The Sweet Truth About Sugar

For the dad bod I call dibs on.

I take my sugar with everything. I take it in my cup of teh tarik at least thrice a day in the form of sweetened milk; I take it with my prata; I take it with my compliments. And according to my dietician, that's also the respective order for an escalating threat. First, you get greedy, and then addicted; finally, to keep up with the habit, you cheat yourself to obesity.

Sugar has been in my blood since I was born. Look to my baby photos and you wonder what was in the formula. From a healthy, cherubic toddler who had just learned how to crawl, I was making a calculated effort to run by the time it dawned on me in school that it wasn't baby fat that weighed me down. Rather, the gravity of the situation was the crime that if a child wasn't chubby enough, he's not cute. It was a stigma against skinny babies and healthily slim prepubescent children alike. In fact, I was so fat, singling me out for every TAF club exercise (the now defunct pejorative Trim And Fit club for fatties) in school felt natural, almost deserved.

For a tie, I wore it like a noose.

At fifteen, somewhere between a concern and a call-to-action, my parents suddenly decided that I was not a baby anymore. Their primary mission to get me out of the house, to choose between a toy and a golden glow that radiated within the foil wrapped chocolate snack, Crunchies, was also a struggle for my love for both. That I only exercised in later stages of my youth, and never quite did enough crunches to make up for the tummy fat amassed at the waist was a giveaway to the poor choices I have made in life. (So far.)

Today, as a healthier self who does not look quite as oblong as he used to, my consumption of sugar-laden products has not waned either. Once, for the sake of it, I made the mental note of counting every cup of milk tea I took in a school day. The breaking record came at five cups by the evening, which wasn't as bad as the alcoholics who smuggled gin to class. But that did worry me.

While I don't plan to give up on sugar, or cut back, I am disconcerted. As with alcohol, sugar has the effects of a drug. And to avoid the unsettling withdrawal effects (evident in my morning mood swings), I return to my habit, and if unwary, increase its dosage. I don't wake up to smell the coffee, I wake up to get fixed.

Sugar, an early signal of death in my family, was criminal to my grandmother's health. She had a bad diet. She passed when I was fourteen due to failing stages of her organs caused by deficiencies her younger self would warn her against of. She loved life- God bless, but she loved soda more. So much that if she did not indulge a can at every meal, there wouldn't be any food on the table to begin with.

According to experts, you can abuse sugar like how you would abuse alcohol and drugs. (Most of the time, you abuse them separately but severe cases have witnessed all three coming into play.) The hard part is: how do you quit sugar?

Have it with anything you like, sugar is an additive that will not stop us from loving our foods. Sugar, though indiscriminately gave my grandmother diabetes, also tastes delicious as a sweeter: from the sweetened dark sauce you dip your crisp slices of roasted pork into, to the cup of milk tea you decide its level of sweetness with. If I were to make a conscious effort to eat clean every time an article warning against the globesity epidemic surfaces like a tirade, I would be living a life not lived. Life, in every sense of the word, would just be bitter.

The Speed of Life

Godspeed, Budget Air travel.

When I was young, I used to bus around the city and gamble my chances without a clue as to where, or when I would alight. There was always a suspense palpable through the end of my seat as my eyes were glued to the windows, consuming each fast moving image with an insatiable appetite as I moved, leaving no sights unseen. I saw buildings as they looked like sculptures; vehicles as they looked like moving boxcars; pedestrians as they looked like figures, who were impervious to my scanning everything and nothing at once for all the exhilaration that looking outwardly provided. In those days, the journey only mattered because I wasn't going anywhere, in particular; I just kept moving.

However, today, everything moves at a different pace. "The speed of life", as David Bowie used to sing. With a purpose in whatever I do, wherever I go- the places I'm but only too eager to arrive at, I've learned to take charge in any bending course, setting goals no matter how tricky, tedious, and more often, in pursuance of an end that they are.

Unfortunately, sometimes, I too, wean myself off the joy of in its process. Harking back, if my goal was to write well, and writing were a game sport, I would have been its benchwarmer because that's all I seemed to be doing then: sitting on it even when I was shamelessly bad at it. That my reluctance to write stemmed in the same dread as a can't-do attitude. Stringing sentences without any logical structure, or connecting my ideas so carelessly it made my peers wish they'd fact checked the Yellow Pages instead, I only sought after change much later because I wanted to move away from that tight spot of torpor. I wanted to become a disciplined writer who would never shy away from the writing pad every time the urge to write nagged me to do so. And relentless as it sounds, knowing it to be an uphill goal only aggravated my discomfort. I would rather sit through a fifty hour plane ride, if the engines don't fail me first, than to remain stationary as I were, in other words.

Excitedly, I went head-on and became my own critic, my own friend, my own cast of heroic influences that saw the ilk of great writers breathing down my neck: "I wouldn't punctuate that way, if I were you. You're no beat writer- you're not even American." What I saw in myself, apart from a no-good typewriter, was also an overambitious cow. I turned writing into a performance, its pleasure into a stressor, for which I've lost sleep over the spat that I could, perhaps, never truly aspire my goals.

Have I changed since? Yes, in ways that'd be petty to crow about today, and yet, not quite since I'm still feeling as foreign to writing as a whore in a church. But what I've learnt somewhere in between the analogy, is that gradual change yields results if I kept persisting, no matter how unlikely, or unending the journey seemed.

Like getting strapped to your seat on flight, journeying through a goal can feel liminal. It's easy to be looking inward, after all, when the only thing that's really captivating at an outward glance of the window is a monotonous overcast. You're in view of wailing toddlers, snorers, talkers, nightmare neighbours who're fighting for the armrest or holding your arm like one. If you're wishing for sights to see, there are but none. As with gradual change, goals are like plane rides; it's like flying off home ground toward somewhere far more breathtaking- twelve hours without a stopover if they're long term, at least. At thousands of feet up in the air, you fidget, grumble, and tug at your sleeping mask, hopeful that the painful ride would nullify if you've had a chockfull of sleeping pills to swallow. (Especially if you're flying Budget.) Because you were so fixated with where you're going, your ride becomes a drag, not a carousel. Those excitements count for little until you've reached your destination. But that's what goals are: a long pursuit of something worthwhile, where it's easy to forget how fast you're moving in the air until you step outside; although, that's an impossible mission even for a Jodie Foster movie in Flight Plan.

Miles away from where you've started, goals are tricky if you're not patient. They become a sensitive gray area that cast more doubts than a beat that is to exhilarate, excite, and envision a pulsating bright future. We often ask ourselves why had we taken our goals in the first place, knowing that to give it up halfway is to plague ourselves with a guilt far more wrenching than tolerating a plane ride. How else do you explain avoidance behaviours? Like a fear of flying, which is to be a fear of failure, we're afraid of that uncertainty, that unknowingness we cannot predict, only to nag at us if we're never going to get there.

For one, it's not unlikely that nobody wants to go, say, across continents in their travel, it's just that places like the North Pole distances ten thousand kilometers from where we stand. Our goals, like the arctic holiday we can only dream about, would, therefore, mean as much when we do finally arrive. Imagine the North Pole! Imagine Alaska! Imagine the strange sights that would be John Green! If only we could give ourselves that chance to jump off the deep end and chase those goals. If we deviantly clung on and maximized our means to test our patience, no matter how begrudgingly they were to tide us over, goals aren't that cumbersome if we were patient. Goals are beautiful places we could go, if we were enduring.

Just a semester ago, I was miles away from home in a plane. And looking out of the window, incredulous at the adventure and sights I were to see on my private trip, it sent my blood rushing, at first, looking down at nitty details that dotted my country as I were up in the air. It gave me a sense of power, to be lifted across as I loomed largely over the landscapes. I felt brave, like there were so much to see if I kept looking down, that the enthusiasm captured would continuously leave me breathless up till I reached my destination. Though, at midway, I fell asleep, and forty minutes later, fidgeting in my tight spot, grumbling at how long the journey was taking, I was reminded of those trips I used to enjoy, unending in its ride: I began to see toddlers as cabbage dolls, snorers as as indicator to plug in those headphones, my nightmare neighbour who wouldn't stop hugging as a needy friend. Fearlessness, resilience, and patience, I had all the means to hold it out till I've arrived. I would be free, hence. And then I conquered.

Fred Perry X Raf Simons, Summer's Latest Affair Has Gone Native.

Fred Perry, whose athletic street wear has seen the ilk of Britpop fans donning its signature pique polos since the 90s, has teamed up with Raf Simons for a new Spring/Summer 2015 collection doled out in a mosaic of native abstract prints, on slim-fitting silhouettes.

By comparison, the latest collaboration is a consent to a tribal-inspired trend that's storming down the runways for a couple of seasons now. While Simons' impression of the Fred Perry silhouette remains true to form in a slimmer, longer figure, its monochrome palette has too, served as backdrop to splashes of colour, which became vivid caricatures of abstract motifs patterned all over its mainstay pieces. Such with its sturdy jersey t-shirts or sweatshirts- designed in Privet Green with an abstract print across the front.

On hindsight, the classic Fred Perry still innovates. Whether you're keeping abreast in style as you don your summer sweatshirts, three-quarter sleeves, or pique polo tees, Fred Perry X Raf Simons conveys more with a brilliant take on your quintessential summer all get out attire- in shirts with a detachable collar, a fishtail parka cut slimmer for the slender Raf Simons fan, and a pair of city shorts, specifically redesigned in tandem with the sportswear label's 1950s tennis mise-en-scène. This arena of summer classics offered aren't just rehashes of past fashionable sportswear, they're a whole new game of street casual- even if you're planning to take them to court.

12 Oz. of happiness to share

As AMC's Mad Men saw what was the end of an era last Sunday, viewers were reminded of what's to become of that era. That the golden age of advertising closed with a television spot, "I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing", belted a happy familiar tune that gathered international faces to celebrate, and to facilitate the drama's end into a present day nostalgia. That befitting performance was a Coke ad, and its brand message hasn't changed since because it's worked for more than an era.

Coke, or the "real thing", has been rallying its audience with positive messages since the early 70s (or 50s, if you're picky). Its secret formula isn't in its soda, but what's associated with. Running a history in the vein of happiness, its long withstanding brand presence that could have also turned on itself as an irony people collect over in its souvenirs- such as vintage poster ads or glass design bottles cleared out from flea markets, is an other formula of cleverness. One that Coke has constantly played on in pole position, instead of washing out like so many other American products we're only faintly aware of, if not unfamiliar with, from period dramas- such as with Mad Men. If it were not for its consistent tenor at keeping apace with people at large, globally, Coke's brand heritage and its continual success would not have witnessed its influence upon new, and niche audiences alike, today. Coke would not have been the proprietary brand of soda, in other words.

Share a Coke with somebody famous.

Today, Share a Coke, the latest of event marketing, is a viral hit. With Instagram, Twitter and Facebook reigning in an overwhelming response, it seemed not unlikely that people had to hop off the bandwagon before others hopped on. The campaign's results were tangible: You put a dollar (presumably) into the vending machine and, to skip the science, out pops a can at its most personal with your name printed on in the famous Spencerian-lookalike typeface- because originals are also an untouchable trademark issue. Touted the "You" font, Coke has drawn the attention away from itself and toward the happy consumer who's ready to guzzle all the happiness in 12 oz. of carbonated brown. On a personal level, that's ownership. You feel, as if made to coincide with the brand's mutual liking, that you have owned a piece of this conglomerate business.

Sparking a trend that has too been adopted by the scores of other global territories alike, such as Singapore and Europe, Coke has surprised in Mexico with bottles repackaged in braille for the blind, this time. At the outset, the new bottles are an extension of its earlier campaigns. While everything else remains aesthetically recognizable in the same distinctive swirls and fire-engine red, design modifications are a practical message targeted at a new group of audience: One that response-shapes the people's prosocial attitude. Headed by agency Anonimo, which has its hand prior in other Coke campaigns, this new strategy is a no-holds-barred approach, synonymous to the brand's continual message: To share a Coke with someone, in the wake of happiness.

A well played personal favourite.

More importantly, for a brand that has undertaken creative means to share happiness for more than a decade, it has certainly inspired. Reaping the rewards of Coke's latest efforts to connect and converse meaningfully, audiences have participated just as much in parody as with flippant responses- such as one above- from puns to private jokes, to becoming an instant memorabilia that prides on camp to reaffirm the brand as an object of desire on everyone's minds, once again.

Like every marketer's dream, that's always still a PR move well played.

Give Good Ideas a Shot

We're fickle, demanding, and, at least when it comes to satisfying our shopping lists, unsettled. Even after distilling our items from a long line of ambiguous other in the supermarket, we still debate, question, and reevaluate one brand of milk compared to the next. In resolve, between a local home brand wrapped behind white anonymity and its renowned competitor, we instinctively navigate toward the sprightlier packaging, one that celebrates branding- in the wake of reassuring ourselves that we've also made an honest choice. (Representative: Greenfields.)

The same goes to selecting our liquor. Apropos of cinching this year's Best Packaging Award for Best Show, the Dieline Awards- an honorary to the world's best design packaging- has crowned a maritime-themed cocktail bar in Barcelona (Bar Pesca Salada) for its innovative bottle design: Fittingly, a visual game of a man rollicking in its spirit. Swerving away from typical shelf bottles advertising the same supreme age, its minimal brand advertising is, in this case, a refreshing sight for sore eyes when you're shopping in a place usually amassed with logos bordering offensive.

However, between you and your shot glasses, drinking is a serious affair; something not to be trifled with in the stuff's fervor. To feel reassured, we often put our money where the stamp is: In a distinctive approval from the product's heritage where no second tier ingredient can emulate. (It's not unlikely that competitors taste better, it's just that the former already looks better in taste.)
Unless, of course, everyone else promises the same damn thing.

In marketing speak, that could be brand saturation. (Hoorah!) In a consumer's mind, that's as tasting as water with a homogenous appeal (or a lack thereof, for that matter) that renders one brand from the next indistinguishable. And should everything taste as its packaging does, saturating its design packaging is equivalent to a sameness, a predictability: The same robust taste, or the same spicy notes tinkled with a needling pine flavor. Judging by how convenient and common it is to mark brand heritage across all liquor bottles, we wouldn't bother with brand packaging, in other words.

Winning a design packaging award for an illustrative definition of canoodling may, therefore, be a novel idea. But toying with it while you down the slow-burning taste of gin only makes it better, because the activity is never to be a dull one. It's a wayward impulse that should not chaste us to any old hand, like giving fresh ideas a shot (I mean it quite literally), or drinking it straight from the bottle like a sinkhole.

For Your Weary Ears, Only.

Put some romance back into your night with Live! At the Village Vanguard, as musical impressionist John Coltrane records against the backdrop of Manhattan Club nights and foot-tapping jazz.

By comparison, Coltrane's tenth and also his first of live albums allowed plenty of swerves from the typical swings of contemporary jazz. Rebuked by critics then for its discursive style of "musical nonsense... being peddled into the name of jazz", calling this album badass, today, is to underrate its merits.

Regardless, make sure you tip the long line of your cigarette ash as you unwind to an uninterrupted, unstructured, thirty-six minutes of a syncopated performance.