Zen and the art of emotional freeloading

14 12 2003

Clear your mind.

When some bald crackerjack, cialis sales viagra sale decked out in robes and matching accoutrements, best cialis capsule moseys up in your face and in fluent dalai-lama-ese mutters “the obstacle is the path”, I urge you to unclench those fists. Just nod. He’s on to something. You see, when you’re an alien (which after reading this first paragraph you’re pretty sure I am), the obstacle of being a foreigner in a strange land is the path. And it’s a path littered with surrogate love and in some cases, stuffed turkey.

Oh, and if you’re the kind of person who’s gonna say to me “But Noodle, is the path really even there?” then you can just nick off back to troublemakers.com right now. I really don’t have time for free-floating, take-it-too-far-with-the-Zen people today. I’m sorry, but if you’re having trouble keeping up with the news ticker at the bottom of your life screen, or if your earth umbilicus is threatening to jump its mooring, then you need professional help. But there I go just being, because I am. You with me?

Now what was I saying? Please, please, please clear your mind or you’ll never keep up. Read the rest of this entry »



I can hear my violent train a’comin’

10 07 2003

It starts like this.

It’s 6.48am and I’m sitting in a window seat of the 7am Metro-North reverse commute train weighing up my options. I’m half asleep in a stationary train in Grand Central Station. Just contemplatin’ and Noodle-atin’. As you do.

“Should I, best viagra cialis ” my internal monologue inquires. “Should I set the alarm on my watch to wake me up at 8am just before my East Norwalk stop in Connecticut, viagra buy viagra or should I continue reading this Jack Kerouac biography that needs to be returned to the NY Public Library by Friday. My brain is pure flummery at this time of the morning. It doesn’t know if it’s considering either option, ampoule or just having one of those ‘death on a train’ dreams again.

And then it happens.

A man steps into my peaceful train carriage and flips the itchy-switch. Right in the middle of my contemplative sleep-think.

“Who owns these bloddy bags!” he nasalates (yes, a made up word), in his Caribbean accent. His accusing index finger waggles at some embarrassed pieces of luggage sitting in the mid-train, four-seat area. I try not to pay attention to this show, even though I have a prime, ring-side-beneath-the-Chapiteau seat. The phrase “Don’t look anyone in the eye” is still chiming in my ears as I feign indifference.

I glance at my reflection in the carriage window. Oh, shit. I’m wearing my fear face! Read the rest of this entry »



Take me out to the bored game

1 05 2003

If I were prone to spurts of ‘life is like a box of chocolate’ statements, buy viagra ampoule my first impression of Gotham metropolis might go a little sumthin like this.

New York is like wet paint. You want to reach out and touch the cool, viagra generic generic fresh stickiness, but once it’s on your fingers you don’t know what to do with it. Wipe it on your jeans? Of course, the response of a proper New Yorker would probably be to brazenly wipe it on someone else’s jeans, but I am not familiar with the proper way of things yet. I am but a grasshopper to New York’s Shaolin Master and there are many crumbling steps to my eventual enlightenment.

Of course, my mind-blowing wet paint statement makes the assumption that your brain is in some way wired up like mine. That the ‘touch, throw, jump’ gene resides in your genetic makeup. By way of explanation, this gene causes you to act in certain pre-defined ways.

1. If it’s wet, you will touch it.

2. If there is a large body of water in front of you, you will throw it.
(’IT’ can be whatever you’re holding at the time, which is why I always tie my camera to myself. It stops my insurance premiums skyrocketing)

3. If it’s high above the ground …well, you don’t actually jump, but the thought about how great it would be to jump and glide right outta here on the next favorable updraft will pop into your head. Plenty of high spots in NY too.

But I’ve drifted off.

We were talking about the wet paint sport of baseball. Yes, we were. You see, the other thing people might mention in conversations about wet paint is that old saying. You know, about how some things in life are so gosh-darn riveting that they are akin to watching paint dry. With that statement in mind, let me tell you this—I went and watched my first game of American baseball. Read the rest of this entry »



The gentle art of fogging

22 01 2003

Mistaken assumption No. 1:
If Kurt Cobain can get married in pajamas, viagra usa unhealthy I can answer the door in mine.

I realise now after the event, cialis generic sovaldi that there are certain times in your life when you need to decide what type of flag you wave in terms of decorum. After my latest social fumbling, prescription it’s pretty obvious I’m waving a ‘total-lack-of’ flag.

Official statement: Noodle, January, 2003
Well, I was just sitting at my desk, minding my own business at 9.00 am Singapore time, writing some crap-or-other (pure gold really), when there came a polite knock at the door. The excitement bubbled as I looked toward the door, even though it’s not transparent. So the act of looking is a little pointless.

But I can’t help it—I have a delivery fetish. I think every knock at the door might be an important delivery of some sort. I check my mail several times a day, just in case I missed an urgent missive from Bono, whom I sometimes imagine to be my long-term pen pal. Though admittedly, he does all the talking.

So, when this knock came it took me only a nanosecond to decide that it was perfectly acceptable to answer the door in my pyjamas, jam stains and all. With ‘pre-delivery adrenaline’ surging through my veins, I bounded to the door and jerked it open.

My hair had that kind of ‘hedge-backwards’ look about it. But my teeth were clean, so I wore a jaunty smile.

My face, smile, and spirit fell. There was a little man in uniform waiting in the corridor. He didn’t have a parcel.

“Hello,” he said. I looked him up and down as he, with what I took to be a smirk, checked out my daggy pjs. He kind of hesitated for a moment, but then ploughed on.

“Mosquito inspector,” he said. “I’m here to check your mosquitoes.” Read the rest of this entry »



Cultural oddities and other probing questions

28 12 2002

Question 1:
When driving from Singapore to Malaysia you must:
a) Get a Gurkha to take your photo at the border
b) Have at least 3/4 of a tank of petrol
c) Crack jokes to the immigration officer about the terrorists hiding in the boot
d) Be at least this tall (indicates roughly 1.2m) to enter

Ok, buy viagra pills before anyone gets all narky about the discrimination against vertically challenged people; there are no height restrictions when entering Johor Bahru. So, if you answered d) you may not be smart enough to participate in today’s Noos. Click away now!

But on with the story…

I scored an invite to Crazy Val’s mum’s house for lunch on Christmas day. This entailed a skip across the Causeway into Johor Bahru, Malaysia. It seems so weird to skip to another country on Christmas day, get the passport stamped and then come back, but hey, that’s the kind of exotic life I’m leading now. My exotic life. Oh, how the exotic Noodle lives!

Two years here and I’d still never done the trip into Malaysia, so this jaunt was an attempt to rectify this grave oversight AND score a family-type Christmas gig. Even if that family was not my own.

Singapore and Malaysia are only separated at JB by a bridge. There are lots of signs before the checkpoint. One of particular note is a rather puzzling image of a fuel gauge with the needle at 3/4 full. Meaning? Well, there is a $500 fine if you get caught with less petrol than that. Can’t have those bargain-hunting Singaporeans ducking into Malaysia for cheap petrol!

So, if you listed b) as your answer in the quiz, you may collect 1,000 ringgits. Read the rest of this entry »






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