Ra Ra Ga Ga Roma Roma MoMa MoMa

I hate horror but I love twisted plots. I too, have a strange strong and 'depp' connection with Johnny Depp so it goes without surprise that I like the works of Tim Burton.

The moment I heard the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) was having an exhibition on his works, I jumped at that opportunity like a 40 year old virgin on a drunken chick. 

I paid for my tickets online and headed to the MoMa, giddy with glee. Nothing excites me more than to see original artworks and sketches from Tim Burton himself. Not to mention props from his movies. So imagine my disappointment when I arrived at the entrance with a big slap on my face.

No Photography

Those words are just as bad as fuck you. 

So I walked around and immersed myself in his mind and works. Though it was only a small section, it was still mind blowing. But do you know what would have been more mind blowing? Photos.

Once that was done, I proceeded to other exhibitions. Most 'collections' prohibited photography while the regular items on display were fine. So here I am, walking into another series of the MoMA's collection of the month, enjoying what I do not fathom but feign intelligence when a security guard walks up to me and says 

No Photography

He might as well have just said fuck you.

For there I was, walking alone, minding my own business. Yes, I might have a camera in one hand but that's because my camera is too big to fit into my dainty purse that goes with my short arms. Of course I had to lug it around with me, what the fuck do you expect me to do when half your gallery allows photography and the other does not? Fact is, I was not taking a picture. I know better because I know how to read. Even if I didn't, there are pictures. Unless you catch me in the act, I do not expect you to reprimand me. Why, just because I own a device that automatically means I will use it? It's just like if I were to go up to him and say

Please don't rape me.

Getting Carded

Does not necessarily mean you look young and illegal.

What does a Roman man and the Chinese have in common? Feb 14th 2010. This year, Chinese New Year and Valentine's Day are sharing the spotlight. If you're a hopeless romantic, you will most likely be torn between all that love in the air and duties as a filial child. If you're an El Cheapo, you are more than happy to dodge this 'Valen-hai' day and receive money instead of spending.

However, this made me reminisce about the times when we were in primary school and every time a festival is near, we make our parents drive us to the closest stationery store and stack up on Chinese New Year cards. RM5 for a pack of 12. I, on the other hand, am smarter than that. I had my father bring home a stack of cards from his company for free. I had so many in hand that I distributed to every Chinese I knew in school. Yes, I was well liked by everyone in school. Both me and Asia Insurance Sdn Bhd.

Then technology took place. We traded our independency and sanity for a piece of plastic called: The Cellphone. I remember the times I will be on the mahjong table and my cell would beep incessantly with "Happy Chinese New Year to you and your family!" The following year, people just got lazier. Typing became a hassle and they sent forwarded ASCII art text messages with bears holding lanterns saying Gong Xi. Nokia was 'The Shitz' back then because, unless you owned a Nokia, these ASCII art wouldn't work and that bear would somehow look like a cipan on a Samsung or Motorola.

It ups the ante the following year. People just sent emails with a pair of oranges and some red packets positioned next to it on a table with some red tablecloth, taken with a fancy high res camera with a photoshopped "Gong Xi Fa Chai" on it. Look up into the sent list, at least 40 names are on it. In alphabetical order at it. Doesn't take a genius to know that it was from his or her contact list and you were just another Chinese name on that list.

Then came Facebook. Oh, Facebook. How you make the world a happier place to live in. And by happier, I mean stalking and bitching. But, apart from that, people now google images of a tiger/boar/rat/chicken/dog/rabbit/ox/snake/dragon/sheep/monkey/rooster, depending on the zodiac year, and TAG every Ong, Lai, Lee, Chan, Cheng, Chong, etc on their friends list. Yes, all fiv.. I mean 600 of them.

If that's too much work, just update your status to GONG XI FA CHAI EVERYONE that constitutes to having greeted all your friends.

I personally dislike how impersonal the world has become because I still appreciate a card or two (for every and any occasion). I'm sorry that somewhere out there, a little tree had to suffer because of it. I make it up by recycling and wrapping presents with pages from a magazine.

Love Is In The Air

You know that saying "Don't shit where you eat"? Who would have thought it applies to dogs as well. But I'm going in a different direction here. By direction, I mean wind direction. Also known as flatulence.

Because of my petite height, Chewie prefers sleeping on my side at the foot of the bed for my feet and body combined only takes up half the bed. However, no matter how much room I may provide for Chewie at the foot of the bed, there is no way he can hide from the tall friendly giant. The Boyf's feet will somehow turn into a champion shuffler causing Chewie to once fall off the bed. He has learned his lesson since. He being Chewie, The Boyf still goes into a mini foot seizure occasionally when unconscious.

Today, he only sleeps on the pillows we rest our heads on, but positions himself behind us, knowing we're not going to be dancing cheek to cheek with the wall anytime soon. Or if it suits his fancy, in that little nook between our pillows. Once again, I am a better candidate as my head is smaller too. Or, probably cause my hair smells good and my head looks pretty from a higher angle.

One night, Chewie decides to park his cute lil' booty on my pillow, behind me. Five minutes later, he gets up, stretches and traipses over to The Boyf's pillow. Two minutes later, he walks back to my pillow, cuddles up and sleeps.

Just like me on weed, there was a 2 minute lag. That's when I heard The Boyf yelling

"Chewie you motherfucker! You farted in my face!"

Yes, Chewie walked over to new lands to fart and came home to familiar grounds to rest. I swear, he's just like his mother.