Tele-fun: You Want My Phone?

Tele-fun: The First of Many, continued.

This job got me my first phone and number.

It was a used, black Motorola that Once a Turbo sold me at the handphone shop he's working at that time. Couldn't remember the model. It comes with battery that looked like four AAA-sized batteries taped together in two columns. It was so heavy and huge, my pants looked baggy.

I know it was hidden somewhere in the house, but I couldn't find it. Tried Google it instead. It's not even archived in the Net anymore. Wow. Was it that old?

I pampered myself with a better phone later. The only phone that Kyocera sell here, the TG200. It was the lightest phone then. Gaya kan?

I'm still using the same number up to now. And don't ask.

But I can give you the Motorola if I can find it.


An uncle with a surname

We have an aunt that separated from her husband long ago. I was only a couple-year-old, few years before Bro was born. I don't remember seeing that uncle of mine. Later, she met a new man in her life. They never got married. Just living together.

This man, is our new uncle.

My parents and friends call him by his surname. We, Chinese are so used to add an "Ah" at the front of names. And that's how people call him.

The first time I saw him, my parents were at my aunt's flat to dropped something off. We were in Father's beige, carburetor-ed Datsun. My uncle just got back from work. He came by, and said hi. I was told, this is yi jiong, and Mother asked me to greet him.

Mother's elder sisters are called yi mah. The husband, yi jiong.

"Oh! Yi jiong!"

I never remember the term "yi jiong". It is unfamiliar to me. I've been hearing people called him differently. And that is what I supposed to call him too, I thought.

The next time we were there, I greeted everyone as I was taught. I then saw him. With high spiritual attitude, and manners I thought would make my parents proud, I greeted him.

"Ah Surname!"

Mother knocked on my head. Father told me off.

He defended me. That doesn't bother him. Ever since, my parents always reminded me to call him properly. I still ended up calling his surname. Up to a point, he told them to let it be.

As we were getting closer, I call him Surname Surname.

No matter how open-minded a person is, it is still not right to call your elders by the name. I tried calling him yi jiong a number of times. I can't – it sounded really, really weird. I guess he felt the same too. We were so used to the "improper" way.

When Bro learn to speak, he was taught the same.

We still call him that, even up to now.



It is by far, my personal best.

No, they are not gibberish. I was meant to say,

"Okay. I'm on the way already, baby. Talk to you later."

The most concise text I've ever written.

Yup. She got it.


The shy thing

The shy thing that we were in has brought us places, on time.

It has weaved through traffics, at times of emergency.

It has scaled countless roads, highways, and potholes, up north in Penang to the south of Malacca. And it will continue to do so at untouched territories.

It has screeched the many tight bends of Ulu Yam and Genting Highlands, in dim lighting.

It has brought us home safely, after venturing into unknown corners.

It has burned rubbers at the speed of over 180, in a short straight.

It has survived numerous traction lost, both on dry and wet.

It has clocked an amazing 300,000 km, and it will clock another 300,000.

The shy thing, is Slow White Poke – a 1991 Toyota Corolla SE Limited – still in its original pearl white.

Remember that.


What's for lunch?

Had our banana leaf rice recently at Bangsar, after a long, long time.

Even longer for myself – when was the last time More Than a Cycle is still with us? It was even way back. No kaki to eat with lah! And we rarely had the chance to group up.

It was a long, orgasmic lunch. We came back with a heavy head, and bloated stomach. There goes a button. And so, we had a conversation about having a banana leaf restaurant here at the mall…

Hell, no! Handsome agreed, too.

What makes it special is it's not readily available at the mall. Craving for one would take an hour to have your first munch. This include braving out from the lunch congestion, looking for a parking spot that does not exist, intimidating other patrons for table like the All Blacks' Haka dance, and scavenging the menu for orders.

Yes! The exclusivity of it!

Many envy us for having to work in a mall.

Amenities, yes. We have everything. Food, no. We have too much of "finer" dinings that we, office dudes don't need. We always ended up to that same handful. So that the other handful would be a tad more… special.

Our daily "What's for lunch?" will always come with, "One of those lah…"And by "those" are the "handful".

Meals at a mall isn't cheap, too. You shoppers would know better. Having a 15-mark is common. This 15 is also the lower median. We can still find half-edible-half-full meal for 10. These are set lunches, mind you.

For a better 5-ish food, we can find at the food court. Which for numerous times, strongly rejected. This only work as tapao food. Tenants cook in the circulated air-cond environment – imagine your smell after lunch. Even tapao you need to have a skill of a grade-A assassin – identify, kill, go. 10 minutes. Flat.

And the grass is not any greener than your side.


Booby trap

I was lightly tracing her skin with my fingers.

Baby then blurted this out,

"I'm gonna put a mouse trap there next time! No… I'm gonna put a scorpion!"

"Even before I slide my hands in, the scorpion already stung you lah!"

"You're so evil!"

"Yeah what! Scorpion konon... No! You know what's better!? A mouse trap... but the glue trap!"

"Not worth it lor! Your hand will stuck there forever!"

"That's the whole point!"


Fuck! I tearing up just by thinking of this!

She's so~ adorable…


Still breathing.

No. I'm not occupied with love/life/work.

The PC gave way recently. But managed to salvage my files.

My other source of going virtual is at work, my father's computer, Sis' lappie, and the household iPads. Very inconvenient. It's not that the iPads are being used all the time, but writing stuff on it is damn tedious. Anyone of you tried writing a long-winded post with an iPad? You'll get the drift.

The Memoir of an Escort is written with the iPad. This update. So will be the next coming ones. Until I fix my comp. Until I have the cash. Until I have less commitments.

Fuck! Slow White Poke need a fix, too!

The Escort

Baby invited me to join her colleagues for karaoke.

I'm more of an instrument guy.

I pluck some strings, and blow – who doesn't? – the recorder in primary school. Not to mention the things from kindergarten. The triangle. The handheld, palm size wooden clapping thingy. And the wrist bell thing? I don't even know what all these called.

But when it comes to singing, it's a big no-no for me. Never was. Never am. Never will. Eventhough my subconscious violently refuse, I've tried. And failed that many times. Well… let's just give the show to the privileged.

Have I been to a karaoke place? Of course I had. I truly enjoyed it! By just listening. As an audience. At a corner of an unexplored section of the room. Devouring snacks. Drinks. While puffing smokes. See? By the list of things I've blurted out show that I really enjoy it. 

I admired well-sung songs. These talented bunch are amazing. And I'll just keep mums and endure the bad ones – I'm as suck-y if not worse – who am I to criticize?

In the karaoke scene, I'm the kind that mic-hoggers termed as "The Escort". The one that accompany a client sings in a dodgy karaoke joint before venturing into a lustful act. Not that I've been to any, but that's the closest to define me.

Yeah. Escort, me.

Karaoke outing cancelled by the way. Phew…

As much as you've reminded that you can't sing, you can never run away from, "Come lah! One only! Just try lah!" and other similar variance. And it will lead to the awkward silence and blushing towards the end of the first verse. First verse.

Oh. I hum while strumming the guitar, though.

And don't ask.