i set my nikon on continuous shooting mode yesterday night, shooting Asia Tonight's Glenda Chong and Melvin Yong:

(removed due to exceeding bandwidth. click here to view.)

glenda moves a lot, i realized. she glances here and glances there all the time. and if you'd compare her and melvin when they're talking- melvin's talking in the above screencap, and here's glenda in the following:

(again, it's removed. point your mousetip here.)

see the difference? damn melvin just looks like a cheshire cat.

speaking of glenda, she's quite pretty isn't she? why is it all the male broadcasters on channel newsasia look so... -makes face- ok not ugly, but not handsome, y'know?
why can't they all be like channel i's arnold gay? such an incredibly dashing bloke, and this was the best picture i found. sigh.

(picture removed)

anyhow, perr, the chances of a scandal, imo, holds more probability when it comes to suzanne and tim! even though glenda and melvin have chemistry, it's more of a colleague-y type.
nonetheless, i did shudder when glenda said, "and here's business news with melvin. mel?" (mel?!?!) good heavens.

car tales II

in response to my "you drive like a man" line (read previous entry), here's what i should have provided, i thought it was a pretty fine article,

My Driving Ambition

When someone said I was a great driver, it sent me on an ego trip. But I feel driven to be more that that: I want to drive like a man.

by Teo Pau Lin

NOT long ago, a female colleague commented to me as I was giving her a ride home: 'You're the best woman driver I know.'

I consider that the greatest compliment anyone has ever given me. It's even better than if my boss were to tell me 'Well done', or if an M)phosis salesgirl were to say I could fit into its size-S jeans.

Women, after all, have often had a reputation of being lousy drivers.

Those who had ever been stuck behind a road-hogger or clumsy lane-switcher would know: Seven out of 10 times, it's a woman.

Those who had ferried female passengers would also attest: If you don't want to get lost, stop the car and read the map yourself.

And, if you want to strike fear and trembling into the deepest heart of most women, get them to parallel park.

But not this driver.

If there's one thing I can do like a pro, it's reading maps. When I parallel park, I do it with such speed and stunt-show precision that the fellow in the car behind me wouldn't even have time to load a new CD.

And I am so adept in multi-tasking that I can exit a carpark, retrieve my cashcard and apply blusher all at the same time.

But while being called a great driver is high praise indeed, I've since set myself a newer, loftier goal.

I want to drive like a man.

YOU could link it back to the cavemen days when men were handy with their chisels, but there's something enviable about the way men are with their machines.

Whether it's a joystick, a skateboard, a mountain bike or a roaring sportscar, men have always been able to tame them with such authority and grace.

If I could drive like a man, it would mean that I, too, can lay some vain claim to men's mastery over their toys.

And, if I could drive like a man - and this is the competitive me speaking - I can beat lesser men at their own game.

So, I've taken some finer points in driving from the men in my life.

My father has always been quite a stud at the wheel. Sit in his car and you'd never suffer from motion sickness or have to shriek from emergency stops.

It all boils down to excellent brake control and a Zen-like approach to on-the-road stress.

Lose your head, and you lose your cool. When a real man drives, he always looks cool.

My brother, who is a karting enthusiast and speedmeister, has raised the level of drive-time chillness even higher.

Once when I was being driven in his backseat, I witnessed how he handled an errant taxi-driver who swerved in to overtake him, with just a few inches separating their bumpers.

In suave and silent protest, my brother signalled out, overtook the taxi-driver, sat nice and plump in front of him, and slowed him down to a crawl.

When a real man drives, he hardly ever hits the horn.

SO, I put these tips to good use.

I wear the look of a nonchalant, wheel-steering chanteuse whatever the road-side misdemeanour.

You can overtake me like Rambo on a mission, or make a sudden stop, or appear out of nowhere, and I will roll with your punches.

I can handle whatever you throw at me. I will not sound the horn.

I resolutely refuse to rubber-neck at any traffic accident as only rookies are enthralled by traffic gore. In my eight years of driving, I've already seen them all.

In fact, recently, I burnt some serious rubber on the way to Kuala Lumpur as I tore up the North South Highway at a very manly 140kmh, all the while bouncing to 50 Cent and not missing a beat.

But that ego trip came to a screeching halt when halfway, I stopped at a petrol kiosk near Malacca to have my tank filled.

Getting out of my car, I realised that unlike in Singapore, there were no service crew attending to me.

Then it struck me, the pampered Singaporean driver: I don't know how to pump petrol.

So much for driving like a man.

As I grappled unglamorously with the printed instructions on the pump station, I thought to myself, I'll just settle with being a great woman driver.

anyhow, while she settles for being a great woman driver, i will, meanwhile, settle for being a i'm-comfortable-with-you-driving driver. one has to start somewhere.

car tales

why are there only seven sins in the world?
seven is too little, isn't it? for i've discovered the eighth deadly sin:

underarm hair.

i've always went with the notion that smoooooth should be the only acceptable situation.
but somehow, somewhere, someone will always vehemently disagree with everything i say.

anyways, the fella who disagreed was - you guessed it - a total bush city.
it was so dense i could practically bounce into it and earn not even the slightest scratch.
of course, underarm hair are hardly big enough for someone of human propoertions to dive into, but that was just a figure of speech.

anyways, enough with the disgusting stuff already. i've digressed, too.

i've driven the family car for the 6th, 7th, 8th, or 9th time (i can't remember) already and dad tells me he feels comfortable with me behind the wheel.

now isn't that such a neat compliment? it's not everyday someone tells you he's comfortable with your driving, and it's definitely better than having people holding on to the seatbelt so tightly you wonder if the seatbelt's got enough ventilation.

but i think, the best compliment i'd like to receive would be:

"you drive like a man."

this and that,

i usually much prefer shopping on weekdays but yesterday we had to look for a present for a 21st birthday.

orchard road provides so much hilarity on saturdays! i wonder why i've never considered shopping on weekends to indulge in some giggle-athon.

One: tons of teenaged guys sporting the passe beckham-inspired fin hairdo, but could you really pull it off with only half an inch of hair? that's like asking me to do a french braid.

Two: how about this? baggy trousers and baggy trousers and more baggy trousers. nice when worn appropriately, not when zip's half undone.

Three: a tee and bermudas look nice and comfy for the hot weather, but please, don't pair stripes and checks together to tell the whole world you dressed in the dark.

Four: what? what's that again? why are you shoving that metal can at me? oh, i see, well yes darling, i bloody well will donate to charity but could you please not talk so fast? and while we're at that i could certainly do without your spit in my ear.

Five: tapered pants. 'nuff said.

there'd be more, but i don't have time to list everything.

anyways, the euro 2004 is here already! it's the ultimate hunk and entertainment central!
soccer? what soccer?

old times

i spied an opened envelope addressed to mum yesterday. very curious contents from a retired colleague who'd migrated to niagara falls and he mentioned,
"i definitely won't forget the three musketeers from Thompson Medical Centre!"

who are the three musketeers? honestly, i cannot imagine my mother branding herself as part of a named clique. the three musketeers?!?

when gilled about it, mother just, well, keeps mum. it's irritating as hell but i took it that the reason for not saying anything is because it was too embarrassing.
i mean, would i wanna tell my kids we called ourselves --------?
reckon not. lol.

my mother, i think, hoardes a whole truckload of secrets which i think will make for excellent conversations over earl grey and muffins on sundays. i cannot believe she is not sharing them with us.

one time when i was bored i went through my old school reports (nothing new there, i knew what my standards were) and came across mum's old secondary school certificates.

turns out mother's a pretty constant student (all Bs, no As, Cs, and Ds) and she's in the swim team. the next few testimonials then revealed that mother was, in fact, the vice-captain of aforementioned swim team!

shit, wow. but the worst came when she told me later that night she had thrown away all her trophys and medals because they were dirty.

now i know where my sports day medal went.