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fast as you can listening: the first
taste fiona apple Lately I've been spared the pleasure of craning my neck to extend my line of sight in order to be able to see if a Komuter is chugging slowly on its way, albeit 500 years after schedule. Because I have been appointed as my dad's driver in the mornings. We take turns, actually. I deal with the groggy slow crawling pace of KL's traffic horror just as the sun yawns and greets us rise and shine groggy mortals! My dad handles the dangerous ruthless black-hearted world of the after-work traffic. There's not a lot I can embellish about KL's traffic at peak hours, except that it's mind-numblingly slow. There's not a lot to do while you wait for the huge wide black Mercedes, which takes up the space of the whole lane (hence conveniently blocking my precious line of sight to see what's actually happening) to move slowly, with all its majesty and might, 5 inches forward. These are the moments when other cars' meticulously-crafted rear bumper hold an innate sense of attractiveness to your car's front. Not that my car's front has succumbed to this undeniable attraction by kissing some other car's rear bumper. Well, ok, not this year. So far. So instead of being innocent bystanders in my car's romantic entanglement with other's, my dad and I listen to Fiona Apple. Actually he has no other choice, because when I'm in the driver's seat the car radio is automatically up to my discretion. Friday morning, caught in another snailish traffic episode. We drummed along silently, our minds trying to listen to our own thoughts. Our ears, Fiona Apple wailing 'Fast As You Can'. I guess you can call that bonding. Or something. ------ On a somewhat unrelated note (but still travel-to-office-based), I was standing behind this guy on an escalator. Instead of standing on the left side if one wishes to enjoy the silent therapeutic effect a slow ride down an escalator has to offer, this guy was standing in the middle, preventing my usual harried dash. I quickly thought (thought!), fucking escalator hogger, or something equally pleasant. To my surprise, this guy quickly shifted to the left, then stared at me. Did I just think that out loud? I was very, totally, 100% sure I kept my opinion on his escalator-hogging habit limited within the walls of my skull. It was almost scary. This guy reminded me of that Mel Gibson movie, What Women Want. Could he read women's minds? Could anyone have read mine? Because if anyone has, my two favourite brain-words are fuck, and asshole. They're not very pleasant, as opposed to my very pleasant exterior demeanor, so that's why I limited the range of people they are audible to. Just myself. Fuck. You Asshole. I guess you can say I'm foul-brained, but that would be like saying it would be really cold if you're going to be living on an iceberg. Hmmm. Fuck asshole. I guess you can say I'm a latent homosexual male, too. But that would be taking things too literally. |
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