Does Kelly Clarkson's latest single 'Already Gone' sound like Beyonce's song 'Halo'?

I've just realised that all my work clothes are at least a size too big or too small, that my hair remains limp no matter how much hair wax I work into it, and that I have, of all times, a zit threatening to erupt through one of my pores.

Time for some inspirational tuneage:
 

Clangourously loud drums and eighties rock singer Billy Squier lend Dizzee a hand telling us to pull our socks up.

And yes, I am taking sartorial cues from a man who calls himself both 'Dizzee' and 'Rascal', and who is wearing a shirt several sizes too large for him. Yup, that is how nervous I am.

 

In a bid to calm my fraying nerves for tomorrow's job interview with Wiley-Blackwell Publishing for their Assistant Production Editor position - whew! - here is Stevie Wonder's #1 hit "Superstition" as recorded on Sesame Street.

Imagine all the tots bumping and grooving in their diapers to that bass. Funky.
 

Today, I had a job interview with Jeregon International for their marketing executive post.

'Had'...'Sat through' is too passive. 'Participate'? Not any better really. Actually, how do you describe 'participating in a job interview'? And 'not knockin' 'em out' or 'not wowing the panel' to that inflection in particular?

Anyway, please, let me explain myself:

My job interview was scheduled at nine in the morning at Pan Pacific Hotel at Orchard. Now because I do not enjoy shopping, I do not know my way around the Orchard Road area. So I decided to wake up at 6:30 am and head down to town earlier than I usually would, just in case. However, because of the presence of the recently-opened, newfangled and totally avaricious ION Orchard in the already chaotic MRT underpass, I lost my bearings entirely and ended up on the wrong side of Orchard Road. Which I had to mince my proper way across and back in high heels - which, by the way, throws one's entire body weight onto three bloody square inches of flesh and squashes one's ten toes into two throbbing stumps (perhaps, even inadvertently bloodlessly amputating several digits along the way).

The interview was being held on the third floor and when the elevator lurched up, I was caught off-balance and tumbled onto the floor.

"Thank God no one else is here with me in the life," I thought as I immediately began to tidy myself, although I did surreptiously glance around for any hidden security cameras.

The ironic thing was, as I was doing so, the doors opened to reveal me adjusting my shoe strap by raising my right foot flamingo-style up, instead of politely bending down to attend to the misbehaving article. Oh yes, and I was hopping on the spot as I did so. On top of sweating profusely. All in front of one of the execs, who raised an immaculately-plucked eyebrow at my feeble attempt at the Blooming Lotus or Ra-Ra Salute-to the Sun pose or whatever those fisherman pants-wearing yoga practitioners call it.

Not a good start. To think the night before I had earlier psyched myself out and projected a fairly rosy performance - say, around 70% chance of employment. Now, my self-esteem was sitting pretty on 60%.

However, it climbed up a bit when I saw my interview panel. My interview panel consisted of two individuals: a woman perhaps in her mid- to late-twenties called Anne and the managing director, Jeremy Koh. Both seemed personable, so it was slightly easier to crack a smile, to, y'know, show that you're a friendly and outgoing individual as opposed to a clammed-up, dodgy secret psychopath.

Then it dipped when I saw that due to the overwhelming response, this was a group interview. There were two other candidates. The guy was working full-time as a technician at Fujitsu (pro: already possesses proper working experience) and the girl was an Argentian fresh out of business school in Spain (pro: 'foreign talent', in particular Latina).

The girl went first. She'd probably be ranked the first out of my group because she was able to present herself as being equipped with both the necessary academic qualifications (majors in business and accounting) and the ability to adapt to any working environment or culture (her father is a diplomat and the family's moved around plenty of times when she was younger).

I went next, since I sat in the middle. I tried to weave in ancedotes of my own relevant experience - they were largely inflated for the purposes of future employment and self-grandeur - however not as successfully. When Jeremy read from my resume that I had studied in Melbourne, he seemed slightly interested in my experiences overseas and talked about how Australian char kway teow 'cannot make it'. I, in turn, shared about how the laksa at Newman was a travesty of one of our local beloved dishes with its ungodly additions of brocolli and carrots.

However, it ended exactly there because they were pressed for time and so the panel quickly moved onto the next guy. After that, it was our turn to volley questions at our interviewers. Latina jumped in first and asked the exact questions I was about to ask: what exactly is the company looking for in a potential employee, and to what extent are they willing to take on a green but still earnest individual, or are they gunning more for experience?

Wordlessly, I screamed at her: Great minds think alike, but shut up woman! Stop hogging the limelight!

I did get in one question: are there opportunities for us to travel and overseas deployment? 

She turned to me, smiling, and said, "Oh, I was about to ask the same thing!"

Of course, you were, mi amiga, you smart Chica you.

After the interview, as I took the elevator down, I took my 60% odds and divided it, sensibly, into two. And then I took off 5% in hindsight of the display of epicurean Nazism, and considering the overwhelming 300-plus responses for the thirty-odd job openings, another 5% off the remainding odds.

So end chances of employment: 20%.

Plus-minus 5%. Hey, I'm still hopeful...

10 Great Disappointments in Life

1. Adolescence
2. Adulthood
3. Biore pore-cleaning nose strips
4. Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen
5. University degrees
6. Passport photos, or any form of I.D. for that matter: Always that dazed, crumpled look is captured, never mind the prodigal amount of primping and preparation beforehand...
7. 'Happy', post-Supposed-Former-Infatuation-Junkie Alanis Morrissette
8. Bra-and-panty sets
9. Posh restaurants
10. Body Shop body scrubs
    
     

ACT I
I'm writing up yet another cover letter, and it's so tiring and soul-crushing to justify myself again and again. About how I possess all the traits they're looking, and more, and how I would be a valuable asset to their company if they'd take me.

Why I am the one they are looking for. Sounds a lot like a dodgy personal ad, if you ask me.

I have half a mind to go up to the head of the HR department, pull him or her into a tight, tear-soaked embrace before cupping their face with quivering hands and looking up, glistening-eyed, into their eyes, and say "I know I am not good enough for you, that I don't deserve you, but I am by God not going to walk away from this just because I think it might not work out".

Or, even though I doubt I have much to offer in the feminine wiles department, to hike my business skirt up as I clamber over their desk and onto their lap, before I suck their face off.

Then as we break apart, they'd gasp, chest heaving,"Oh, how I love your lack of professional experience and your tacky Nivea lip balm."

But no. Instead, I'm marketing myself on paper as 'fresh' rather than 'chronically underexperienced' (but Jimi Hendrix does ask, "Are You Experienced?"), and arguing why I am not an academically underachieving university graduate but rather a poor one who could not afford another AUS$17,000+++ (oh, and don't forget the overheads) to get an additional four letters and a dot "Hons." on my cert which, by the way, already have the words "Bachelor of Arts" printed and fucking embossed on it.

All while consulting both a paperback and online thesaraus for another synonym for enthusiastic - I've already milked the 'passionate', 'keen' and 'eager' cows till it all turned to cheese.

Any more of this, and I'll probably start carving the words "AREN'T I YOUR GIRL" into hunks of beef soon.

ACT II
My father walks into my room and finds me sitting on the floor in the middle of a pile of books on resume-writing, academic certificates (and childhood Aikido report cards - you know, for the 'extracurricular activities' section, to prove that I am indeed a well-rounded individual), and draft suicide letters.

 

As I am pasting the fifth plaster on the back of my left heel, I can't help but think that I'm doing penance for my vanity.

You see, last month I bought a pair of brown faux-leather flats for $20 from Ang Mo Kio. They were the dressy kind, with silver buckles and strappy, well, straps...To think I nearly smacked Mario for laughing at me for trying out for a fashion magazine.

As you can tell, this was a huge sartorial departure from my usual worn'n'ready, originally-white-now-muddied-brown-and-grey flip-flops. And I'd admit, it was not a functional/replacement purchase. Yes, I bought it. Because. It. Looked. Pretty. Dammit. And. I. Wanted. To. Look. Pretty. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit!

(This is not me. I am a laid-back, easygoing, non-materialistic person at heart. Or I used to be. The shoes are destroying me, in more ways than one.)

My feet were functional. I attempted to make them beautiful. I have tampered with the divine plan.

So it shall be forty days and forty nights until my feet heal. Lord, have mercy...
 

In spite of the dreary weather, I feel, well, gruntled because of the following things:

1. Bjorn is away at camp - one down, one more sibling to go!
2. I gained a kilo, and dare I say it, I even think it's gone straight to my boobs! (I just realised how close that statement was to being empowering...)
3. My travel article on Bako National Park is officially published in the Medical Tribune
4. Eisen Teo from the 'YouthInk' section of the Straits Times asked me in an email if I was interested in joining them as a contributor.

Now all I need to make the transition from gruntled to glad is to fall asleep tonight and to dream a dream involving Sean Bean and ice cream.

I've been waking up at around two in the afternoon these days because I have been going to bed at around four in the morning. It's not so much that I've been up all night either writing or surfing online than I've been trying to avoid sleep.

Or dreams to be exact.

Dreams usually occur in the REM (rapid eye movement) stage of sleep. Researchers claim that sleep, REM sleep in particular, causes changes in the levels of neurotransmitters and helps the brain to form what they call 'associative networks' - the links between and/or the integration of seemingly unassociated information.

Personally I think dreams provide an alternative perspective on things, and can help impart a flash of insight into an otherwise linear line of thought and subsequent action. Hence, I've always welcomed dreams, particularly those involving Everest-sized mountains of ice-cream and whipped cream and those of dark, rugged men with ice-cream (hel-lo, there's a theme).

The theme for these past two weeks, however, is me going back to school. A few of them revolve around my time in Melbourne and it is comforting to see the old friendly faraway faces again. But it's the ones that are set back in secondary school that hurt.

It's assembly and I'm standing at the foot of the stage steps. I'm receiving an academic award - most likely for English - and I'm straightening my prefect's tie and smoothening the pleats in my school skirt.

I walk up onstage to applause. The light hits me - it's like the ceiling cracked open and from the heavens a pillar of golden light shoots down, encasing me in a loving, comforting, glowing shaft of reassurance.

The Beam of Revelation. The Beam of Accomplishment.

Which transports me to another scene, where I'm sitting with Natalie and Rachel, presumedly in Literature class. We're passing notes and cheeky remarks about Mrs Bala to one another. One of them makes me fall to the floor laughing, overcome by the magnificence of my own wit.

Then, aside, I realise it's all childish and that there's really nothing magnificent about it at all. About me. And then I am transported back to now, where I'm a university graduate but unemployed.

You see, the images, the memories, the insights and revelations would slam into me and take my breath away, and then they'd slowly pull back as I awake, leaving barbs and slashes in my psyche.

You do not have to be an overachieving English literature kid in secondary school to figure the meaning of that dream out.

...He saw her looking and waved. She waved back.

To no one in particular, she said, "He cares for me."

Garfunkel and Oates - "Only You"

I used to dream that I would be
A bright and shiny star on TV
Or maybe I would go to college
Like Harvard, or Devry
I would live in an apartment
In Paris or in Cincinatti
I would play my music loud and not apologize

I used to dream that I would marry

A guy that looked like Charlie Sheen
And he would have a name like Gary, Steve, Todd, David!
I used to think I'd have three kids
And they all would look just like me
And I would force them kids to carry all my groceries

We don't need no goals
Don't need human connection
Dreams are overrated
'Cause our life's already perfection

Now I know all that is true
'Cause all I really want is you
You and you and only you
Me, you, me, you

I used to dream that I would have
A best friend named Michelle
And we would braid some friendship bracelets
We would tell all of those other fucking cunts to go to hell
And when we're 60, we'd get facelifts
Like Joan Rivers (Burt Reynolds)

I used to dream I'd have co-workers
And we'd stay out 'til two at night
And I would have a perfect body
(You do!)
(I know...)
I used to think that I'd have sex
At some point in my adult life
And I was sure it would be naughty
(Like that scene from Top Gun)
("Take My Breath Away"...)

We don't need no goals
Don't need human connection
Dreams are overrated
Cause our life's already perfection

Now I know all that is true
'Cause all I really want is you
You and you and only you
Me, you, me, you, you
You

So I've been emailing the film correspondent of the Straits Times, John Lui, for the contact details of Gorylah Pictures. He's been helpful, but once again he asked me if I was "the Kym Ng from TV".

(Honestly? I thought journalists would be more discerning...)

I was tempted to tell him that I did appear on some forgettable Channel 8 variety show years back, dressed flatteringly in my white, sack-like Aikido uniform - and accesorised tastefully with a lokang (drain) water-coloured brown belt - grunting and phwoar-ing away as I hurled some guy twice my size down to the ground.

But I am a subtle person. I simply wrote back saying that even the security guard at SPH asked me that when I interned at the paper two years ago - and hoping that, you know, the email would help me ease my way into talking with him about my job options.

John, good ol' helpful John Lui, wrote back finally with one piece of advice: "Maybe you can give yourself a middle name to reduce the confusion :) "

I need to get more savvy.

I'm getting published!!!

My travel article on Sarawak's Bako National Park is appearing in next month's issue of the Medical Tribune!

Phwoarrrrrr! Big smiles!

Ani Difranco - "Served Faithfully"

He caresses every bottle
Like it's the first one he's had
Saying, it ain't love but it ain't bad
It's the only reward
Bestowed upon me
And I have served faithfully

I can see he is scarred
From doing some hard time
But I let alone what is broken
'Cause it isn't mine
He strikes out at me
When I am within reach
Then he reaches for me
When I draw the line

Sometimes it seems like love
is just a fancy word for compromise
You've gotta read between the years
You've gotta write between the lines
You've gotta try to understand
The grandness of the man behind the petty crimes
And let him off easy sometimes

I have only just met
An old, old friend
We've been walking around holding hands
I hope some day he can bend
As far as it takes to understand
And risk breaking open again

He caresses every bottle
Like it's the first one he's had
Saying, it ain't love but it ain't bad
It's the only reward
Bestowed upon me
And I have served
I have served faithfully

I brought Bjorn to Yishun Library and after he left to attend his Chinese tuition class, another group of teenagers settled in his place.

They were your standard 'emo' kids: black band T-shirts (there was at least one 'My Chemical Romance' concert tee), skinny jeans, Converse high-tops, leather cuffs, fringe slicked across the face.

Immediately I felt my ire spike. It's unreasonable, yes, so I bit down my tongue and did not pass snide remarks like I always do. I decided to give them the benefit of doubt and chose not to condemn them on the basis of their sartorial choices. After all, who am I to point the finger, when I still wear my old daggy OPSS P.E. T-shirts?

So I resolved to be patient, although it was very hard when they were sitting right next to me in a ring whinging about unfaithful/insensitive/not-yet boyfriends and girlfriends and scribbling - I am not joking - words like 'HATRED' on their notepads.

It is just stereotypes, it is just stereotypes, I chanted over and over again.

But then, but then.

I left my seat for a while for a toilet break. When I returned, one of them got up from the floor and walked right straight into me, bumping into my shoulder and threading on my small toes.

Reflexively, I apolgised, even though it wasn't my fault. But emo dude, oh no he didn't even say 'sorry'. No, he gave me a dirty look with his one visible eye, as though I was the one at fault.

"Excuse me? What is with that dirty look you're giving me?"

Huh?

"Why are you giving me a dirty look?"

Nothing.

"No, I am sure that you gave me a dirty look, like it is my fault that you bumped into me."

I never give you a dirty look what. You siao (crazy) ah!

"Either way, I am waiting for an apology. You bumped into me and stepped on my toes."

No way. You bumped into me actually okay.

"No, I saw you and I slowed down. You continued walking on and walked into me."

Where got!

Where got, his friends chimed like ding-dongs.

"I am sure you bumped into me, and not the other way around. Or can't you tell because your damn fringe is covering half your face?"

"Eh, why are you scolding my friend," a skinny girl in skinny jeans asked. "Why you make fun of his appearance?"

I almost wanted to laugh when she said that. Honestly, she hit the nail right on the head. Still, my toes were on fire and the boy was morose-looking, not remorseful.

I turned on her. "Am I picking on his appearance? I don't think so. I am merely pointing out an aspect of his appearance that has made him step on my toes. If I was picking on his appearance, I would be telling him to cut off his fringe, maybe shave his head botak, because he looks like a damn pretentious wanker. If I was picking on his appearance, I would be telling him that he is so stupid to be wearing black from head to toe in Singapore. If I was picking on your friends' appearance, I would be teasing him about how he walks like a castrated duck in those disgustingly ugly skinny jeans of his."

"But I am not. So don't accuse me of being so prejudiced against emo people. I demand an apology. Right now."

Long story cut short, a Indian mother who was sitting nearby with her child laughed at the scene so emo-boy finally relented and muttered an apology. The rest of his black parade sulked off back into the dark recesses of their black eyeliner souls.

Oh, how wonderful it is to be a bigot. Shake it there, Luce...

 

You don't mean it

You need a uniform
So you won't be ignored
You are affected
And so you're accepted

It's time you invested in a bottle of poison
So we don't have to hear about you bitchin' and moanin'
You think you could afford a fuckin' bottle of aspirin

Boo fuckin' hoo you're not the only one whose life's a piece of shit
And yet miraculously somehow we all seem to deal with it
Did anybody think that you would really seriously slit your wrists
In fact I think that everybody think you're seriously full of shit

You don't mean it

You need a uniform
So you won't be ignored
You are affected
And so you're accepted

It's time you invested in a bottle of poison
So we don't have to hear about you bitchin' and moanin'
You think you could afford a fuckin' bottle of aspirin

You think you're saying something relevant as you connect the dots
You never realized you have to get in line to suck a cock
You're telling me that fifty million screaming fans are never wrong
I'm telling you that fifty million screaming fans are fucking morons

You don't mean it

So you're accepted
So you're accepted
So la la la la la...

Boo fuckin' hoo you're not the only one whose life's a piece of shit\
And yet miraculously somehow we all seem to deal with it
Did anybody think that you would really seriously slit your wrists
In fact I think that everybody think you're seriously full of shit

You think you're saying something relevant as you connect the dots
You never realized you have to get in line to suck a cock
You're telling me that fifty million screaming fans are never wrong
I'm telling you that fifty million screaming fans are fucking morons

Boo fuckin' hoo you're not the only one whose life's a piece of shit
And yet miraculously somehow we all seem to deal with it
Did anybody think that you would really seriously slit your wrists
In fact I think that everybody think you're seriously full of shit

You think you're saying something relevant as you connect the dots
You never realized you have to get in line to suck a cock
You're telling me that fifty million screaming fans are never wrong
I'm telling you that fifty million screaming fans are fucking morons

Egads, John Lui of the Straits Times gave Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen one star out of five!

Must have faith in director Michael Bay...

Must continue to believe in Optimus Prime...

Euthanasia:
I accidentally crushed an ant with my thumb today. I saw it twitching, so I thumbed it again to end its suffering.

Ooh, just finished writing up my travel article on Bako National Park for the Medical Tribune. So fingers crossed, fingers crossed!

In the meantime, I need a much-deserved break (it was hard coming up with an interesting angle), so it's another video. This time, it's "Short Skirt/Long Jacket" by the group Cake, perhaps best known for their cover of Gloria Gaynor's disco hit 'I Will Survive'.

Enjoy the bass and horn, and are those wood-blocks?!
 

Choice critiques:
"Hey! Wild!...Damn, is that it? Oh, you guys...Oh, there you go!"

"As a psychologist, I have to say this has therapeutic value 'cause it releases something deep inside."

"Certainly some kind of Supergirl that some feminist would approve of, or something like that."

"I don't like the 'na-na-na' part." (How dare you? Is it even possible?!)

"I don't like the thumping. It's like it's trying so hard to be so important by being noisy."

"I've just paid two thousand over dollars to divorce my wife. If she was a little more like this broad in the song, I think I might have stayed with her..."