Creative Sparks

This is what happens when I can’t sleep.

I play around with my Intuos.

Steaming Up!

I’m not much of a cooker. I pretty much screwed everything I cooked before I actually realized that I’d been doing it somehow backasswardly during the process. It’s not that I can’t cook at all – I can, but it’s more like easy-peasy, cook-it-five-minutes-on-each-sides kind, and after about fifth attempts of it in doing so. There was a period where my man was obsessed about cooking me Sze Chuan Chicken With Noodles and because it sounded like a yummy idea, we decided to go ahead with it one weekend. I helped getting the menu from the internet, which was a bit different that what he’d had in mind, but what the hell, we gave it a go anyway. So there we were, slicing and dicing and cooking and fussing about how to put the bits of chicken in the wok because the corn starch was powdering on the wok and got a bit sticky, and that there wasn’t enough oil to fry it with and that we forgot to get some spring onions to sprinkle on – but it turned out pretty good.

There was a bit of panic followed by hysterical laughs, because we were acting as if we were in a cooking show like those ones on the telly, where we practically said out loud everything that we were doing, pretending like we were experts.

I have to admit, he’s been saving my stomach a couple of times whenever supply of food seemed to be in demand and all we had left were good old plain rice. He dished up some pretty mean fried rice – hot and spicy with just a hint of soy sauce. There was one time though when it didn’t turn out that great and it was only because I screwed up the rice – I didn’t put enough water to steam it and it became half raw. See, terrible cook.

It kind of makes me lose my self confidence a little knowing that he is a better cook than me, but he doesn’t care and it was either fried rice or delivery service and we were put off with take-away pizzas anyway.

And the only thing I could do to make up for it was making dessert in a form of fruit jelly with bits of fruit in it (that is if we had any fruit at all). I made it in a nice pudding bowl so that when I flipped it upside down and put the jelly on a plate, it looked nice and beautiful.

So it was to my horror when I told him to get the jelly ready (I use the words very loosely there) whilst I was cleaning my dog’s mess upstairs – that when I came back, the jelly was still in its moulding bowl, already 1/4 gone and it looked like it was taken out brutally by some unshakable force from within. I looked at him and there he was – eating the jelly from a small plate with a tablespoon which I assumed he’d used to scrape the jelly out brutally. I told him I might as well make in a plain soup bowl, in which his face totally lighted up and he went, “Hey, that’s a great idea!”

For my attempt of not wanting to be left behind (i.e. preventing myself from earning the reputation as being a walking hazard around the kitchen area), I decided to target my next cooking experiment in the pasta-based area. As I was browsing through Ivy’s blog, I found a picture of Fettuccine With Mushroom Sauce, which I admit haven’t had for ages and suddenly craving for it. After forcing her to give me the recipe, I popped to the shops for the ingredients and tried my sleight of luck for the second attempt in cooking ‘serious’ food (though Ivy reassured me it was extremely easy).

Nevertheless, the nervousness of having to fuck it up really bugged me I even had nightmares about it – I dreamt I was making the mushroom sauce and somehow, my mother was there and she kept adding vanilla ice cream and mayonnaise to it whilst I wasn’t looking, making the sauce taste awful and salty sweet. Still in the dream, I confronted her for ruining my sauce, in which she casually said “Oh, I thought you were making dessert.” Thankfully the whole thing was a nightmare, but it still made me nerves shot to shit.

All in all, the result was pleasant enough to go down on our throats. Because in the previous hours, there I was, in the kitchen, working my way in – dicing, chopping, mixing, tasting – I admit I didn’t do the last part until the whole ingredients for the sauce had been mixed. As the sauce was starting to boil, I spooned a little bit and brought it closer to my mouth with much anticipation; and guess what – it was delicious! It didn’t taste shit at all, and I personally thought it tasted just like the ones I used to order at the restaurants.

I even took photos of the ready-made pasta (insert the obvious narcissistic joke here) to cherish the moment where I, for once, didn’t screw up!

Poop music!

Remember when Indonesia used to make such good pop music? I used to love listening to Kla Project and Dewa 19 (when Ari Lasso was still in it – what can I say, Once doesn’t sing, he screams), and also Andre Hehanusa as well as this One Hit Wonder band, Jingga, who sang ‘Tentang Aku‘. They’re still so nice to listen to, even after all these years, because not only do they bring good memories and carry out nice melodies, the lyrics are also a lot more meaningful than what the genre has become today; poop music.

It all started since the rise of so-called musicians like Radja (I’m positively sure the vocalist is blind – that, or he is a total Bono-wannabe!), Kangen band (what the hell is with these guys? They’ve the fugliest looks and voice, ever!), Mulan Jameela nee Mulan Kwok (too much whimpering and not enough singing – what are you, a chihuahua?), Dewi Dewi (mediocre singing talent, maximum body flaunting, ditto with Mulan, which I guess are the prerequisites if you want to join Ahmad Dhani’s Republik Cinta). And those are only a few of the many terrible musicians that Indonesia seems to adore.

I’ve seen one too many live performances from the said artists, and not one of them can really perform. What amazes me though, the crowd loves them! They really, really love them! I even start to think whether I’m the one who’s got totally shit taste in music, because if those people are loving it, then why aren’t I? Or is it possible that Indonesia is undergoing through a major degradation of music taste right now?

All I know is that back then, people took their singing talent very seriously. Back then, people really did have talents in music and creating music, as opposed to having the talent to disco and body-oscillating this way and that. Back then, people really did make music and thought of the lyrics carefully, instead of singing about whatever was ‘hot right now’ (all the current musicians seem to be into singing about love affairs and loving two people at the same time – hey, perhaps that’s why polygamy is so popular now!). Back then, people made music that really touched people’s hearts – or mine, at least.

It’s seems to me that Indonesian artists have less integrity in withholding their profession – everything is done half-heartedly, as long as the video clips are controversial enough (ie. show some skin or show top models doing weird lounging around activities – to name a few), as well as the songs being played over and over in the radio to brainwash the listeners so that the songs get stuck in their head, and as long as these artists get publicized enough at talk shows and live performances, then all of those combined efforts are what make an artist deserve to get Platinum awards.

Which is why I don’t listen to the radio and seldom watch local TV – if not for the news, which are, most of the time, making me feel even more depressed than ever. But perhaps that is the main reason why I was shocked to bits when I decided to surf the local TV channels (whilst waiting for soccer to come on) and stumbled upon the performance of this band who had the whole junkies look to perfection and alas, when they brought the microphones upon their mouths and voices came out … I was paralysed and speechless. Oh, the voice! Oh, the tunes! Oh, the lyrics! Ouch, my ears!

Though I’m not a huge soccer fan, I’d rather see a bunch of men kicking around and fighting over a ball – any day, rather than witnessing junkies and Arabian-whore lookalikes writhing and whinnying something which they call themselves a song.

What Did You Get For Valentine’s Day?

It’s a wonderful question for those who embrace the celebration of Valentine’s Day, and yet it’s also a terrible question for those who are still in the quest of finding their Mr. orMs. Right.

Although it has been made into an annual festival where the whole world is festooned with pink hearts, teddy bears emblazoning ‘I love you’ on its chest and many, many heart-shaped chocolate boxes and cupid ornaments, the choice to celebrate should be personal and private.

But even though there are those who aren’t making a big deal out of it, they can’t avoid seeing how this global phenomenon has affected almost everything – since the later days of January and you would have seen shops offering Valentine’s Day special sale, television stations advertising special Valentine’s Day movies and moreover, the movement of Indonesian cinematography which had established the embracement of Valentine’s Day in Indonesia by showing romantic-themed movies with the words of ‘Love’ and ‘Cinta; variedly thrown into the titles.

Thus the image of Valentine’s Day is reverberated as a commercial exploitation where people are encouraged to spend money, either to buy gifts or dinner, and all for the name of Love.

When I used to be single, I dreaded this day – I admit I was somewhat affected by it. I was worried about ‘the question’ that I would get asked for, in which I couldn’t find a genuine response other by retorting Valentine’s Day as a way for Hallmark to make more profit from innocent people who are glorifying the day to be special, even though secretly I would love to get flowers and gifts from that special person whom I love – because what girl wouldn’t?

Perhaps my wish had finally come true, because my beau happens to be a romantic person.

At the early dates of courting, we often wrote letters to each other and although naturally I would recoil from any guy who ever dared to recite poetry to me, I love all the little notes and poems that he sent me. I felt comfortable to be given the romantic treatment, when beforehand I thought it was just silly. Perhaps the reason why I was cynical was due to the fact that I had been disappointed over so many times in my previous relationship that it became hard for me to open up and start to trust again, until I realized that it was all a part of a journey which led me to meet my other half.

So today, we celebrated Valentine’s Day by having dinner together, which was the cherry on top of the day, as I had been genuinely surprised by the white roses bouquet that he presented to me in the afternoon. I didn’t think he would go to so much trouble because we always express our love whenever we can, either by hugs, kisses or a simple ‘I love you’ which we say straight to each other or sent to text messages.

While we were enjoying our dinner, there was a nearby table full of girls having a good time by generally laughing and joking to each other, that somehow reminded me of the day when I used to go out with my girlfriends to brave ourselves off of the harmful side effects of Valentine’s Day. But the image got ruined completely when I saw the whole lot of them teasing one of the waiters who were serving their table, and in return making him feel slightly uncomfortable and perplexed as being forced to have conversations with the customers.

My amusement didn’t stop there, as I saw one of the girls pulling out a Milk Tray box and proffered them to the poor waiter to have one, in which the whole teasing and flirting activity would start off again. It got even worse when a waitress came over to clean up their table and she good-humouredly asked “So where are your boyfriends tonight, girls?”, in which, one of them retorted loudly, “Hare gene punya cowok (Who needs a boyfriend)?”

I do hope that I was much better behaved back then when I was single and fabulous (exclamation mark!). And yet I couldn’t help but feel sympathy for them because who knew what pressure they had to endure, what with everyone asking them the question and the world urging everyone to brighten up their days in pink ornaments – it must had been quite cumbersome nevertheless. But then again, it is back to a person’s choice whether or not he or she decides to let Valentine’s Day and its pink paraphernalia affect their mood.

As for me, it has been a very good day indeed, regardless of the fact that it is Valentine’s Day or not, because one does not need an excuse to express his or her love – as what Nike always says, just do it!

On a lighter note, it is also Micah’s birthday today (I really should name him Micah Valentine), so we got him two pieces of A&W fried chicken, all for himself!

Last but not least, I would like to say Happy Valentine’s Day to those who celebrate and happy birthday to my beautiful mini dachshund, Micah!

What Would The Geordies Think?

I don’t mind soccer – I’m just not a big fan of it.

But compared with the other sports out there, I’d say it has the best-looking players. Yes, I’m shallow – whatever.

My brother was a huge fan of the English Premiere League and that goes way back to the years between ’97-’00, when I was still in high school, where I often saw him glued in front of the television late in the morning watching either soccer matches or commentaries. When I was home during school holidays, I’d stay up with him while having idle chit-chats about anything.

It was during those chats when I noticed that on local telly, International soccer matches mostly had their original commentator’s voices completely turned off or else substituted by Indonesian ones. Moreover, they always had their own preliminary discussions between local commentators expressing their expert opinions on who was going to kick whose ass, or the other.

Now they even festooned the whole thing up with quizzes and competitions so the audience at home wouldn’t feel so bored watching them people yippy-yappying about soccer even though everybody was like, ‘Yeah, yeah.. shut up already and let us watch the game!’

Of course I didn’t understand a single thing about what those ‘so-called experts’ were saying, but I couldn’t help feeling dismayed when Newcastle United was playing, in which they pronounced Newcastle as ‘Noo-ka-stel’.

I was speechless then; didn’t they know? I mean surely they would have listened or at least heard of the British commentators who must have mentioned the correct pronunciation of it for ooh… I don’t know, a gazillion times, at least?

Or were they just plain ignorant? Could it be that they were too lazy to learn how to pronounce the name correctly, which in return misled thousands of Newcastle United fans in Indonesia who pronounced it the same way as they did?

The ‘t’ in it is supposed to be silent, you know? And I really don’t care if people think this is a silly topic to fuss about, but it’s just wrong. I can’t help but feel sorry for those Newcastle fans who keep saying ‘Noo-ka-stel, Noo-ka-stel, Noo-ka-stel….’ – bloody hell, it’s ‘Noo-ka-ssul‘!!

And now, having a fiancé who is clearly a soccer fanatic, I was ready to embrace myself to the fact that I had to let soccer back into my life – again. However, I was in for a total shock when I realized that, after eleven years of commentating – I don’t know – thousands of soccer matches, those commentators still pronounce it the wrong way.

And I wouldn’t have noticed this if my fiancé didn’t bring it up in the first place – in which he happened to say ‘Noo-ka-stel’ and thus received appalled looks from me as a response. It’s ‘NOO-KA-SULLLLLL!!!!!!!’, I practically yelled at him – even tried to twist his ear lest he tried to give some attitude just in case he wasn’t convinced.

Him: ‘Really? But those guys say it’s-’

Me: ‘I KNOW what they say and they are WRONG! Arghhh…’ clearly, I was exasperated.

So what happens now is that he keeps teasing me by saying Newcastle the incorrect way, and I keep correcting him – out of habit – while he displayed a wicked grin on his face.

And when Newcastle United is on the telly and those Indonesian commentators are talking, he’ll be pointing it out blatantly and say, “Look! They mispronounce it as well! It’s not my fault that I did it too!’ whilst we both fall about laughing our arses off.

Bloody eejits.