Those Resolutions Again

Once again, the year ends, and a new one begins. Already experiencing this 23 times, perhaps one should realize that the feeling of renewed hope and enthusiasm is but a passing wind. A temporary state everyone feels when the earth completes its revolution around the sun. But like everyone else, I never fail to have a list of things I resolve to do when the New Year Begins. Yes, maybe New Year Resolutions are excuses one gives to procrastinate. Why wait for the New Year, one you can start losing that weight, improving yourself and learning how to use that complicated software now. But I still do it anyway – make a list of resolutions for the New Year.

1. Continue fitness regime I started last year with more resolve
Like every cosmopolitan urbanite, we all want to start exercising. Yes it's a cliché resolution, but I feel good about doing it. I started to go to the gym and jogging regularly early this year. I sort of slowed down on the jogging part. This year I am going to do that, and start eating healthy too. That means no more oily lunches. Will attempt the Standard Chartered Marathon too.

2. Save money and be more thrifty
No brainer here. With rising inflation (my favorite Soy Milk vendor just increased his prices by 30%) and a pay increment that do not match this inflation, I need to really tighten my belt. No random decadent lunches whenever I am feeling fancy, no taxi rides just because and definitely no random snacking in mid day. Which in turn will help me with resolution number 1.

3. Be a better Designer.
I am going to read more design materials, jump on every design opportunity with thought and intelligence and look at the world better. I am also going to share my expertise and help all the design young'ins be better designers themselves.

4. Go back to school
I really want to go back to school and get a bachelors. My long term career plans requires that I have a masters degree, so I have to start somewhere. Money is a problem, which explains resolution number 2.

5. Love more
Yeah. Just love more. :)

So there you go folks. My resolutions for 2008. Happy New Year readers!

To the crazy ones

I am very much fond of the old Apple ads, especially right now when most of the modern Apple ads are no fun. Almost everyone loved the much acclaimed 1984 ad, when Apple first introduced the Macintosh. If you don't get it, the ad basically references the book by George Orwell, 1984. Its about a totalitarian government and the 'big brother' syndrome. At that time, IBM was considered a 'Big Brother' due to widespread acceptance of their PCs. The ad is not a too subtle jibe at them.

Another ad, which I personally am fond of is the Think Different Campaign ads. While another subtle jibe at that time IBM own 'Think' campaign, it is still a beautifully written ad. The ad uses nothing but stock footages and a simple voice over, but the message is satisfyingly inspiring.

Here’s to the crazy ones.
The misfits.
The rebels.
The troublemakers.
The round pegs in the square holes.
The ones who see things differently.
They’re not fond of rules.
And they have no respect for the status quo.
You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them.
About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them.
Because they change things.
They push the human race forward.
And while some may see them as the crazy ones,
We see genius.
Because the people who are crazy enough to think
they can change the world,
Are the ones who do.

Edit: Oooh I just noticed Apple is paying homage to this very ad in its latest operating system Leopard. This is the icon for Textedit (Notepad for the windows equivalent).

Pre-party denial

Maryann: I look Indian.
Me: You are Indian.
Maryann: HOW DARE YOU!
Me: Give me more wine...

Wan Christmas's Gift Guide that will make any gay man (or anyone) real happy.

Can you hear the faint chiming of the bells? Can you smell magic in the air? Can feel the bustling happiness of Christmas? Yes? Well describe them to me, cause I can't. Christmas time is here and the inevitable christmas gift guides (which really is a vaguely disguised christmas-gifts-i-want-myself list) is all out. So here I present, my list – Christmas's Gift that will make any gay man (or anyone) real happy-

Hourglass

I have a thing for desk accessories. And I have a thing for modern minimal design. So this hourglass (a cliché desk accessories) with its simple design (it really cannot get any simpler than this) just turns me on. And then add black sand. Orgasmic.

Sons Calendar


Aren't we all sick of those flesh parade calendars (think Trevvy Pinned Up and those free FHM TOP 100 HOT NEXT DOOR GIRLS pinups)? I am, but sometimes we do need a little eroticism in our life. The Sons Calendar features brilliant photography by Dennis Chong, and the guys photographed are all tastefully shot. In fact most of them are clothed, normal looking and are normal people. But that's what makes it brilliant (and strangely erotic).

I don't Need a Bag Thanks

Global warming, melting icebergs, forest fires, haze, sars, death, the retention of 377A. etc. And we all know all of these problems could be solve if we are just a bit more eco-conscious. Everyone has that silly I'm Not a Plastic Bag Bag, but not everyone has the I don't Need a Bag Bag. Besides, the I'm Not a Plastic Bag Bag looks cheap. The I don't Need a Bag Bag is just cheap.

Anna Sui Hand Mirror


I don't know about you, but every time I pass a reflective surface, I stop, pout, posse and adjust. It could be a kettle. It could be a huge reflective door. What ever it is, I would stop, pout, posse and adjust. It is almost like a natural reaction. I am sure I am not alone with this problem (the last time when I was stopping, pouting, posing and adjusting, some one was doing the same beside me.) So what a better gift than a Anna Sui hand mirror so he or she could be stopping, pouting, posing and adjusting anywhere and at anytime with great style.

Naoto Fukasawa


Strange as it sounds, I am still excited to receive Design Books as gifts even if I have tons of them. One book I have been searching high and low is Naoto Fukasawa monograph. Naoto Fukasawa is a product designer, whose design are usually described by those that do not know better, as gray, white and whatever, But his designs do not demand attention onto itself. It doesn't need to. While at first glance his designs appears simple and obvious, it rarely is. The thought process behind the designs are complicated and through so that the user can implement it without much though. Elegant. Eloquent. Thoughtful. Three perhaps most flattering words than can be said of a designer.

The Sartorialist

It is perhaps the biggest, most challenging decision one has to make in the morning, before heading off to work; What to wear? Unlike the glorious Victoria Beckham (or Queen of the Ants, really depends on the context), I rarely – no make it never – plan my work outfit the night before. While most of my friends has clothing restrictions when it comes to their individual work (teachers can't wear jeans, retail assistants have uniforms and band conductors just need to look respectable), I on the other hand have an almost unlimited clothing option. I can come dressed up in a nice suit or a shammy torn up jeans and tank top and no one would would bat an eyelid.

I would of course try my best to look at least, reasonably tastefully stylish. But that's the problem. What is reasonably tastefully stylish? On days when I would be stuck in the studio till late, drawing and redrawing advertising illustrations, coming up with ideas for the morning presentations or just trying to make the layout look right, I do not want to be in a stuffy work shirt and fitted pants. I would love to be just in a t-shirt and jeans. But the nature of my work requires that I meet clients and clients usually look at Graphic Designers as the authority of style and taste. And the authority of style and taste can never be in just a t-shirt and jeans. Besides, its a well known fact that if you dress up nicely, people believe everything you have to say.

Truth be told is, I am sick of shirts. I have loads of them, but I so much prefer wearing t-shirts. Something about the fussyness of shirts bothers me. There's the buttons, then the stiff collars and then there's the cuffs. Cuffs bother me loads. If I pull up the sleeves, do I ensure the cuffs shows, or do I just roll it up and hide the cuffs?

I like t-shirts, but it's really hard to look good in one. A v-neck makes you look too femme, a crew neck makes you look like a kid and then there's the problem of fit. Do you wear a tight-fitted one and risk bits of you showing through, or a big one that makes you look all sloppy.

And then after I have decided on the top.

There's the pants. Then the shoes. And finally the bag.

Imagine this every morning, five times a weeks. Now you know why graphic designers just wear black, top to toe.

The Happy Working Song

I can't get the Enchanted soundtrack out of my head.

Today, during my Sunday evening jog, I was tempted to burst into a song, waltz down the block while spinning round and round helplessly with my hands doing small little dances in the air. Only the queer stares from the ladies at the bus stop prevented me from doing so.

And my favorite song of the lot has to be the Happy Working Song. Humming the song while I was tidying up my room really made the chore much less of a chore. I even cleared after my brother, something I would never do. But being the princess to be that I am, I did.

This Enchanted madness could go on for weeks, so watch out world, as I traversed trough my day with a song and dance - well at least in my heart.

Communism

Okay, yes I probably have too many bags for my own good. But that doesn't mean anyone can just willy nilly take my bags and use it without my permission. This is what irks me about my siblings. Now that my brother is in a stay-out camp (apparently god answered my prayers in a humorous way), he assumes ownership over everything that is mine. My computer. My clothes. My books. My papers. My condoms. Okay the last part is just there to exaggerate the point. I don't really mind my brother wearing my clothes, but is the throwing the clothes any ole how, all over the place that really gets me angry. And I don't get angry easily. Oh honey, but when I do, stay out of my way.

Now then there is the issue of my sister. I love my sister. Really I do. Anyone who can get paid that little to put clothes on mannequins just to follow ones passion for fashion (she's a starving VM), really do deserve as much love as possible. But as of late, she has been raiding my bags for her own use. Once again, being the generous person that I am, I really do not mind my bags being carried by her. In fact I sort of like it. But my bags are usually stored with random pieces of things inside the pockets. Like receipts, and random notes and packets of lube (i love the lube the give out freely at clubs and events). And when my sister wants to use the bags, she just empties the stuff on my bed, scattered on the table or sometimes even on the floor. Now if that isn't rude, I do not know what is. My mum once walked in and found condoms and lube on the floor, because of the sister. (true story!)

I am at the point, where I can't stand my siblings. Their almost brazen disrespect for my property annoys me. My attempt at reasoning with them only ends up in shouting and loud arguments, which I seriously cannot be bothered to be involved in. Once I got so angry at my sister's irresponsible antics, I waited for her to get home, grabbed my bag from her and overturned and emptied the bag right at the doorstep. Juvenile. Perhaps. Satisfying? Oh yes. Evil. It better be.

As for the brother, I got him where it hurts the most. Being the owner of the only computer at home, and sole payer of the internet bills, I password protect my computer at all times. No internet access for the brother, until... well, he learns to behave.

Jogging and Music

I didn't go to see the city. I went to see it around you

The recent bouts of rain had really put a damper on my jogging plans.

I changed my jogging schedule from jogging in the morning to jogging after work, in the evening because I can no longer wake up in the ungodly hour of 6am, drag my fat ass out of bed, don the jogging shoes and run round the block. I do not know how I use to do it so religiously, at one point of time, almost every morning.

Jogging in the evenings has it merits though. You are not that tired, so you can actually look around you while jogging. And because you are soaking in the sights, you can also jog further. Then again, there are other joggers too, some who happens to be worth the sights and chase.

Though recently because of global warming – now we can blame global warming for everything, finally a scape goat who can't fight back – the weather has been rather erratic. My plans was right after my nine o' clock show, which ends at ten, I would run around the block a few times, cook up a sweat and then go shower. It was all fine and dandy, when it suddenly just rained. Exactly at ten. Like fuck right. I was so pissed, I even decided to forgo doing my abs exercises. I am exercising like crazy these days simply because I need to pass my IPPT okay. Not for any kind of shallow vanity reasons.

On a more interesting note, I was invited to Zat's Concert and totally enjoyed myself can. Zat, super lar your band. Props to you girlfriend. And I am randomly proud of myself that my designs and art are part, albeit a small part of your concert.


After you have stop staring at the two cute boys, please go ahead and look at the gorgeous paintings in the background. They are all done by yours truly. /no shame/

That's Zat, in all his conducting glory. He has done such a good job, I am sure we all can find it in ourselves to forgive him for that too long of a pant's hem. :P

Tokyo Modernista

I am sadly one of those gay men that are not necessarily born with fabulous sense of fashion and impeccable style. So fashion rules like not to layer stripes on stripes never really made sense to me. And because I rather spend my money on things other than expensive imported fashion magazines, I am trapped in the endless cycle of one fashion faux pas after another. So one of my more mundane and shallow morning rituals is visiting The Sartorialist. 

Now I have another great website to visit every morning – Tokyo Modernistas. Be forewarned that the looks of Tokyo Modernista is very much a Japanese aesthetics. If you are like me, and is very bored of the very anglo saxon influenced style of The Sartorialist, Tokyo Modernista can be a refreshing inspiration. 

One Night Stand

Kristen. You dance great girl. Too great for my camera it seems. 

Bored hands

are the Devil's.

Typography 101

And here, I quickly discovered that something had gone horribly wrong. One after another, bright-faced young hopefuls displayed the products of their long hours in the studio. Book after book spilled forth with content ranging from how to cook a frittata to how to understand Freud. There were personal books, commercial books, literary and poetic books, serious and silly books, childrens books, how-to books, and everything in between.

And there they were — virtually all of them — typeset in Futura.

Oh dear. Futura being my favorite typeface ever – seriously the clean geometric shapes of the letters just give me mental orgasms – is now being regarded by Design Observer, an authority in the Design blogsphere, as stale and overused. Well, not exactly like that, but the article questions the choice of type Designers made base on frivolous criteria like said type being a favorite. Kind of like what I have been doing for awhile now.

Choosing a typeface is fun, and making language visible is nothing short of enchanting; in these modern, computationally-enabled days, it's also way too easy to wander and stumble and fall. To fail to address the degree to which design history plays a fundamental role in any typographic course of study is nothing short of tragic.

A fundamental read for the designer that cares for typography.

Romanticism and not the art movement

What I really love about working on Christmas projects is the ample amount of illustrating opportunities I get to indulge in. While at heart I am really just an artist who just wants to sketch whimsical monster the whole day, my miserable skills with the pencil, and not to mention the amount of money I am going to make as a full time illustrator (not much), really keeps me at reality bay. So when the holiday hits the businesses with full force, and they don't mind a little illustration in the name of the Christmas spirit, errm... well they hire me. (A designer got to do a little freelancing on the side, to actually afford a humane christmas.)

Designing and illustrating is seemingly similar. Both deal with images, proportions, shapes, colors and composition. But while designing is cerebral and almost devoid of personality, illustrating is a heart-on emotive experience. It's a contrast of writing an instruction manual and writing a heart wrenching novella. An illustrator almost cannot avoid leaving a mark of himself in his work. Designers on the other hand, try their hardest to make the work all about the client.

This client of mine, seems really open to most ideas (except the shirtless boys and girl angels on a huge Santa idea, I wonder why :P) and really is generous with his praises. Being in this industry for awhile, you will learn to differentiate the real praises and critics from the fake ones, but the occasional barrage of praises really does help boost the ego. Here is a tip to get the most from your designer, stroke his ego endlessly. He will work harder for you than a hebrew slave.

I love design work that makes use of illustrations. The presence of an artist's touch in a design makes it all so romantic. Squiggly lines. Rough edges. The process of the work is transparent to the audience Compare this to clean typography, conceptual photography all packed in a sleek glossy print. It is almost fake. The world is not that perfect. No one writes in Helvetica. (Though if you have to write in a typeface, I would rather write in Futura).

Maybe one day, after I am tired trenching down in the dirty world of graphic design, I would settle being a freelance illustrator, of course with typographical wits and wisdom. My days would be busy trying to get inspired and sketching on notepads. Lots of walk in the park and slow lunches. Occasionally an idea would struck, and I would quickly take out my sketchpad (I would of course, carry my sketchpad everywhere I go) and record the idea in sketch. My close friends would just look at each other and sigh at my quirkiness. While those not too close acquaintances would either be drawn to me armed with curiosity or repelled away by the strangeness.

And at the peak of my illustrating career, I would be invited to illustrate huge murals at a new fancy government building, where millions will see and agree unanimously at my ingenuity. I will be awarded the cultural medallion just because I am too old to receive any other award, and I will die, leaving behind sketches more precious than any other public work ever erected in my name.

Glory Train

A majority of us Singaporean commute to work on public transportation, seeing as how it is insanely expensive to own a car. I did my calculation, and it is still cheaper to commute with a taxi everyday, then to actually drive. Nothing wrong with public transportation really. I usually see the peak hour train ride as a glimpse to the slice of the Singaporean life. If you can deal with the crowd, stupidity of people and general discomfort, a train ride can be the most inspiring activity of the day. Though on unfortunate days, a train ride could be the deal breaker for everything else.

And on some fortunate days, you not only get inspired, but get to enjoy the shallow physical beauty of men as well. And when I say men, I mean men, not humanity in general. :)

He stepped in with much purpose. Our gaze immediately caught. Amidst the crowds of hands and heads, it seems we were meant to meet. But alas, non of us had the boldness to do so. He walked in, and stood beside the lady, who was standing beside me. It was a calculated position. To stand not to far, yet not obviously close. As I continue with my gazing of this aloof man, he reached into his bag and pulled out a bible. 'Oh my God,' the inner voice exclaimed. Oh my god indeed.

What we have here, is a god fearing beauty.

And he was a beauty. I was about to excuse the bible as mere theological research that needs to be done in the train – his intense flipping of the pages, focused stare into the word and silent whispering of the word Amen, could only mean that god got him first.

I would not be as bothered if he turns out to be straight (which of course following sexuality statistics, he most likely is). But it is the fact that he is such a god abiding person. And the public display of one's devotion underscores that fact. All of a sudden all hope is lost. My gazing stopped. His prayers must really ward off whatever evil gayness in the train.

However, he inspired me for my next christmas card project. Angel in the train makes a really sweet image don't you think.

For Cutie

Okay, so my recent bout with Britney's latest album is a crazy one. A confession made with a delirious mind. A confession made after too much electronic tone trash. You see, I do not discriminate my music. But dedicating an entire blog post for my love of Black Out seems rather out of pocket. This morning I woke up, and I hated the album. I still listen to Gimme More, while changing my clothes though. Nothing is more confidence boosting than dancing naked to Gimme More. Just cover all the mirrors.

It's hard for me to settle with what kind of music I like. For the whole of last month, I was listening to Jewel like crazy. During the Dream Girls madness, I listened to the album on iPod, during commute and my toilet break. Yesterday, it was Black Out. I just cannot settle. Not even the genre. I still remember my Andrea Bocelli days, feeling all pompous.

If music is suppose to be a representation of oneself, than I got issues.

Last night, right after my confession Ig immediately MSN me with a huge OMG (and more). Surprised. Shocked. Disappointed. And overwhelmed. I didn't know declaring outright love for Britney, is like a gay men declaring support to the ever vile NMP Thio (see how I smoothly worked in politics into my ever harmless blog post :P).

Ig: That's quite enough Wan.
Wan: Toy Soldier sounds a little like Gwen you know.
Ig: I don't really care about Gwen to know that. But listening to Britney is serious!
Wan: It's a new album. I'm trying to like it.
Ig: You got problems.
Wan: Just because I am listening to Britney?
Ig: That, and liking Britney. Do yourself a huge favour and download Death Cab for Cutie. You need some Emo.
Wan: I don't need Emo right now!
Ig: You are listening to trash. Now is a good time for some Emo.

So I did get myself a couple of Death Cab for Cutie songs.

And I am loving it.

Blackout

Graphic designers are a snobbish bunch. They turn their noses up at design they deem cheap and gaudy. They would be quick to discount overly ornate design as mere fashion and stylistic cheap tricks, lacking the intellectual thought and wit. The mere thought of aesthetics for the sake of aesthetics, would anger them, so much so, most of them are usually dressed, head to toe in black, forever pursuing the passion of modernism and perfection of function. That's probably why I don't hang around many graphic designers, even though I am one myself. Graphic designers are a sad angry bunch. They are angry if they are not hired. They get angrier when they are hired working in a studio. And they would probably cast me out from the elite tribes of graphic design, when they hear my next confession.

I am in love with Britney's new album, Black Out.

Yes, okay I have to admit. From a graphic designer's perspective, the album cover is pretty horrid. It looks like trash, cheap thrill, amateurish graphic design. And look at the typeface. It makes Britney Spears read like Britney Sperm. But hey we were all there once. But the cover grows on you. Just like the electronic, overly produced sounds that you will hear once you pop in the cd. For my case, its the metaphorical cd, since I got it from a little birdie. ;)

I do not know what it is, but hearing popish, electronic and overly produced hip-hop lite all combined with Britney's robotic voice and sexy whispers is suddenly so refreshing. Imagine this album as Justin's Future.Sex.Love.Sounds, but Britney and more trash. It's Justin gone drag and dirty. It's almost brilliant. This is trashy pop done right.

If you manage to get your paws on the album, listen to the Lil Wayne's Remix of Gimme More. That's the epitome of brilliant hip-hop trash. I love it!

Open letters to Random Things

Dear Computer,
As much as I love your pristine 24inch screen and your delightful design, I am beginning to see the joy and point of mobile computing. Yes. I would gladly sell you and get a less powered, smaller screen but more mobile laptop. Sorry.

Dear Work,
You are beginning to bore me. Even as I take on more challenging projects, some even outside the realms of my expertise (product design and interior design amongst them), you are no longer sending out tingles down my body. I need to be excited like before, but you ain't cutting it for me. If it isn't for the cheque you are sending me every month, I would gladly leave you.

Dear Work Desk,
You must understand that I am a designer. I spent most of my time drawing on large piece of paper, and sometimes on more than one piece. I need the space. You, even with your gorgeous woody grains, and fine construction, are too small. Replacing you would be such a joy.

Dear Alarm Clock,
Why did you scream at me this morning? When i asked you to let me snooze it seemed like just a second had gone by and you started yelling again. I can't live like this anymore. Ever since i got you i haven't slept past 6 in the morning. Why do you feel like you have to control me? I'm just not happy and i refuse to let you do this to me anymore. I'm leaving.

Dear Porn,
Thanks.

Dear Every One Else,
I know you lie awake hoping you will one day attain a mere fraction of my wit and style, but it's just not in the cards. Love ya. ;)

Dear Ditzy brain,
I know you would rather be dancing and playing, but we are at work right now. [whip crack!] So stop giving me ideas for blog post and crazy shit to draw, and focus on the project at hand!

Yours Truly,
Sudirwan J
Bored Designer

Quickie

I am still alive yes. Immensely disappointed with the government's decision to retain s377a. Too many design projects to keep up with, thanks to the In-Camp training. Still celebrating raya. Will try to update with a proper entry soon. 

Love ya. 

Spread The Word Baby

Got it from Zat, but I thought I should spread the video around too. If you do not know what 377a (you should really start reading the newspaper), visit here.

We still got it together

Me goofing around while asking for forgiveness from my Sister (who still gives me Green Packets to this day, even though I probably earn much more than her), while my dad is relaxing in the background and the mother, still as sexy as ever, even if only half of her body is in the picture. (i mean look at that body, the heels and that bag!)

p.s. Hamdan's taking the picture.

Ada Cinta

In the spirit of Hari Raya, I though I post my favorite malay song of the moment, Ada Cinta.

I know we are all sick of the Acha and Irwansyah collabos (honestly Irwan, stop singing with your girlfriend already) but this particular song is less irritating then their last one.

Enjoy, and if I don't get to post again, Selamat Hari Raya!

A sad day indeed

I was once asked what I thought of the Paris Hilton situation. This was when she released her sex tape and would eventually gain world wide notoriety. This was also when I had no idea who she was. 'So what do you think of the whole Paris Hilton issue?' a friend casually asked. My mind panicked. My mouth dried out. Do I admit the fallacy that I have no idea what the issue was about? Or do I lie? I decided against my better judgment and lied. 'Oh yes. Terrible. Terrible the whole Paris Hilton situation.' I said and quickly changed the subject.

When I reached home, I logged on to the net immediately to read on what had happen to the Hilton Hotel in Paris. Yes. I honestly believed the whole ho-ha involves the actual Hilton establishment. Was there a fire? Was it robbed? Were important dignitaries involved? It was only after much searching, did I finally realize that there was such a person called Paris Hilton, and what she had done. Now I see her everywhere.

I define myself as a person of knowledge - I know what I know , I know what I do not know and I know what I need to know. However what keeps me unsettled, the stuff that keeps me awake at night is that I do not know what I do not know - like Paris Hilton. Was my life adversely different from now, when I did not know the famed heiress? It's strange when you begin to learn something new, it begins to appear everywhere. Things you have never seen, is suddenly seen all over. Was it always there, only to be noticed when you actually realized its existence?

Knowing is the eternal quest of man. We are, however you put it, defined by the knowledge we possess. With the internet and the free access to knowledge, it seems unlikely that anyone of at least acceptable intelligence to be ignorant of world affairs. Unfortunately, this assumption, is presumptuous at best.

Together with crocs and birkenstocks, ignorance shall be the downfall of civilized society. I was speaking with a few young designers (fresh out of school, awaiting NS and job placement), and seek their opinion in regards to the recent issue of The Armenian Genocide Vote by the American House of Congress. 'What Armenian Genocide?' one of the bright eyed designer responded. 'They are some kind of race right?' another designer claimed. 'There is another racial genocide going on?' one other said, continued with a sigh of surrender. I was stunned. I am not talking to a bunch of low IQ special students here, but intelligent students who actually manage to get into design schools (singapore design schools are notoriously hard to get into). 'How can you not know about the Armenian Genocide?' I questioned, my voice more disappointed than angry.

'Oh we don't bother to keep up with the news. It has nothing to do with design,' a voice from amongst them casually claimed. I was bothered by this response. Not only are these young designers ignorant, but they are no longer ashamed of being ignorant. They even have the audacity to excuse their ignorance.

During the Chinese Revolution Era, thousand of books and scripts were burned. The chinese rulers equates these books and scripts as knowledge and understands that knowledge is power. Now we live in a time when knowledge is free. There is no reason not to empower yourself with it.

It will make you a more interesting person, no matter your current standing, at least.

Confessions of a designer still awake at three in the morning

1. Whenever I stumble onto a creative block, I would whip out my dick and masturbate like crazy. If this happens at work, then I really can't get over the creative block, unless I get to get off. Strange I know. But the reason I think most creatives get into a mental block is because of built up stress. When there are so many things to do, naturally the mind shuts down. When the mind shuts down, we can't get any thinking done. And since creative work demands that the brain operates at its peak, the only way to get over the creative block is to de-stress. What better way to de-stress than masturbation.

2. During my more straight in-denial years (when I use to date girls), I would use my art to attract the ladies. I would draw, paint, design and print and for some strange reason, girls buy into all these stuff. And when I go into Pieces artist mode, and start talking about the fall of artistic merit during the era of the Sun King, Louis the fourteen, hearts and self-restrain melts. The art thing is not working for the guys unfortunately.

3. My design portfolio contains a few dozens of whimsical illustrations and really few proper design work. The reason being, I spent many hours of my time, drawing, and not so much exploring graphic design. When I was hired as a graphic designer, I was pleasantly surprised. Once I went to apply for a design position at a magazine, and the creative director looked at my portfolio and chuckled. He asked where all my layout work was, and I told him I had none. He promptly told me that I was not suitable for the magazine. Now I an avid reader of the magazine.

4. My love for typography doesn't necessarily reflect my talent at the craft. I am however very particular about kerning (spaces between letters) and leading (spaces in between lines). I am also known to be able to identify font types rather accurately at times.

5. My number one pet peeves in many designers is the sacrifice of good form and execution over meaning and concept. In simpler terms, designers who excuse ugly design with clever meaning and concept. 'Oh it doesn't matter that its ugly, it's the meaning that is important.' My advise to such designers: Join an advertising agency.

6. Due to my bias for illustrations, I am known to close an eye at illustrator's high fees whenever I hire them for projects. I am however very critical at photographer's fees. Not a good example to follow.

7. A copywriter once pissed me off when she told me that it was my job to fit her long copy in a limited space. I told her that the length of copy she writes will not impress anyone, cause it sucks anyway. She flipped me, and walked out on the project. I ended up apologizing to her and writing my own copy. Tip: Do not piss off the copywriter. They are powerful word smiths. You know what, just don't piss anyone off.

8. I am embarrassed of most of my very public projects. I am extremely proud of those that are not so public. Strange I know.

9. My designs have reached the USA.

10. I believe titles in design and creative establishments and institutions to be ridiculous and laughable. It's the work that matters and nothing else. I have seen self proclaimed art director's work that shouldn't even pass through gates of art schools.

p.s - Happy Children Day!

I don't really like meetings

Okay, so meetings are a necessary evil. My greatest ideas and design solutions are never thought up in a vacuum. (stories of designers hidden in dark rooms only to emerge with a brilliant design are best taken with lots and lots of salt) They are usually the results of brainstorming meetings. But most meetings, even those internal meetings discussing design with the boss, are usually fruitless.

My meetings with the boss usually go like this:-

Me: So here I got a few concepts for this project. I personally like the first concept, and I think we should push for it.

The Boss: Hmm.. I like it. But can you think of any other approaches other than just merely typographical? It's nice. But you know what I mean.

Me: What do you mean merely typographical? I believe it to be the most direct and effective solution. The copy-writing is brilliant, and we would do it disservice if we are to overly design it.

The Boss: Perhaps. Lets get the opinions of the others okay.

Designer A: I agree with The Boss.

Accounts: I agree with the Boss, on the basis that BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH (spent twenty minutes explaining the merits of over design)

Programmer: I think it could do with more colors.

Web Designer: What is the project about?

Accounts: Explains projects....

The Boss: So what are your plans Wan?

Me: Seeing as how we just spent an entire hour discussing, I think I would just go with this current approach. I like it. Any major objections?

Everyone: No..

Yup. As you can see, nothing really happens in meetings. No new breakthroughs. No new ideas. Just everybody, trying to be heard. Worst are meetings that start with half an hour discussion totally in Mandarin and then later me asking for a translation, spending another half an hour translating. An hour wasted. An hour I could use to watch YouTube or something.

Meetings with the clients are the worst (doesn't apply to you V ;P). Not only are most of them unnecessary (why do you need a meeting to tell me about the fonts and colors you favor? Email email email!), but most of the meetings plans are there for the mere sake of meeting. It's as if, without an actual meeting, the clients are not getting value for their money. And most clients plan meetings as liberally as they would drink tea (okay bad analogy).

The only good thing about meetings are the opportunity to dress better than usual. I realize if you dress really well – better than your client or boss – it will guarantee you a win should any conflict of taste arise. If your client is shabbily dress, and you are there in your sharpest shirts, trust me, his or her rights to question your design choices are diminished. And that's a really good thing.

The Rush

There was a mad rush of wind and bodies. The flashing LED lights, stating that in 2 mins, the train will arrive. I look at my watch. It was 8.04am. 'If I rush for this train,' I thought to myself. 'I will actually arrive 10 mins earlier.' More and more people began to run towards the station gates. The flashing LED now blinked, almost mockingly that in a min, the train will arrive. It was insane how everyone sprinted, only to be slowed down by the actual tapping of the magnetic travel card, and the opening of the gates. As soon, as they passed that, they ran to the escalator, and continued running, on the moving escalator itself. Nothing shall get in their way.

Are these people truly late? Or is there are secret competition to beat the train going on somewhere in these secretive society of executives. Or is this act of racing for the train, the physical manifestation of the rat race? Somehow, losing out to the other executives, will stain and dampen your career.

Maybe, this is an abstract performance art every executive will perform for the public. The race for the train, is a display of defiance. A brazen display of will against the system which is represented by the train. Interestingly, this performance has an implicit message behind it, that can be read only by the distant observer. Try all you might to fight the system, but there is no way you can get to wherever you want without it. Those enlighten ones that gets to understand, never ever, chased for a train again.

Ramadhan

One of the more beautiful things about Ramadhan – other than the sudden heighten feeling of faith – is the opportunity to have proper meals together as a family. Whenever it is possible, we would try to all come home in time for dinner. And whenever it is possible, we would all wake up early before dawn for a proper sahur. The family gets closer. I get to be more muslim than I usually am. I try my best to fulfill all my obligatory prayers – having a mosque nearby, makes that rather easy – and even the nightly terawih (some kind of lengthy prayer ritual after the obligatory night prayer).

We all (the family) try our best to be better muslims, even if it's just for a month. Unlike Zat's extremist view that faith is not seasonal, I always believe that Islam is a compassionate religion. Islam expects the best from all his followers, but accepts the frailty of human beings. And if I can only afford to be a good muslim once a year, what other better time that Ramadhan, I say.

However beautiful Ramadhan is, my father is displaying disturbing behavioral patterns when it comes time to break our fast. He would take a sip of drink, chew on some dates and then proceed immediately to smoke a stick of cigarette. He would have a euphoric look in his eyes, as if renewed life was sucked in. I understand than, he has refrain from smoking for more than twelve hours, but must he immediately smoke before even having a proper meal. It's like me – a self confessed wanker – would immediately rush to my computer, play some porn and ejaculating immediately to mark the breaking of my fast. I don't anyway.

Also, I am tremendously more productive during these fasting periods. Having no reasons to visit the pantry ever so often, I can work the moment I turn on my mac, through lunch till its time to leave. It's almost unbelievable the amount of work I can get done just by not visiting the pantry at all. And I can even help the other designer and my boss with their stuff. Last week, I had all my proposals done by Tuesday, leaving me with nothing to do the rest of the week.

Alas, its two weeks into Ramadhan, and soon it will all be over. Raya will come, and the much dreaded NSmen ICT approaches. Seeing as how this is a holy month, I will not go into details about my plans of massive wild army orgies in camp.

The Toned and The Lumpy : An Un-intellectual Short Caption of their Imagined Life

Toned was of course fat in his previous life. Previous life, as he would call it, was not previous life as what those who believed in reincarnation would imagine it to be. Previous life to Toned was when he lost 25 kilograms in total, bringing his 1.87 frame to a total mass of 76 kilograms. The day his BMI was in the healthy range of 22 was the beginning of the day he marked the start of a New Era. Previous life was to be forgotten. It was like Previous Life never happened at all.

And such was the peril for Toned. For he has forgotten Previous Life, his new life was not much of a difference for him. Of course, he was no longer on the receiving end of fat jokes. No one can look into his eyes, and tell him sincerely that he is fat. Toned can even call himself fat only to have a reassurances from those around him, that he is not fat. Sometimes he calls himself fat, just to hear to those reassurances. Sometimes he calls himself fat just to insult those to his judging eyes, fat.

For Toned has forgotten Previous Life, he never really appreciated the changes. Everyday he will do push-ups and sit ups. He will fidget endlessly if he misses his morning run. And all hell break loose, should his gym schedules be messed up by unexpected events. Its like as if nothing changed. He still wants to loose more weight. He still wants to be toner. Every time he looks into the mirror he sees glimpses of Previous Life. The start of a New Era seems never really.

---

Lumpy has image issues, of course. Physically, Lumpy in all aspect and consideration, is fat. Fat is word which carries with it a negative connotation. So he calls himself Plump, Big Boned, Heavy, Thick. Words that generally meant the same thing – not thin. While Lumpy is not that fat – he reassures himself that there are other fatter fatties around him – he is not by any reasonable definition of the word, slim.

Lumpy believes that world is shallow. And that the world places far too much importance on the physical aspect of humanity. Lumpy insists that personality carries far greater value that physicality. So entrenched with such values, Lumpy begins to dismiss those that place – even slight – consideration on physical beauty. He rolls his eyes at those that exercises, calling them conformist. He waves his hands at those who lost weight insisting that they are sellouts.

Lumpy became bitter. Lumpy became deluded. Lumpy became judgmental. At one point of time, he truly believes that he has a great personality. And at one point of time he truly does have a great personality. Sadly, as the day goes by, as he becomes poisoned by his extreme principals, he lost the very aspect of humanity he values so highly. His personality.

It's Britney Bitch

Well not exactly.



But he makes the song sounds cool.

Allure of Digital

This is an old article I wrote. Reproduced strangely because the debate between digital vs talent has cropped up again.

Last Christmas, I gave Kristen a print-out of a digital painting I did as a Christmas present. I was not being cheap (though designers are usually misers). I even framed the print-out and it looks pretty good. I must say I was pretty proud with the painting.

However, during the gift exchange part of the dinner, where we publicly rip apart wrappings and show our sincere (sometimes not too sincere) thanks towards the giver of our gifts, I discovered that I am not too proud of Tempest – the title of the digital painting that I gave Kristen. It was not the work itself, but the medium of the piece. It was entirely digital. No sketches. No messy oil paint or runny watercolours. It was conceived entirely in Photoshop and Painter.

Friends around the table generally respond kindly and favourably towards the print-out, but most asked me how I did the painting. “Was it done in Oil?” “How did you do this?” “This is amazing.” I could not bring myself to say that it was done in Painter, the computer software than simulates the natural medium. I could not bring myself to say that it was colour corrected in Photoshop, and that it was printed with a high DPI so it looks good and real.

If the situation was in a digital illustration forum or Deviantart even, I would be quite please with myself, proud even. However this was real life. And to me, the general consensus with digital artwork in real life is, it’s easy to do.

Even though I consider myself a graphic designer first, illustrating and drawing has always been something I do to express myself creatively and emotively. It is a hobby - a hobby that brings pleasure. When I first started drawing, I was an overgrown teen in a train, sitting beside the ever talented Kristen. I started with the pencil and like many overgrown teenager, I was amazed with Japanese Anime, and wanted to draw impossibly sharp featured boys with ridiculously huge eye balls. As this went on, and my drawing skills improved – or at least I manage to convince myself that I had improved – I was eager to add colour to my drawings. Naturally I turned to the computer. Ever since, my artworks are exclusively digital.

Digital artworks are not easy to do, but probably they are not the hardest. They are not as messy as oil and watercolour. There are multiple levels of undo. Magical layers to help you. And most importantly, art software is widely available to everyone. And perhaps because of this, the allure and exclusivity of the craft is lost, hence regarded as not true art. Something that is easy to do.

Though we have to admit that to create art digitally is less tedious than say, using chalk and oil, is digital art less art than real oil and chalk art. To answer this, we have to ask ourselves, how do we judge art? Do we judge a piece of artwork purely on its execution? Or do we judge just the concept and imagination?

Digital painting may never have the romance of oil painting. The combination of the mess, smell, texture and the ability to touch oil painting makes it undeniably real. But do not discount digital painting just because it’s binary. It requires just as much imagination and creativity (perhaps even more) as any oil painting, and maybe even just as real.

The Almost Affair

To get straight to the point, I woke up, and found myself in bed with another man. Well boy, but he's a man. Man-boy. Whatever. The point is, to salvage this entry from being a trashy read, I woke up, at 4.25 am in the dead of morning for some insane early breakfast routine (sahur for those still clueless) and found beside me a shirtless, boxers shorts wearing boy.

His back was facing me, and he was rather petite-esque in size. I recognize my brother's back pretty well so I was sure it wasn't him. I tried to recall what I did last night and somehow, I ended up, in my room, sharing my super single bottom bunk bed with a stranger boy, who is now still fast asleep, in his underwear! I didn't know what to do, so I just laid there.

I looked at my handphone (yes, I go to sleep with my mobile. I'm paranoid that way), and it was already 4.35am. I had spent ten minutes just laying there – ten minutes I could have spent eating and drinking – because of this boy. If it was a different place, at a different time, I would already grab this boy by his arms, pin him against the mattress and mount him there and there, just to satiated my morning boner*. I mustered all the ounce of courage I have left, and poke him at the back. Yes I poked him. With my finger of course. It was not one of those manly pokes. But a childlike sissy poke.

He reacted. He stretched, lifting his arm and turned to face me. He smiled and mouthed something that I roughly read as:- 'Friend of the brother. Thanks for sharing the bed.' I blinked cluelessly and jokingly pushed him of the bed. He promptly crawled to the floor, wore his singlet and walked out for breakfast.

While it was a brief interlude, we were still on the same mattress , using the same pillow and sharing the same duvet. Our body parts could have touched and this felt like a beginning of an illicit affair!

I think we just need new mattresses for our stay over guests.


*sorry for that trashy bit

Wan's Random Tips to get through the tough times

For those that need a little third party advice.

1. Never put yourself on the back burner. Focus on yourself. Then move on.
2. Live and love life.
3. Never resort to immediate reactionary methods for pleasure like over drinking, over spending and over eating.
4. Stop blaming and start living.
5. Forgive yourself. This comes from Oprah, and its working really well for me.

We are alright

The alarm on my handphone was beeping rather annoyingly, which means I was too late to have my insane-before-break-of-dawn meal (sahur as it is said among the malay and muslim community). I continued to just lay there. My arm hung loosely at the edge of the bed. My face was pressed flat against the pillow in an uncomfortable way, but I refuse to move. I could feel V stretching beside me, his hand smashing against the duvet and the pillows. We had a plane to catch in an hour or so, but seeing as how little I packed – practically nothing actually – and how kind of V's office to arrange transportation for us, I was not in a hurry to get up.

I continued to pretend to still be asleep. V climbed up to my side, and I could feel the bristle of his beard scratching against my earlobe. I shut my eyes tighter. His hands rubbed me. 'I know you are awake.' he said. I smiled a little, knowing that I was caught. 'Come we got to go.' he continued, before yawning again. I opened my eyes, and there he was. His hopeful doe eyes, and pursed cracked lips. I smiled wider this time, not saying anything, because I was conscious about my morning breath.

'Everything is okay right?' he asked.

I closed my eyes, hoping that everything indeed was.

From boy to a bigger boy.

The brother completed his basic military training (a little sooner than I would hope), with much exuberance and spirit.

Ah... was I ever that young.

Origami

It was a serene image. The morning sun was shining softly through the glass panels of the train doors, illuminating him – his edges nearly lost in the light. He looks like a painting almost. Unreal, yet so delicately real. If nature is indeed an artist, this is her best yet. It was not just the image that seem so soothing, but the intent focus act of folding paper cranes and paper hearts. The hard seriousness of his features was a distinct contrast to the soft imagery nature has painted of him.

He was continuously folding cranes, lost in the world of origami. He will switch from folding cranes to folding hearts, and each time he completes one, he will place them gingerly in a translucent box. The light passing through the translucent box, with the colored hearts and cranes in it, creates a wonderful kaleidoscope effect. It was magical, to the point of hallucinating to look at. Each time I try to avoid being too obviously staring at this young artist, the more obvious I become. My eyes refuse to ignore the beauty that was just within my grasp. My heart yearns for such innocence. My soul was inspired. My mind roams far into the colored depths of the translucent box. My body desires the texture of smooth paper.

Realizing that I had drowned into the fantastical world of origami, I snapped back into reality. It was almost like a defense mechanism, refusing to stray further into the dangerous territories of the free endless mind. My eyes shifted from the folding hands, to his focused face. His eyes were filled with much purpose, gazing into beyond the folded paper birds and hearts. Though his folding acts were calculated and precise, his mind was wondering. The further the mind wonders, the more cranes and hearts were folded. He had strayed too far into the wilderness of the mind. Beauty, it seems, comes at the expense of consciousness.

New Shoes

There are something about clean sneakers that bothers me. Sneakers shouldn't be clean. They look disturbingly clinical and unnatural. I just bought a pair of white Converse Chuck Taylors (so much for my shopping sabbatical), and almost felt that they look so weird on me. I stared for long, only to realize that they are still crisp and clean. They need to be seasoned out a bit me thinks. I, however absolutely loves new crisp white long sleeve shirts. The perfect man to me decks out in a crisp white long sleeve shirt, blue straight cut jeans and a pair of white roughed out sneakers. And for a touch of decadent, a long dark scarf thrown over the shoulder nonchalantly.

The Practice Room

A poster I designed for Zat's coming soon concert - The Practice Room. I really do not have the details for the concert, like where to get tickets etc, but tickets are $6 and you get it from him directly I suppose.

The poster calls for liberal interpretation and I would be doing you a disservice if I tell you my version of interpretation. I do not want my version to be the 'correct' interpretation while yours is misguided. Much like music, even if the composer starts with an idea, much of how you process and interpret the information, is up to you.

A rare peak into my embarrassing sketches.

Rejected freaky monster, that will probably never see the light of day (maybe the program booklet?)

The Deaf

His earphones were plugged into his ears (where else would we expect it to be plugged in anyway), but the music was seeping out. No – seeping is not the right word in this situation, it was more like pouring out. Pouring out viciously. His earphones were like speakers, pumping out the techno remix music to the whole morning peak hour train.

He is a young beautiful thing. His skinny jeans fits him without irony. His t-shirt hangs loosely against his pale and delicate skin. His eyes full of curiosity. So much potential, yet he's blind – no. deaf – to the discomfort he was causing to the group of tired out executives. Maybe he was doing them a service. These executives look like they can do with a few techno remix music in their lives. Perhaps that would cure them of their anal retentiveness and slap them out of their drone-esque lifestyle.

Then again, maybe he is just being a child of this generation. The young could learn so much, by just listening. With all that music, they only thing they hear are the repetitive beats of electronic and synthesized drums and bass. And when they gain wisdom, either through age or through shear realization that their lives do not revolve around house music or the latest spins by the hottest spinner in town, when they are most ready to listen, when they will in anyway possible seek that whisper of advise.

They are already deaf.

No need for whys

I placed my head over his and gripped it tight I feel the cold prick of his wedding band on my palm. I look at him but he averts his gaze and stares straight ahead listlessly not daring to meet my eyes.
“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” I asked him
“I didn’t want you to know because I know that you would have talked me out of it.”
“Do you still remember what happened in KL? Do you remember what we did then?”
There is a pause, a sigh and then: “Yes, I do.”
It is my turn to look away now; I fight the tears that force their way to the surface.
“Well all I can tell you now is that if you are telling me that now that I am holding your hand you do not feel anything in your heart, then you have succeeded but if there is one ounce of feeling or a flicker of doubt, you will fail.”
I grip his hand tighter. “Look at me; I want you to look at me.”
Reluctantly he turns and faces me.
“I want you to remember this. Happiness is the bottom line, in whatever you do remember that it must make you happy.”
I remove my hand get up and begin to walk away as the tears start to fall.

New Space

I remembered the words I uttered to my boss during my interview, when she asked me whether the location of the office was an inconvenience to me. I replied with much gung-ho enthusiasm that I like commuting to work because looking at things would give me more creative ideas. Of course, the place was absolute pits. Located in the middle of nowhere. Not a single direct bus, far from the train stations and traffic jams beyond compare. Lesser than a year later, we finally got a new space! The chi chi area of Smith Road. Convenient, centralized and busy and noisy enough to provide us designers with creative stimulus.

Tomorrow is officially the day we would move to the new space, but today was madness. Designers may have a whole slew of design ideas in their heads for packaging design, but apparently the actual packing is not one of our forte.

Veron hard at work.

The whole team figuring out how to arrange the boxes in way that will allow for maximum use of space.

My desk, where most of the magic happens. Yes, I am still busy designing while packing.

My stuff all needly packed in one box finally.

Baby Romance

I was bugged, prodded, pressured both physically and psychologically to go to a 'kenduri tahlil', which unfortunately for my non malay and non muslim readers, quite difficult for me to explain or even find a similar english word to describe said event. The simplest way for me to describe it is, a religious gathering of family and close friends to say prayers for the family members that had already moved on to the nether world, followed by refreshments and socializing. I never liked going to such gathering. I would feel awkward, sit in one corner alone playing with my toes. Then I would have the occasional over-enthusiastic aunties approaching and offering me coffee and some kuih, which I would immediately decline citing that I can't eat anymore as a reason.

Another more potent reason that I usually stay far away from such events are the kids. If I become a dad, I would be a monstrous dad. Kids annoy and irk the shit out of me. They scream at the top of their lungs, run about at the most inappropriate times, throw things at each other which end up hitting someone else and are constantly sticky. The worst kinds of kids are the kind that can talk. Because I am usually alone by myself at these events, kids like to gather around me and start talking and asking me questions. Once you start answering their first question, you have perpetually doomed yourself to a continuous irritating conversation for the rest of the evening.

'Abang, abang, I like your watch.' one of them little demons would say. 'Thanks.' I said with an authoritative low voice, in hopes this would scare them away. 'How much did you get it for?' she continued, prodding the face of the watch with her sticky crummy fingers. I pulled my hand away. 'It's a gift.' I replied swiftly. 'Your girlfriend gave it to you right...' she responded. 'Eh abang Wan got girlfriend.' the rest of the demonic army joined her. Conversation with kids cannot be anything else but terrible.

Ironically, I used to be one of them chatty kids. My mum would recall stories to me, that I used to talk a lot. I would tell stories of lamps, books and plates. I would play with cups and pretend them to be little house for the ants and force all the adults around me to listen to my gibberish. I would take spoons and pretend that I have antennas over my head and irk the hell out of my dad. My dad, in hopes of making me more interested in sports other than playing imagine, brought me one day to a soccer match. I spend the entire evening asking him what was going one. Soon enough my dad just gave up, and practically left me alone to my imaginations, never again tempting to graze me to the world of competitive team sports.

I suppose in some ways, my disposition with kids is the symptom of a much deeper inner problem of being a gay guy. V never liked kids, he told me. He don't hate them, but having one as his own is not something he would consider. As for me, having one as my own would only bring much misery to the child. I would glare at my chatty kid with my eyes that speak its own language of authority and power. 'SILENCE,' I would demand if said stare was not enough. Oh no. No kids for me.

Sweet August

August is ending and this strange feeling of satisfaction is feeling me up rather quickly. While end of months are usually crazy affairs for me – what with the mounting projects, nearing deadlines and last minute design work which my boss laps up readily like a desperate pitiful dog that she is. August feels a little different. It could be that my office is finally going to be located in a humane location – near the train station, centralize and not far from civilization. Ministers and leaders of our beloved nation had always pointed fingers and blamed the unemployed for being too choosy about office location. Well its easy to say, when most ministries are located in prime location. I would like at least one ministry building to be located at Kallang Way, then we'll see.

I have also been trying to live like a miserly hermit for this month, minimizing myself to just a quarter of my meagre pay cheque. Yes a quarter of my pay check to pay bills and support my ever high maintenance self. No. I am hardly high maintenance. I don't need a daily dose of Starbucks coffee – I'm hardly a coffee drinker anyway. I realize buying a box of tea from the supermarket, and putting it in the office and making tea everytime I need some sort of buzz or jolt far cheaper than rushing to the nearest coffee joint and getting those overly expensive sugared drinks.

I am also refraining myself from buying new clothes this month. Honestly, how many t-shirts, jeans, shirts, underwear, socks, caps, etc do we really need. I try to avoid those supposedly cheap clothing stores entirely. A $65 dollars pullover might feel like nothing, but it adds up. I do need underwear though, so instead of the usual CK, Gap or Renoma briefs, I get them a dollar briefs from a certain market stall I happen to chance upon. I know. I know. A dollar briefs. Damn Wan what happened to taste and self worth? But they look ridiculously sexy, them dollar briefs. I still wear my CK though if I need to reveal more than usually needed. :)

So August is ending, and my bank account still feels healthy, and another new pay cheque is coming in. It isn't so bad, living a frugal life I must say. Mary Ann, once said to me, in her rather comical sexy ways that she spends cause she can't save. Well she's living a fabulous life. I can' live like her. First of course she earns more than me – damn those high earners in law. Second, I don't really find much comfort in material things. No, before you think I am on some route to higher living base on abstinence, I must admit, I am hardly immune impulsive shopping. But I usually end up feeling guilty, miserable because I don't really need whatever it is I just purchased. The joy of shopping has evaporated it seems, when the act of shopping itself becomes attainable. Ah words of wisdom from Wan. I am allowed to be wise, at least once a year.

Sleeping Beauty

As the train came in, I saw through the windows that there was a boy sleeping soundly, his head rested on the glass panel back rest and was slouching down. He was hugging his beg, guarding it, as though it was filled with treasures. Perhaps that's why he was so tired. He was treasure hunting all day. What else could cause this teenage boy to be so tired on a Saturday. Oh maybe it could be that he was playing happily in the playground all day. His shoes were scuffed with sand and dirt. Then I notice his low slung jeans and his over sized t-shirt drowning his slim frame. He could be a skater, flying through the air on his board, like Silver Surfer did through the cosmic void. Such activities do tire people out.

I felt almost sorry for him. As I boarded train at an interchange, this could only mean that this boy had missed all of his stops and was going on an endless brutal train ride cycle. I wanted to extend my hand, and just gently tap him on his shoulder. That would be enough to wake him from his slumber and enough time for him to realize that he must leave the train. But I didn't. I was mesmerized by the sight of this sleeping boy. If I close my eyes, and concentrate hard enough, I could hear his gentle but heavy heaves of breath. His chest was gently rising and falling, like the ocean wave. His lips slightly parted – the signs of a good sleeper. Then the train bells chimed and the doors close. The train violently accelerated forward and the shaking woke the boy from his slumber.

He looked around, his eyes half closed, his mind still wandering in the land of the dreams. Then the truth hit him hard. His eyes widen, his breath become short and loud. He looked at his wrist watch and looked out the window. Has he slept that long? What if he was there sleeping since yesterday, and nobody woke him up, because he was such a sleeping beauty. He took out his hand-phone and punched it digits that I can only guess he was sending a text to his lover – reminding his lover that he is still alive and not to worry, or cry endlessly. He was such a sleeping beauty. Sad that no handsome prince was there to kiss him awake.

Fast Food

After work, usually throws me a conundrum. Especially today, when there was no dragon boat training. (note to those anti-establishment gay types: I am doing this not because I am narcissistic stereotypical gay, but I am doing it for networking and exercising purposes U_U) The first thing that got onto my mind was to stay back at work a little late and finish up whatever projects that needs to be completed. But strangely enough, I got nothing to do. By the time it was four, I was mindlessly surfing the net. I tried to start on my other non studio project commitments – Zat's concert collateral, identity for a friend's start-up and AFA educational campaign, but my mind just couldn't conjure up anymore design magic.

I had my gym clothes under my table, and immediately planned to hit the gym after work. It would be great I thought. I will workout for an hour, head home early enough to actually see my parents still up, watch a bit of television with them and actually have a decent conversation with them. I'm quite anxious to hear my mum's adventure at her Koran recitation classes.

But like life, things don't usually go as plan. As I said my goodbyes to my colleagues, I had a sudden craving for fast food. Any kind of fast food. I have been trying my best to stay far away from fast food until at least I lose a couple of inches around my tummy. But cravings for fast food do not care for fitness or beauty plans. It needs to be sated. With greasy fries and over salted and deep fried meat. Even after horror stories of fries and chicken meat being injected with breast enlarging hormones. Well the story of the chicken did scare me, but the fries staying in your body for six short months did not really. So I marched straight to Long John Silvers and got myself a plate of Combo 2 – battered deep fried fries, chicken slivers and fish fillet and sweet chili sauce. Everything on my plate was oil drenched. I devoured everything in mere minutes.

That's the best part about eating alone. You are able to eat as fast as you desire. If you are with company, there are manners to uphold and etiquette to maintain. I finished everything in twenty minutes. Including my coke. No. Its not no diet coke. But a full sugar and calorie laden coke. Ah. It was one of the better meals I had in weeks.

Of course there was a post meal guilt, which results in me working out extra hard in the gym. My body is going ache tomorrow morning.

Open Letter to all Graphic Designers

Once, a long time ago in the days of yore, I had a friend who was studying graphic design to become, presumably, a graphic designer.

This friend introduced me to other friends, who were also studying graphic design. Then these friends had other friends who were graphic designers - real graphic designers doing real graphic design like designing corporate logos that look a lot like ink stains. And these real graphic designers knew other real graphic designers and now the only people I know are graphic designers. And they all design ink stains that win awards like the ink awards but ultimately get ignored by people like me.

Do not get me wrong, graphic designers. I like you as a person. I think you are nice, smell good most of the time, and I like your glasses. You have crazy hair, and if you are lucky, most of it is on your head. But I do not care about graphic design. It is true. This is what I do care about:

• burritos
• hedgehogs
• tea

As you can see, graphic design is not on the list. I believe that graphic design falls somewhere between toenail fungus and invasive colonoscopy in the list of things that interest me.

Perhaps if you didn’t talk about it so much, I would be more interested. When you point to a advertisement at the side of a hotel and say proudly, hey my office designed that, I giggle and say it looks like a vegas broadway sign. You turn your head in disgust and shame. You think, obviously he does not understand. What does he know? He is just a writer. He is no graphic designer. She respects vowels, not ink stains. And then you say now I am designing a brand, and I ask what is that, and you say it is a system of differentiating services and goods and I say you mean like a logo and you say no. It is a brand. I say it sounds like a logo. I am from the Valley, bitch. I know logos.

Graphic Designers, I will not lie, you confuse me. You work sixty, eighty hours a week and yet you are always poor. Why aren’t you buying me a drink? Where is your bounty of riches? Maybe you spent it on merlot. Maybe you spent it on hookers and blow. I cannot be sure. It is a mystery. I will leave that to the scientists to figure out.

Graphic Designers love to discuss how much sleep they have gotten. One will say how he was at the studio until five in the morning, only to return again two hours later. Then another will say, oh that is nothing. I haven’t slept in a week. And then another will say, guess what, I have never slept ever. My dear Graphic Designers, the measure of how hard you’ve worked and how much you’ve accomplished is not related to the number of hours you have not slept. Have you heard of Milton Glaser? He is a famous Graphic Designer. I know this because you tell me he is a famous Graphic Designer. I hear that Milton Glaser is always sleeping. He is, I presume, sleeping right now. And I hear he gets shit done. And I also hear that in a stunning move, he is making a logo that looks not like a ink stain, but like a coffee mark. When you sleep more, you get coffee. You can all take a lesson from Milton Glaser.

Life is hard for me, please understand. Graphic Designers are an important part of my existence. They call me at eleven at night and say they just got off work, am I hungry? Listen, it is practically midnight. I ate hours ago. So long ago that, in fact, I am hungry again. So yes, I will go. Then I will go and there will be other Graphic Designers talking about Photoshop shortcuts and something about screen printing and can you believe that is all I did today, what a drag. I look around the table at the poor, tired, and hungry, and think to myself, I have but only one bullet left in the gun. Who will I choose?

I have a friend who is a doctor. He gives me drugs. I enjoy them. I have a friend who is a lawyer. He helped me sue my debtors. My graphic designer friends have given me nothing. No drugs, no medical advice, and they don’t know how to spell subpoena. One graphic designer friend figured out that my apartment needed more posters. That was nice. Thanks for that.

I suppose one could ask what someone like me brings to graphic designers like yourselves. I bring cheer. I yell at graphic designers when they start talking about architecture. I force them to discuss far more interesting topics, like turkey eggs. Why do we eat chicken eggs, but not turkey eggs? They are bigger. And people really like turkey. See? I am not afraid to ask the tough questions.

So, dear graphic designers, I will stick around, for only a little while. I hope that one day some of you will become doctors and lawyers or will figure out my taxes. And we will laugh at the days when you spent the entire evening talking about some European you’ve never met who designed a poster you will never see because you are too busy working on something that will never get produced. But even if that day doesn’t arrive, give me a call anyway, I am free.

Sudirwan Juhaimi

Post National Day

So its 10 August and its a little too late for me to post a National Day entry. So a post National Day Entry would suffice. This is my list of things that I wish for Singapore. Happy National Day people. Yes we are all allowed to be patriotic at least once a year.

1) You are probably tired of hearing this. You probably heard this from another gay person. But Singapore, for the sake of your dignity and standing in the modern world, lose 377a already. The government might claim that they will never enforce that law, but 377a becomes an emblem of inequality. If 377a remains, how can we even begin to talk about equal rights among races, religions and creed. The abolishment of 377a is not only important to the homosexuals but to Singapore and the rights of her citizens.

2) Loosen up on the censorship already.

3) A free press would be nice. If that's too much. A newspaper that's a little more critical of the government would be a good start.

4) Abolish the GRCs and reinstate one man constituencies. Why? So every MP that is in Parliament is actually elected and not harbored by powerful Ministers within GRCs. If MPs actually worked to be in the Parliament, they would value their position as the voice of people and not abuse it.

5) 4.5 days work week. Is it too much to ask if I want to knock off in the noon on Fridays.

:)

Fahion Victim

Blame it on Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana – the inventor of the male hipster – that my crotch now is sore.

While I rarely tuck in my shirts, today I decided that I should indulge old school manners and proper fashion, and tuck in my shirt. There is a reason why I rarely tuck in my shirts – though most average height men would benefit greatly from a good tucking in – is that my body is shorter than my legs. Way shorter. So tucking in, does nothing but accentuates the strange proportions I happen to be blessed with. But seeing as how it's the first Monday of the month and I got to meet a new client, I decided to tuck in my shirt tails and look all polish.

So to counter the effects of looking like just chest and legs, I decided to bring my jeans low. Really low. In fact its so low, my jeans are just supported by my hip bones and my rather unfortunate genitals. And it doesn't help that I decide to wear my rather big belt buckle. So every time I move, the buckle would narrowly scrap against my member.

By the end of the day, after much movement, my crotch is screaming to be released from the evil low slung jeans. If women have to deal with high heels, I think us tall men has to deal with the greater evil here. A threat to our fertility. The hipster jeans.