Dot Dot Dot

The first chance I get to check my mail in Bangkok and I find this floating in my inbox:

"[The New Guy] just mixed up the headers yesterday and today we are scrambled, so back to a backup but only missing one day."

Signed,
The Boss

There was also an urgent request for help but the details are rather mundane.

Can They Really Say This?

Chick Flicks

A sense of dread grips me each and every time I’m dragged out to watch a sappy movie. Not because I find that particular genre boring. I just have a problem with getting all sniffly and weepy in public. You see, it puts my machismo in a very precarious position and I can’t risk that happening. Especially in my advanced stage of bachelorhood.

I met up with my cousin, her husband, and another couple (not long after the “nice shoes” incident) to watch the Korean film “My Girl and I” (at least, that's what I think it was called). I was a little bit disappointed at first as the movie poster showed neither promise of car chases nor explosions. I agreed to it anyway as I’d never seen a Korean flick before.

There is a set physiological and psychological process I undergo during these movies - I will do utmost to document it here:

It begins with blurred vision onset by overactive tear ducts, followed by a slight trembling of the lower lip. At this point, I’m glad the theatre’s dark because I don’t want to let on that I’m a huge wuss. I tell myself to be strong. It’s just a movie. They are just actors reading some lines.

That’s when the director drops the bomb. It was cancer in today’s case. My nose starts to drip. I refrain from sniffling lest I direct attention to my sorry state.

As a last ditch effort, I focus intently on the fire exit ‘til the sappy bits are over. I take the time to compose myself and make sure nobody’s looking.

Though it all sounds bad, I secretly enjoyed today’s movie. Probably more than I should have. Shh.

Nice Shoes...

A bad pickup line’s in there somewhere.

This is what happened today as I was taking some photos of the KL Tower:

Middle aged lady off the street: Hi, nice shoes. Where’d you get them from?
Me: Um. Petaling Street.
Lady: Oh, yeah. Great place. Where do you come from?
Me: Canada [looking around nervously, gripping onto wallet for dear life]
Lady: [brings in another lady] This is my sister in law.
Me: Uh. Listen, it’s been great chatting with you and all, but I really have to go.
[Exit me]

There’s nothing unusual about this dialogue except that it’s happened to me three times already, with three different sets of people and in-laws (two female, one male), with different shoes, on separate occasions. It’s hard not to get suspicious.

I have yet to figure out what this scam is all about. My cousins suspect it’s a code system whereby they offer prostitutes (and compliments) in exchange for hard earned tourist dollars. I still think they’re trying to lure me out somewhere, rob me blind, and leave my (semi-nude?) body in a dumpster. I suppose some mysteries are best left unsolved.

On an unrelated note, this is what happens when public service announcements go wrong: