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.

Random August

"Ey." (This is me, getting ready to make a nuisance of myself.)
"Yeh?" (This is an unsuspecting victim.)
"If my fingers were really penises, would you still talk to me?"
"No."
"Really? Come on!"
"Make that 'Oh, hell, no.'"
"Don't you want me to run my ten dainty penises down your back?"
"Er...."
"Or I could tangle them in your hair..."
"Augh."
"...wrap them round your hand...."
"Stop that!"
"Hey, if my fingers were penises, and I took off my gloves in public, would that be indecent exposure?"
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?"