. They came, but bearing rifles and knives instead. Then it was Aminah’s turn. Terrified neighbors saw the officials drag her by the hair into the truck. The door closed with a bang and the truck disappeared into the blackness of the night. Umer’s body, with blood still flowing out of his fresh wounds lay on the ground, lifeless. Aminah returned three days later, her clothes ripped in numerous places, open wounds with caked blood and a limp that would last her a lifetime. Her once expressive eyes reflected nothing, not even sorrow. She would just sit by the window picking at the hems of her dress staring vacantly at the place where her husband’s corpse had once lain.

I knocked surreptitiously on the door of Aminah Malik’s mud hut, only to find that it was unlatched. It had wooden walls with a mud roof. There was a tiny room which consisted of a living room and bedroom, and then there was an extension, which was the kitchen. The people living in that tiny district used communal bathrooms, or bathroom rather. It was just one tiny cubicle with a hole in the ground surrounded by all sorts of life forms from scorpions to cockroaches. As for bathing, there was a tap attached to a rotting tank and spouted water only when it felt like. Men and women bathed from it and cats urinated in it. The only thing that showed some sign of life was a pot of geraniums on the windowsill next to Aminah. But those too were deteriorating.

The door swung open and I saw Aminah rooted to that same spot by the windowsill, except this time, she was cracking her knuckles. One step at a time. I entered and greeted her as usual with a ‘salaam aleikum’. No reply. “Hal-e shoma khub e?” I asked. It meant “How are you?” in Farsi, the main language spoken in Taliban controlled Afghanistan. Those that spoke English were looked upon with suspicion. Still no reply. I continued in Farsi, “Aminah, I don’t care if you do not wish to talk to me, but I am here to talk to you and listen to you. I also want you to know that if one day you decide to change your mind about what you are doing right now, I am there to help you.

The day passed without any major hiccups, apart from Aminah’s childish tantrums and some middle-aged birds stopping by for the occasional snippet of gossip. Four-thirty. I looked out the window and smiled. Two young boys cycled past the house whistling at the neighborhood at exactly this time. Asif will be due in an hour.

I heard a cheerful “Salaam-aleikum!” It was Khawlah Butt. “Aleikum-salaam, Khawlahjaan,” I replied with equal cheerfulness. Inwardly I realized that I myself could use a dose of Khawlah’s daily cheer.

Khawlah Butt, Aminah’s aunt and confidant came everyday to bathe her and clean her house as well as to cook her meals. She was a grossly overweight woman in her fifties, who waddled about constantly from house to house trying to catch snippets of the latest gossip, which she shared over a cup of tea with her long time friend and neighbor Nadia Rustom. She had three moles on her face, all strategically placed on the bridge of her nose, on her upper lip and below her ear. She was so obese that buying burqas from a shop was impossible, and the village tailor had the unpleasant task of stitching them for her. After every fifteen minutes of walking and much huffing and puffing, she had to sit in the corner of the street for a brief rest while her impatient fifteen year old younger son looked down at her disapprovingly. She had no choice but to take him along because women were not allowed to be on the street without a male escort.

Today I had to discuss something important with Khawlah. I followed her into the tiny kitchen located north of the door. Despite the problem with proximity and the knowledge that Aminah was still within the earshot, I continued to speak while Khawlah boiled the tea.

“I think you should stop all this. If you continue doing her work for her, she will never recover. Times are hard right now and it is difficult to get a female psychiatrist. You know that the Taliban has prevented women from working, so it is up to us to help her.”

“You don’t know her, she’ll stay like this until she starves to death.”

“Try to involve her in what you are doing. She has to know that you are not always going to be there for her. If you get her involved, perhaps she will recover faster. I mean, how long can she sit there surrounded by filth with hunger gnawing at her gut?”

“Baby you don’t understand – “

“You’re right. I don’t. Nobody does. Not even you, but as one caregiver to another I implore you to stop this at least for a while.”

Upon my completion of this sentence, Khawlah accidentally knocked over the milk and it fell to the floor creating loud splash. Both of us jumped. Food was being rationed and milk was scarce. Now there would be no milk until next week when the ration cards would be distributed. I took the tea outside and set it in front of Aminah while Khawlah cleaned up the mess in the kitchen.

Five-thirty. No sign of Asif. Maybe he was late.

Usually Khawlah would feed Aminah the tea with a spoon, firmly holding her jaw open. Today, Aminah will have to feed herself or starve. I heard Khawlah saying a prayer to Allah from the kitchen and it made me doubt religion for the millionth time after arriving in this godforsaken place that whether God really existed? How is God supposed to help us if we cannot help ourselves or those around us who need our help? With these thoughts in mind, I stared back at Aminah’s vacant face and after a long pause broke the silence with, “Drink up.” She turned her face away – the first real reaction I had seen in weeks.

Six o clock. Still no Asif. Curfew would be starting soon and I had to get home.

“If you don’t drink it then it will go to waste,” I continued. She turned the other way, a look of defiance etched across her face. ‘Another step,’ I said to myself inwardly feeling triumphant. I got up and went into the kitchen where I bade goodbye to Khawlah who was still cleaning the milk.

“The floor is going to be sticky and the water in the well has dried up,” she said with a sigh. I promised her that I shall bring her water from my rations.

“Oh, and Khawlahjaan?”

“Yes baby?” It was funny how she called me ‘baby’.

“Those flowers are almost dying. They need to be watered,” I said pointing to the geraniums resting on the windowsill next to Aminah, and then I walked out, carefully latching the door behind me.

I rushed along the dark alleyways back to my quarters. I had flouted the Taliban’s biggest rule – I had left the quarters without a male escort and had I been found out, they would have flogged me to death. As I reached closer, I broke into a steady jog and did not stop until I had finally reached inside and slammed the door shut leaning against it, my heart beating hard and my chest heaving from breathlessness.

A light switched on behind me and I spun around, to find not Asif, but three bearded and turbaned men brandishing spears and bats. One of them barked in Farsi, “We have Asif. We know you are lying. It’s over.”