As the clock strike twelve to a day for fathers all over the world, mine had to do something for me instead of the other way around.

I dragged my dad out to McDonald's so we could watch the Spain versus Sweden match at midnight.

A little pleading, a dash of pleases, throw in puss-in-boot's eyes at specific cues for effects, and some precious sleeping sacrifice was made. I can such an imbecile of a daughter sometimes. Heh.

Anyhoo, this whole being a nomad and squating shamelessly on public property to watch the Euro, I blame it on work. I was so occupied, I forgot to sign us up for Channel 30. And by the time I remembered, called them up, the price had blardy DOUBLED.

Opportunistic bitches!

So since this month's theme is "To Be A Scrooge", I was obligated to pass.

I think though, my dad and his comments could have had us both killed sometimes. So this dude in front of us was in Spain's jersey and my dad just SCOFFED OUT LOUD and said, "Aiya, why must wear the jersey one, skali lose, HA, malu ah!"

I died a little inside and wished I had Susan Storm's superpower. We were damn lucky to have made it out of there alive can! I kept glancing behind us when we walked home, just in case.

I heart the football season. Life is just more exhilarating, more purposeful (yes sad life I lead), just more happening. Only issue I have is that by the time the winning team is hailed as the champion, I know I've gained enough weight to be Exhibit A in Super Size Me.

Everytime I succumbed and put those chips into my mouth in the middle of the night during matches, I swear I can see Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin star-jumping out of Skinny Bitch to give me a bitchslap EACH, one on each cheeks. Sigh.

On other news, I've decided to no longer participate in the office pools. I mean sure, I'm already in the leaderboard, the top-ten with the highest points. And I am the only girl who has made it within the top five. BUT, clearly, you don't always bet for the teams you love, there are so many other variables to factor into! And boy, the dilemma!

Like tonight for instance, I heart Spain, always have. But I've put moolah on Sweden cos being the underdog, them winning will gain me more points, so I risked it. Then throughout the match, I was sooooo torn apart. Didn't know who to root for.

Honestly, I've had it with this internal struggle.

No more, I say. NO MORE.

(2:15 AM)

Eeyer.. so boring and cliched my damn blog title. Whatever. Maybe I'll go change it at the end of this post. (I didn't)

Yunno I hate hate hate being sick. It just doesn't go well with me. I swear, being ill just don't suit me. I get all quiet, and mushy and I seemed to just settle like a pile of rag on the floor.

This time it's just pharyngitis though, so apart from my voice and throat, everything functions okay and I get to stay in and not go to work.

I'm very very proud to say, staying in with no TV to watch, I finally reached out and wiped the layer of dust that had taken homage atop Cormac McCarthy's book. I did it. I read No Country For Old Men.

The book's not even thick to begin with but it wasn't an easy read for me. Not that it was incomprehensible but the whole accent and lingo just threw me off. I read all wide eyed, gasping at intervals and heart-racing the whole time. I was just relieved when I got to the last page.

Then I got my dad to rent the DVD so we can watch it over dinner. We both sorta like it. Well, at least three-quarters of it.

I don't know what it is with Oscar-winners and nominees... The direction is always sooo slow and I guess I'm supposed to appreciate the beauty of that purposeful and intentional directional style. Maybe Oscar-made films are too much for my ADD mind to handle.

I don't hate it. I've made peace with the fact that I'm not meant to completely get the ending.

My dad however, is not as forgiving.

The old man just glared at me when the credits rolled and I had to explain to him, earnestly, that the ambiguity and the non-conclusion portrays that the forces of good don't triumph over the forces of evil at the end, and THAT is very real, very relevant to life.

He didn't buy any of it and muttered, "Aiya waste of time, stupid show."

Well, who can blame him. He actually sat through the whole movie and like most audience, expects his attention to be rewarded.

For kicks and because I'm a (slight) lameass, I might have shrugged and retorted something along the line of "no movie for old men, dad."

(10:44 PM)

Procrastination is a drag.

My room is littered with clothes and books and other shit.

My bed has dwindled to half its size, with all the shit that's on it.

My friend's The O.C. dvds must be buried like dead corspes under this mess and simply refused to resurface and be found. (sorry...)

And here I am! Sitting here typing about it.

I told myself I was going to shower an hour ago. This is why nothing gets done in my life.

Because I'd rather sit and write about other things, but really, I'm sitting here writing about.. exactly what I should be doing.

This is useless!

I'm just going to lie on my less-than-single-bed, listen to Mraz's A Beautiful Mess and pretend he's singing it to me and my war-torn room.

(11:52 PM)

Although being terribly tardy hence THIRTY minutes late for the supposed pre-gig dinner had proved to be an advantage to me, I swear on my Chanel bag, it wasn't intentional.

The poor colleague of mine had to eat by himself and I honestly felt a little guilty but slightly gleeful I was spared the social obligation.

That aside, let's unclick the Click Five.


Fangirls by the bulk is the scariest thing next to clowns and birds (my blog, my terms) and I was glad we had seats instead of having to be a part of the screaming jumping juves in the mosh.

So determined I was to be separated from that bunch that I decided, prior to the show, not to be totally into it. I was proud even that I wasn't the slightest bit tempted to put my hands into those huge paper handglove thing that they provided on our seats.

But then they had to sing a cover of the Beatles.

-_-

It's like they knew my weakness.


Anyhoo, I enjoyed myself okay. Their songs as always, very radio-friendly, very catchy. Songs that young things in the audience can sing along like obedient members of a church choir.

It seemed like they were determined to prove that they can indeed play their instruments and they had me convinced. But they had to drill the message in deeper by giving each member close to a three minute solo on their own instruments.

"Okay now they are just showing off," I muttered to my plus one of the night. But secretly, I was impressed.

Kyle Patrick reminded us commoners yet again that lead singers are indeed very important member of the band. He ran the show pretty much, very charismatic, very fling-thing material. Heh.


Half the time, my colleague and I were mocking at the super vigorous keyboardist. Clearly, I don't know what his name is. So no choice, his instrument had to define him. Seriously the dude looked like he was high on speed or something.

"Do you think he's gay?" My colleague asked with earnest curiosity.

I gasped aloud.

"Noooooo, take it back, take it back!!! And don't even think of mentioning that in your review. All these girls here will come trample you to death. This is not the time to OUT him."

Minutes later, the blardy keyboardist busted some very Bring It On -esque moves and shook his hips like Madonna.

"Okay I think that gay thing you said might be a possibility..." I whispered under my breath, softly, making sure the volume of my voice stayed out of the rara fangirls' radar. I wanted to come out of that concert alive and intact, thank you very much.

People were fainting la in the mosh BTW. Twelve if we counted correctly. Yes, twelve. CMI (Cannot Make It) la these kids. It's not even Muse or U2 performing lor. Pengsan for what....

They also debuted their new tracks, two of them, both of which started off appealing and nice but they couldn't hold me through to the end.

FYI, I was obliged to have supper with my colleague post-gig. I think it was the least I could do after I bangsei-ed him for dinner. He brought us to this interesting place he said wanna-be musicians always hang.

One scan across the cafe and I believed him. Everyone had either a guitar or bass or drumsticks with them. 70% of the boys there shared the same hairstylist with Paul where's-his-face Twohill. A couple of people had towels on their head. Seriously I wonder what's going on in their brains. Do they think they are going to relive the rockstar's attitude and like toss the damn towel in the crowd on their way home of something?! Buncha poseurs! POSEURRRS!!!

Alritey, early day tomorrow. I'm out.

(12:25 AM)