Los Tarantos goes Arabian

Los Tarantos is home to the Singapore Flamenco club, providing a Flamenco haven for all Flamenco enthusiasts in Singapore.

It also provides a flexible performance space for various music and dance performances or special themed private parties.

La pena (an informal gathering of Flamenco artistes who come together celebrate the culture of Flamenco) is a regular feature at Los Tarantos.

Last Saturday, bellydancers staked out the place for their Hafla at the charming Peranakan shophouse in the colourful Geylang neighbourhood.

The usually Flamenco-themed place was transformed into a cosy middle-eastern cafe for the bellydancers and their friends and family. Clever use of gold and silver threaded fabric draped the otherwise stark walls. A kelim and scatter cushions provided the finishing touches.

Many dancers made their debut performances alongside seasoned performers and competition winners. Several professional performers and teachers were on hand to give quick lessons to the interested crowd.

What is a party without drinks and food? There was the ever-present much loved sangria. A lip-smacking middle-eastern meal of beef kebabs, chicken curry, hummus and salsa dips and flat breads was cooked by the Maestro of Flamenco - Antonio Vargas.

It was an evening to remember for a long time for the bellydancers.

I can see a Hawaiian Luau in the offing soon :)

Another sign

Remember this outside a tailor shop? An additional sign has been put up:

I think there is improvement in the English bit. Or maybe not. Help?

The girls of Sasa

Sasa has to be my favourite shop for cosmetics. Its product range has depth and width - you can find just about any product from your favourite brand to suit your budget.

As with any shopping experience, the sales staff can make or break your day. I find the Sasa staff highly knowledgable and extremely helpful. They are consistently personable without being personal; they give intelligent answers; they make helpful recommendations; they are never pushy about closing a sale. You will likely end up buying products you never knew existed that the Sasa rep introduces, but trust her - your life will be so much richer:)

So I end up buying a lot more products than I mean too. But I have always been happy with my purchase at any of their outlets.

This is probably old hat to most of you girls, but I am eternally grateful to the rep who introduced me to gel eyeliner. Finally - an eyeliner that combines the intensity of liquid eyeliner with the versatility of pencil!

I am so easy to please :) and I love those girls of Sasa.

Oh how they can stare

Oh how they can stare.

Unblinkingly, unwaveringly, rapt in their own world of staring. The starers may be young/old, man/woman. They all stare the same way at anything anywhere anytime. At the street dog licking his balls, at my bellybutton piercing, at the bird pecking at throwaway crumbs, at my crotch...

Take today for instance. Durian season has started. We were picking through the fruits at a market stall. One man positioned himself behind us to stare at us making our selection. The vendor started to open up the durians. Two men joined the first in the staring past-time. By the time we were helping to pack the durian meat into styrofoam boxes, a small crowd had gathered. All staring unblinkingly, unwaveringly, wordlessly.

Finally, the boxes are put into plastic carriers. We paid up. We picked up our purchase and turned to face the crowd. In silence, they moved to make a small exit path for us. As we walked away, we could feel the eyes still staring at our retreating back.

Unblinkingly, unwaveringly, wordlessly.

Oh how they can stare.

The Vow

I, (name), take you, (name), to be my (wife/husband), to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part.

A promise made between a man and a woman with sincerity and faith that it can be lived up to. Many could not. I include myself.

But I will still make the promise all over again because the burden of those words are borne equally by the man and the woman.

But not these. I cannot agree to start life with any man on unequal footing. Among other things, I unequivocally reject the requirement to submit to the man as head of the house.

I have sat through many religious weddings where these sentiments are preached. I always find myself flinching and recoiling inwardly when the woman pledges herself to live with these onerous conditions. Of late, I find myself questioning the intelligence and integrity of such women, and suspecting the sinister and tyrannical nature of the men.

In order that I might retain some degree of respect for the newly weds I have decided to banish myself from all religious weddings henceforth.

Hafla@Los Tarantos

Los Tarantos is hosting its first Hafla, a private Arabian party with delectable Moroccan tapas and drinks, Middle Eastern music and dance where dancers take turn to perform for each other, and some open floor dancing for everyone to dance the night away ...

A prize goes to the best dressed performer of the night!

Limited Seating ! Book your tickets now!

TICKETS: SGD 25 (inclusive of Moroccan tapas platter and one drink)

TO BOOK TICKETS:
Call Daphne 68440893/ 94510597
Email: info@lostarantos.com.sg

To purchase tickets online, click here.

Cheap words

Flattery gets you everywhere, everytime. So when the girlfriend proclaimed our roast beef the best she ever had, and asked for us to cook her one for her dinner party, we readily agreed.

But cheap flattery is another matter. The dinner guests were faithfully awed by the roast, done just right at medium rare in the centre to well at the ends. Then the whole exercise gets sabotaged by a stupid question from the one guest: where did we get the beef.

It would have been a different matter if he had asked more thoughtful questions: what temperature to cook at, how long it took for this 4.5 kg roast, what cut of beef was this, was there a marinade etc. But where did we get the beef?

Any place that sells beef was my miffed reply.

You can bet the girlfriend is not getting another huge roast at her next dinner party. We did not waste time cooking the main to feed ignorant fools who don't know just how offensive their ignorant questions are.

There is flattery and there are cheap unthinking empty words that philistines try to pass for compliment. Too bad for everyone we happen to know the difference.

Don't call me at home

We don't like being jangled out of our peace and quiet at home. That is the reason we have a private number. We do not give out that number when filling out forms anywhere for any reason. We can easily be contacted on our mobiles. Preferably by sms rather than voice call if it's not anything long-winded or needs immediate response.

We are very annoyed with sales calls to the home phone. We usually give the caller a very rude telling off. And we always stress that this is an unlisted number, so how the f*** did they get our number in the first place. The caller always mumbled something about a data base. That would be true because they always ask for us by name.

That really pisses me off. Enough to finally call the telco to complain. The representative assured me that the telco does not sell subscriber information to anybody. She suggested that someone, possibly a family member, must have given out the information. That's out of the question, because no other family member lives with us.

I told the telco in no uncertain terms - there is a leak somewhere within their organisation. We pay them for our privacy. They will have to find that leak and plug it. Or I will lodge a complaint every time any telemarketer makes a cold call to that number.

Why am I so certain the leak is within the telco? Because I supplied a name that is deliberately spelt wrong. And that's the name the nuisance callers ask for. The trap is called disinformation - something I learned from watching so many spy movies. What's even more brilliant is that the telco still doesn't know about the ruse.

The telco representative assured me the company will look into the matter. It will be interesting to hear any follow up from them.

I don't do gelek

I already don't like her. But I still try (very hard) to appear gracious when she comes calling. But I cannot stop myself from recoiling inwardly.

After this latest short conversation, I will not entertain her social come-on's anymore.

she: Hi. So long never hear from you. How've you been. Still bellydancing?

me (oh stupid me): Oh hi. Yes, been a long time. Yes, still bellydancing. But I am also into folk dance and hula.

she: Oh, I am sure you do so well in hula. You can gelek so well.

me: Gotta go. Goodbye.

Gelek? Me gelek? Gelek-ing, to me, means a no-talent show-off sashaying in obnoxious fashion for the sole purpose of grabbing attention.

This is the same woman who not so long ago asked me to choreograph a bellydance number for her to perform at her son's wedding. I told her to look up professional bellydance performers or instructors. Really, they can do a better job.

Not that I wanted to attend the wedding, but for the record, I was not even on her guest list!

So she wanted me to teach her to gelek?

She should never try to look me up again, under any pretense. Especially for the business of gelek.

I do a lot of things. But I do not do gelek!

A little bit Bellydance, a little bit Hula

I love Middle Eastern Dance.

I love Hawaiian Hula Dance.

I positively hate it when the two are thrown together in the name of fusion.



A little bit of Bellydance, a little bit of Hula. Then call it bellynesian. It still does not make for a good dance; it does not do justice to either dance form.

I generally do not like fusion. After seeing this, I positively hate fusion.

Got something on

She called. I cringed. All cheery, she tells me we have a friend visiting and how about let's all have a drink together. I said thanks, but no thanks, can't make it. Got something on.

I sms'ed the Bibik who has also been similarly subjected to the caller's abusive ways in the past.

me: Hey, the tua pui yeow kwee kiam siap called about getting together for drinks because (so-and-so) in town. Not going.

the Bibik: She already called me twice and I already told her I got something on so not going.

me: I got nothing on and still not going. She looking for me just to have transport and have me pay for food and drinks. (So-and-so) can look for me herself if she wants to see me.

the Bibik: Haha. Never change. Chow.

Got something on. I like that phrase :)

The paper chase

My morning routine: stumble out of bed, walk in half-wake mode to front door, pick up the newspapers, and settle in to read the headline stories with that first cup of coffee. The day starts right. Bliss.

Then.

Everything went awry with the delivery. Last Saturday, I got the Straits Times minus the Business Times Weekend. On Sunday, I got the Sunday Times with other publications I am not familiar with. On Monday, I got the Sunday Times again. Each time, I eventually got the right newspapers after making a call to the vendor who then got somebody to come around to drop off the newspapers later in the day.

The last two days were "normal". The correct papers were dropped off at my front door on the right days. My world is right again.

Until.

I saw the delivery guy dropping off the Sunday papers today (Wednesday) at my neighbour's.

Oh no. I think the paper chase is about to start again...

Sweden in the autumn with friends

I have been following the flurry of email exchanges among the friends about an autumn holiday in Sweden. The arrangement is to stay with the girlfriend who has a summer home which she now lives in year round. The itinerary basically consists of lake fishing, or else berry- and mushroom-picking in the woods, and spending time, lots of time, together.

I have been silent. Images run through my mind. None too appealing.

I never saw fishing as an enjoyable relaxing activity. I'd rather just curl up with a good book for quiet time.In which case, I don't need to go to a summer home in Sweden to do.

I think of cavorting through the woods with these people. Naked like the locals if the mood so moves them, but that is not likely. I think of severe urticaria eruptions on skin that came in contact with nettles, oak vines and poison ivy. I think of the man wearing a waist-pouch full of antihistamine pills and injectables around his otherwise naked body. I think of spending the remainder of the holidays scratching at itches so bad that you just want to rip your skin off.

I think of cooking and eating our haul of wild mushrooms. I think of mushroom poisoning; I shudder at the thought of suffocating to death with my mind still crystal clear to the very end.

I think of long stretches of time spent cooped up with the lot of them. After the first night of excited catching up, I imagine I am ready to part company. Except there would be nowhere to retreat to. I am certain the summer home is many hours' car ride to anywhere. So I will spend the rest of my time counting the days to going home.

I think I will have to see the wonderful people under other circumstances. In other places. Where I can escape company when I feel the need.

So I will remain silent about this great holiday adventure. Until somebody comes up with a prettier picture of holidaying together.

It's a minute steak

I like the Aussie-styled steakhouse for its decent food and casual ambience. I also like the no-fuss efficient service of the wait-staff. Parking is never a problem either.

It came to pass that the man and I took our visitors for a quick lunch there since they were running on a tight workday schedule.

The one guest is always a pain in the proverbial you-know-where. He particularly enjoys talking down to wait-staff with a fake English public school accent trying to impress that he has a most impeccable palate.

We ordered the set lunch, and have selected the minute steak for the main. Now he tells the waitress, Eton accent and all, "Er, y-y e s. I know how you always do steaks overdone in Singapore. Might you be so kind as to tell the chef I want mine very, very rare please?"

We groaned. We protested: Oh, puhleeze. It's a minute steak. It is a thin slice of meat pan-fried for just a moment on each side. It cannot be done very, very rare!

The waitress very graciously said she will check with the chef. She was back very quickly with the answer: The chef says the minute steak is too thin to be pan fried and served very very rare. He can, however, do it to a perfect medium rare.

There. Exactly as we told him when he nevertheless proceeded to make a ass of himself.

Like I said, I like the restaurant for it's decent food and casual ambience. Now I respect it for its straightforwardness and honesty too.

The chamber of horrors

My preferred route in a shopping centre is to ride the lift to the uppermost shopping floor and work my way down by stairs and escalators. Makes sense: I don't have to cover the same grounds twice.

One of my favourite shopping haunts is Far East Plaza on Scotts for fun, quirky and inexpensive clothes and accessories.

But.

Step into the bubble lift of that building, and you enter a chamber of horrors:

- it is tiny; if there are 6 people in there, you feel hemmed in.
- it gets the full sun all day; it always feels like you are walking into a oven that has been set on slow bake mode at 50 degrees C.
- it rides slow; you suffer the crowding and the baking for longer than necessary.
- then, the mother of all horrors: I catch the awfullest reflection in the mirrored panels. Sickly yellow complexion, caked makeup running into every line on my face, hair colour a nasty orange shade of straw, and by the way, is that really the colour of my eye shadow? Even that go-anywhere wear-anytime ensemble of black tank top and gypsy skirt looks like rejects from the salvation army.

By the time I walk out of the chamber of horrors, my ego is deflated like a punctured tyre and my confidence is like shattered glass pieces on the floor deserving to be swept away post haste.

It takes walking around the shops, making a conscious effort to breath deeply and slowly, realising that nobody is scrambling to get away, and babies are not crying at the sight of me that I finally regain my equanimity.

I hate horror chambers that double up as elevators in shopping centres.

May

was the month
- I love. I think of the last of soft spring smells and colours before the full fury of summer heat claims its turn for the year. The antipodean autumn in slow surrender, covering the land in a blanket of golds and reds.

- most ideal for travel. For a brief few days, I considered Prague and Budapest by way of Istanbul. I never got any further than just thinking of it fleetingly.

- I stayed put in equatorial Singapore instead. And ended up having a good time making new friends who I am optimistic will rebuild my fast dwindling social circle as I continue to drop lousy people from my life. (How come there are still so many left?)

- I wrote the most "gripes and swpies" posts of any month since I started blogging. I wish for that to change in the new month.

- my hair has stopped falling out by the handful and is looking less tortured. I am contemplating going back to purple streaks again.So boh kia si (fearless) hor?

- I did not hear from Mother. The sister thinks Mother is totally distracted by Chai-nar (China) people and their tai-chee (problems) and has forgotten about us. I don't doubt it.