wecangetthemforyouwholesale

Moved.

2005-11-26T01:44:00.000+08:00

Please direct your attentions here.

Signs That You're Gaming Too Much

2005-10-02T21:23:00.001+08:00

1. You view university facilities as a means of gaming

2. You use university facilities for gaming.

3. You use university facilities for gaming on a daily basis.

4. You leave university past midnight due to gaming.

5. You stagger out of university dreary-eyed at 3 in the morning because someone wanted their character's sword upgrade at melee level 15, just to discover that it looks just like their regular sword.

6. You stagger out of university at an incredulous 3 in the morning also because you wanted to see your own axe upgrade at melee level 15 and also realise it looks just like your regular axe, albeit prettier.

7. You stagger out of university at 3 in the morning after an entire day of classes because everyone decided they might as well finish the game after progressing so far.

8. Your friend realises he has to wake up at 9 the same morning only after 6 hours of non-stop gaming.

9. Your friend realises he has to wake up at 9 the same morning to participate in a World of Warcraft raid.

10. You continuing associating with such people.

[EDIT]
11. (kudos to tinkertailor) You blog about gaming.

12. You discover that the 1cm-thick WOW manual isn't comprehensive.

13. When instead of gaming as much, you blog about gaming and read comments on your post about gaming - during midterm week.

14. You update your post about gaming too much.

Well. I needed that.

2005-09-22T14:06:00.002+08:00

When you have both academic mediocrity and a oddly resilient, hugely deluded sense of complacency, disaster is quite inevitable.

Having bombed my first test with spectacular indignity and stomach-churning bafflement, I see reality has finally turned around and smacked me upside the head. Needless to say, the feeling is highly unpleasant and mildly nauseating. Nothing leaves as much a tangible impression as failure when it kicks you in the teeth.

And... On a lighter note, the use of live-action blended with computer-animation is an old trick. In old games like my more-recently-sampled Phantasmagoria, one could obviously tell where the actors and props were and where dotty, plastic virtual reality begun.

Not that it was any less fun, of course. If anything, the blatant artificality and all the effort it implied was charming on it's own.

Live-action game production, as you may have guessed, was short-lived. Focus was shifted to glorious life-like freewheeling CGI. Although the charm still persists.

Like the teaser videos for the upcoming Marvel Nemesis game. It was like being a kid in a comics store. "Hey! New superheroes! Coooool...". New backstories and (sorta new) powers and back-to-basics film-noir-style storytelling!

Distractions, distractions...

Loose Change

2005-09-20T10:47:00.000+08:00

Considering I'm 5 weeks into term in my first spankin' year as a university undergraduate, it occurs to me that I should say a few words of some importance - what importance precisely, I cannot fantom - pertaining to my current state and the events leading up to now. This occurance of thought is no doubt related to the homework I have sitting across from me, staring at me in that incriminating beady way homework tends to do.

Nothing is more compelling a muse than the other um, thing you have to get doing at that very instant.

To a university-bound candidate, I say, university isn't all that different. The food doesn't get all that much better and the prices are less forgiving. You also tend to walk alot more to get to where you want to eat. More people are putting in the effort getting into that whole 'Adult' phase. Others have either given up or do not bother very much. I personally applaud the attempt, although it sometimes looks just plain silly.

University is also the place where, walking through Campus Green this morning, totally without the influence of any drug whatsoever, I discover someone had left their giant dried rotting cherries and bleached sinister-looking giant polyps on the Green.

And their giant metal killer skewer sculpture, but that's not so bad.

I propose someone with a proper camera take pictures before they're removed by mass protest or burned to the ground. My phone-camera does no justice to the horror.

And I suppose this bad-dream-manifested-artwork speaks of some meaningful insight into University Life. The only thing I can think of is that things are alot looser - for better or worse. Your principal might make your school a whole lot uglier by building unncessary attachments, but your university can get alot more gross by appearing to grow some new ghastly pale appendages in the name of Art. You could walk into class an hour and a half late. Your professor could also decide to take away your entire class participation grade because the coffee you fetched for him wasn't blended with low-fat soya-milk and had the wrong flavouring.

We few, we happy few, we band of buggered...

That girl.

2005-09-19T02:31:00.000+08:00

I'm the girl who could resist a meme. Who didn't for this one.

I'm the girl you were too afraid to get near because she was too tall, too fierce, too weird, too laconic, too deep, too smart, too dim, too slow, too artsy, too quiet, too invisible.

I'm the girl who split a cohort of teaching staff in unspoken controversy, even if only for a forgotten passing moment.

I'm the girl who watched you sleep less than ten arm lengths afar and felt a pillar driven through the chest. Who then sought comfort in the prickle of twilight and the blankness of the night. Who then sought comfort in various other things and places within and out of one's head. Who still continues looking.

I'm the girl all of you could only describe as "creative" and "a good draw-er" because that was all I was to you.

I'm the girl who stared conventional wisdom in the face, writhed in actual agony before the open webpage and rejected Law minutes before the deadline. Who still wonders.

I'm the girl who drank so much canteen kopi and starbucks in a stretch, that her head nearly split open and what was left of her lunch threatened a hasty evacuation the long way home from Marine Parade.

I'm the girl who fell asleep on the bus after school and woke up, feeling an instant passed, but riding on the opposite side of the road.

I'm the girl who never kept a best friend. And still hasn't. Who believes that maybe such people belong in the fictional character category.

I'm the girl who has killed every aquatic animal she has ever owned, except the turtle. Who has killed salamanders as well. And then brought cats home without anyone's permission.

I'm the girl who used to hardly cry. Who cried in front of two teachers, consecutively. And then ran off to the toilet to finish up.

I'm the girl who couldn't quite insert the joss sticks properly at your mom's funeral. Who almost burnt her hand while making a total ass of herself. Who knew that it was going to happen.

I'm the girl who really doesn't like chocolate all that much.

I'm the girl who laughed because it was so absurdly wrong. Who was misunderstood because you thought I really was laughing at you. Who got so mad because you thought so wrong.

I'm the girl who left for school and then scrambled back because she heard one of her cats was hurt.

I'm the girl who gave 10 dollars to a complete stranger because she asked for it.

I'm the girl who probably knows way more Star Trek and Star Wars trivia than any girl in her age group and country. Who feels like a little boy when she reads about a new computer game coming up entitled Marvel Nemesis: Rise of the Imperfects. Who grew up playing with GI Joes and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

I'm the girl who was 18 when you tried to teach to ride a bike. Who failed. Who cried like a silly baby who takes most things too seriously and some things too little.

I'm the girl who is afraid she'd end up like her parents.

I'm the girl with a kitten's claw marks on her arm, four scratches arranged in a circular paw. Who still feels sad everytime a kitten dies, even though it's been way past the thirteenth one.

I'm the girl who blogs to show herself that she can write. Who doesn't blog enough to ever convince herself.

So, who're you?

Euphemism

2005-08-25T01:10:00.000+08:00

Today I got word that a friend's mom had passed away. To be exact, the message I remember hearing over the phone was truncated to simply "[she] passed this morning". To the ever-versatile and very economical Singlish speaker, this makes complete sense. In retrospect, it draws attention to itself.

You have passed away or passed on or departed (as though Life were nothing but an unavoidable, alas mildly unpleasant stuffy stopover at some soon-forgotten airport terminal). Like an exhalation, a sigh, an expulsion, we are gone, off into far country like a somebody's second thought. Or the relaxing of a tense muscle; a gentle crossing over still waters into green pastures under a clear blue sky

Quite the peaceful transition, it seems.

After all, we would like to see our loved ones going gently into that good night, not futilely raging against the dying of the light. Now that's not a pretty sight: being dragged kicking and screaming out the door, or whacked across the head and dragged across the room, or drugged beyond comprehension and taken for a one-way ride. Or self-combustion.

Also, I notice that no one ever seems keen on leaving. No one seems to leap into that great beyond or swing away into that biggest mystery; or soar into the big unknown. There is no initiative, no gusto toward what lies ahead.

When one or , it almost implies some measure of control. After all, it is you who is the performer, who is the one in action; the change embodied. There is no mention of a greater force pulling the strings. You have passed on, as if always of your own whimsical choosing; an afterthought; a casual gesture. No one is ever taken away, or abducted by unseen powers, or kindly but firmly asked to leave the premises.

Even the simple, perhaps curt: she died. She did something, as though she took Death and wore it as a hat.

As though we hide our hopes for a final say in matters of the gravest importance.

Cow me

2005-08-19T23:04:00.000+08:00

My tongue is sore. It would appear that keeping me hungry is unwise. Having only a slice of pizza to tide me from morning till five in the afternoon, I ploughed through a big serving of hot tomato soup in a bread bowl. Now even eating bananas hurt.

Food has always been a constant in the family. And I've always eaten fast. My Grandmama recalls how when I was a kid, I ate my porridge (lovingly boiled full of meaty, carrot and fishy yumminess) without chewing enough and how I made my demands for continuous spoonfuls. I only remember the feeling, that nagging tug of impatience and hunger as I was told to chew and swallow first. My five-year old world then focused on a hovering spoon with a narrow, bewildered intensity, already questioning the wisdom of adults.

A few years back, I hit a rough patch. In my haste to get the food down, I was swallowing rice that wasn't chewed. It felt as though I was trying to ram a fist down my oesophagus. Or a freight train. I'd actually pause at the table, wheezing and spluttering in muted agony, at the mercy of rice grains.

I was warned about fish bones but anything consumed at high velocity becomes dangerous. Or at least, incredibly painful.

I'm not sure whether my chewing technique has improved or that my insides have somehow undergo miraculous overnight evolution to endure my speedy food consumption habits. I finish before everyone else (not all guys, of course, but some) and begin my study of others' eating habits; whether they insist on picking every bit of their sandwich apart using utensils or trying all the given sauces ('Dude, I think that's ginger, not garlic.')

And yes, scalded tongue. Still eating.

A tad overwhelmed

2005-08-18T00:54:00.000+08:00

Escapism does not pay. The world does not halt in accordance to my whims. University-related spam does not cease when I take to another three-day camp and pretend four years of extreme multi-tasking do not exist in the limited framework of a twenty-four hour day, a sixty-second minute and the caffeine-governed attention span of my human mind (that is, as I type this, very gradually deteroriating into water, electrons and good old mush).

I attempt to digest the contents of my university timetable, as though the names and numbers and venues might somehow morph into something tangible. The nervous weight in my gut settles and grows, feeding on the stream of new information, threatening to erupt from my chest with the finese of a screaming alien in a horror classic. CCAs spam an overflowing school mailbox with notices, sign-ups for clinics, trips, meeting times and places (to be confirmed and re-confirmed) and mailbox-guzzling images to tease. The university administration announces new partnership universities, talks, seminars, IT updates. A zealous professor reminds his students several times to get the required textbooks and requests a teaching assistant, all in pink-font messages (if I recall correctly).

Another day and another email requesting for volunteers for a community service project (clock 80 hours guaranteed!), or seeking attention for the latest school-sanctioned bash (glamorous photographs of freshies grimacing in front of blistering spotlights included!), or another thank-you note to strangers from strangers, or highlighting the winners of some competition you didn't have a clue about, or inviting you to high-tea for some CCA whose acronym you can't figure out, or a warning that your mailbox is about to exceed its limit and quite predictably, helps your mailbox to burst.

Meanwhile, there is the course bidding to fathom, professors looking grand in their beards to meet and greet, a new spanking campus to try and not get lost in, people's names to learn, jobs to find (and keep), CCAs to join and meetings to attend, a laptop to configure and understand, community service reports to write and the usual respiratory functions to remember to perform.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

I realise people like to ask whether I'm ready for university.

The usual response goes, "Well, I don't have much of a choice, do I."

Coffee is my Bitch

2005-08-09T21:04:00.000+08:00

Best line EVAR? This just occured to me in the midst of an msn conversation. I wonder if it's patented. Coming out of two camps, entailing name games, ice-breakers, introductions and all sorts of brain-numbing small talk, I find that it's both a convenient and accurate description to throw around: "Hi, remember me? I drink enormous unhealthy amounts of coffee."

As a disclaimer, I might add that it is the conventional wisdom that consuming lots of coffee is unhealthy. There are probably thousands of scientific reports and studies, boasting thorough research and expert analysis, out there touting both the heart-attack-life-saving-preventive or cancer-causing-death-courting effects of coffee. Information overload. Although I suspect, consuming anything tasting this potent in enormous amounts is unhealthy.

Hence, my tidbit of information still stands. I'm going for another camp tomorrow. Time to give it another walk.

There's a 'coffee connoisseur' card at the Dome franchise, which for 38 dollars gives you 10 cups of coffee. Which is great because I'd definately finish it before the 6 month expiry date.

I've been drinking coffee since secondary school. Not out of any dire need, I remember. Experimenting with the taste, wondering what the fuss was about: the traits becoming of a future addiction. The legit buzz frees the tongue, opens doors to triviality usually unfound, numbs the boredom. Life seems a shade lighter a cup of coffee emptier. Especially mornings bordering on school. Or work.

It even allows you to place a mug of coffee in uncommon places: a bed. A location brimming with that onimous potential for spillage, hence hardly ventured into without a dose of mighty caffeine. It's empty now, which eliminates the threat. But is going to smart tomorrow when I have to sleep and wake up at 9am tomorrow.

A substance inspiring hyberpole.

Coffee, Random Thoughts

Those Odd Moments

2005-08-06T11:36:00.000+08:00

Because sometimes Life isn't interesting enough to take up more than a handful of lines. And sometimes because I'm too busy looking the other way.

1.
When you unveil your spanking new gorgeous Powerbook and your Grandmama is sitting nearby, the screen lights up and suddenly you hear, in cantonese no less:

"Eh. Someone has taken a bite out of the apple!"

2.
When in the middle of Orientation, someone says, without meaning any irony at all, "(Friend A) got into NUS law! She's so smart."

(I can only nod and go, "Mmmmmm.")

3.
When at ContraDiction, Alfian Saat enlightens us on what our national identity might have been.

Even when I was a wee thing, I knew for a fact lions never had black manes and red bodies.

Two dollars worth

2005-07-29T16:57:00.000+08:00

Dressed in jeans, an unbuttoned shirt with a singlet underneath, I am with my friends striking out after dinner into the sleepy Orchard scene, already folding her doors as the hour approaches ten.

Entering the underground connection between Shaw Centre and Wheellock Place, we cross a busker, his guitar and his daughter, squatting quite comfortably in the hollow of the open guitar case. He appears Eurasian, his dark complexion reminding me of gypsies and other wandering foreign types.

One of my friends stops to drop a two dollar note into the case. Immediately, the girl, perhaps six years old, seemingly untainted by insecurities, unrestrained by the imposed rigidities of formal schooling, comes bounding towards us as we start to walk on.

Her father smiles as he continues strumming on his instrument. The girl shouts a string a 'thank you's that reverberate along the tunnel walls. We are alone in the quiet underground on a quiet thursday night watching a little girl radiate positivity.

Without warning, she bounds forward and hugs us, each of us in turn. We're pleasantly surprised at her energy.

When she turns to me, she asks a question that I do not quite catch at first. I bend down a little and she half-whispers her question again.

"Are you a girl?"

My thoughts stray to the wax greasing my hair and my dressing. A part of me laughs, another feels as though caught in the proverbial cookie jar. My friends do not seem to hear. I stoop down and answer "Yes," unconsciously mimicking her conspirational tone.

She nearly knocks me over with her embrace, arms around my hips. We do a quick twirl, stumbling, extending like some lopsided dance couple before I motion her back to her father.

As we walk away I am wrapped in layers of feeling: flashes of bemusement, a grey mass of mixed discomfort and ease. Swimming somewhere is that tiny yet tangibly present and persistent knot of shame.

School of eeevil Tai-Tais

2005-07-29T11:38:00.000+08:00

It appears that SCGS is not only a bitchy spawning ground for tai-tais, it's also a seething hellmouth of pure undulated eeevil. The evidence.

We also prowl the countryside, burn, pillage and plunder. Sometimes we contemplate global domination, blackmail the UN, make nuclear weapons, crush CFC styrofoam, litter, launch war on small countries and kill kitties too.

Bar your windows and bolt your doors, lads.

supernova: where the corridors stink of salted fish

2005-07-28T16:08:00.000+08:00

I have slept for 16 hours. I remember crashing at about 5 in the afternoon yesterday. My ringing handphone was thrust at me some time in the middle of my slumber, which I answered semi-coherently.

It was the teacher that I last relief-taught for. She had called to ask if I knew where her 3B civics and moral education books were. I mumbled several 'No's and grunts to show that I was still on the line (as tempted as I was). Being a veteran teacher, she was unsurprisingly oblivious to my semi-conscious responses and persisted in her line of inquiry. I inwardly cursed at the students who had blamed me for the missing books, perhaps thinking that I was a viable excuse to inflict the inquisition upon.

'...I asked for their books and they were 10 girls who said they gave their books to you so I thought they cannot be lying wad. Are you sure you don't have the books? Oh yah, I also need to ask you about my room keys. I can't find them and now I have to go to the office everytime...'

Never underestimate student collaboration in matters concerning delinquency.

I awake again past 9 in the morning, feeling a sense of wholeness. It's not a feeling of satisfaction as much of a feeling of un-dissatisfaction.

Because some experiences aren't designed to be expressed eloquently. Here is a list of the things I've gone through in the past 3 days:

1. Waking up at 6am after sleeping past 1am. Waking up at 6.45am after sleeping at 2am. Waking up at 7.45am after sleeping at 4am.

2. Potent coffee at the Prata Shop next to the SMU Evans building, also the Supernova Camp 2005 HQ.

3. Playing a gigantic scissors-papers-stone game along with 40 other people on my side. Oh, and it was 'Monster, Wizard, Dwarf' instead - actions and sounds included. Picture 40 people rising their hands and going 'Gaarrrrgghhhh!!' at another 40.

4. Climbing up and down 8 stories, plus several more flights because the facilitator wasn't at the 8th floor when I first arrived. I learn that cursing alone isn't as satisfying as swearing in front of other people.

5. I really suck at soccer. And I was playing against other girls.

6. Dragonboating is fun. Even if you're trying to keep pace behind a powerful super-experienced biceps-buldging dragon-boater guy and feeling guilty about soaking the girl sitting right behind you.

7. The longest bus chase yet. Ironically, after the number 16 bus that I seem to see everywhere when it's not unwanted.

8. Lots of pastamania. The best catered camp food yet.

9. Touch-rugby on a muddy field.

10. Ultimate frisbee on a muddy field.

11. Diving for playing cards at the bottom of a swimming pool. With shorts on, which was a very bad idea.

12. Going on the GMAX after downing raw egg and full-cream milk. And trying to show off in front of the installed camera. Pity there wasn't any sound capture. 'I can see my house from up here!'

13. Toothpaste, water, flour, water, face-paint, water, mud and more water. And getting swatted by giant sponge stick thingys by facilitators wearing monster masks.

14. Squashing giant red ants.

15. Eating fruit off a guy who escaped relatively clean from no.13. At least I wasn't the (un)lucky one eating the carrot dangling between his legs.

16. My first trip to KTV Box and proving beyond a doubt that I am indeed, tonedeaf.

17. The horror of removing wet feet from wet shoes after a long day's worth of activities.

Circle Xperienced

2005-07-24T00:48:00.000+08:00

The feedback form was the last official barrier barring us from freedom. It's first open-ended question was on it's second printed page (yes, two pages of feedback: multiple-choice and structured questions exam-style): what were your impressions of the camp, before and after?

My first impression of the camp was Jan grumbling on how it was compulsory (the word emphasized in bold on the matriculation form, reminding us to hand in our orientation booklet).

Because a deliberate misspelling in its title isn't cool enough to appeal to the freshmen, the metaphorical stick will do most of the trick. The same goes for the big SMUve event. In case the big balloons, song and dance, rock concert, free t-shirt and parade down the streets in town doesn't fill your crowd expectations, there's always the slotting of a compulsory CCA sign-up session right behind the festivities.

It's nothing personal, it's just business. And it's alot cheaper than hiring extras to provide people scenery and atmosphere.

Then again, with some creativity and tenacity, nothing is really compulsory except death and maybe taxes.

And in case anyone forgets: the Circle Xperience is not an orientation camp. It is a leadership and team-building experience. It's not just some session where you play games, exchange phone numbers and eat bad food. It's some session where you play games, exchange phone numbers, eat bad food and endure numerous debriefings after each activity where you are asked to voice your feelings and bare your emotional innards to the world.

Yes, spilling your soul is also compulsory.

Downing a can of Nescafe's dark coffee in the morning made tiding over the first day easier. From a routine of sleeping at 5 in the morning to waking up at 5 to accomplish last-minute packing, the natural adrenaline high and caffeine boast accompanied me into Chinese Gardens.

I have never been to the Chinese Gardens. The closest contact I ever managed was a secondary school chinese textbook with a passage on the Gardens, water-colour-ish pictures included. The only things I recall are the pictures (which I tried matching with their real-life counterparts), which go to show my interest and competence in the Chinese language.

We passed a garden of rain-beaten concrete "terracotta" warriors, standing around trying to look regal but mostly looking embarrassed sporting bright scarves in primary colours. The grass, rocks and trees were cast in painfully artifical although scenic landscapes. Should the Gardens stay open long enough for weathering to take its toll, at least the components would be easily reproduced. I wonder if there's even a warehouse of mass manufactured spare parts.

The place was empty. The gate to an area read "Garden of Abundance" - a title suspiciously vague and invitingly ironic.

There was supposed to be a High Elements activity. Our choice: crossing a wooden bridge of sorts dangling in mid-air without hand supports (the aim being to cross without grabbing the harness cord).

It unfortunately started to rain. What refused to wash away was the graphic imagery suggested by the instructor in his half-hour briefing as he went through the safety precautions (popping sounds and all): severing of fingers, removal of limbs, tearing of earlobes, head lacerations, plummeting to your horrible death while your harness is in the air laughing at you (his words, really).

On the last day of camp, there were also activities designed to test ones integrity. Herein lies the paradox. If you're watching for breaches in integrity, there would be no integrity to observe. As the philosophical question goes: if you could commit a wrong and get away with it, would you still do so?

Testing ones integrity with people circling around watching and commenting is completely missing the point. There is fear of retribution, peer pressure, a lack of incentive among the elements interfering with this little experiment. You can't just announce "This game is meant to test your integrity ok!" and expect accurate results.

Think Big Live Large

2005-07-18T15:50:00.000+08:00

A "size law" will be passed in Buenos Aires, Argentina that will force clothes sellers to display and exhibit larger clothes sizes in their stores.

Now this makes me happy. And sad. In that mixed bittersweet way that heralds the triumph of rationality over common sense, of logic over humanity. It feels as if we've taken a nice step forward, only to realise we had gone two steps back already without even realising it.

The increasing use of and dependence on Law as a mechanism to correct social ills underlies the failings in other social institutions. When people go to the Lawyer's office to settle their grievances, when parents fight over their children in court, when it takes a Supreme Court order to get the NKF to spill its beans, when it takes an official legislation for shops to start being more considerate and sensible; it reflects on the family, marriage, charity, the kind of mindset of people in society.

Suddenly the passing of a law looks very simple in comparison to changing human behaviour.

Of Bloggers.SG 2005 and shameless plugs

2005-07-17T01:31:00.000+08:00

While most of the olympian celebrities and puny human extras of Singapore's first Blog Convention are nursing tomorrow's (no pun, however little, intended) hangovers and retiring from a hard night of partying and Microsoft sponsored drinks, I am unfortunately totally sober and still musing over the irony of Microsoft throwing money at an Apple dominated event.

My neck is also stiff from sitting near the front and staring at the big screens mounted above the panel of speakers. Elegantly covered in white cloth befitting a wedding ceremony, the chairs surrounding the stage stood awkwardly in the middle of DXO, looking starkly bewildered at the shiny dance floor, luminescent lighting, liquor-ready bar, velvet couches and all-round murky confines of a typical club. They felt hotel-issue. They felt mightily uncomfortable.

The legal eagles were there to branish their powerful linguistic arsenal ("factual matrix") and dispense dead useful advice ("... ultimately, it varies on a case to case basis." - in lawyer speak, this roughly translates to: for further elaboration, that's 500 dollars an hour and please make an appointment.)

During the breaks, the big fish get swarmed with adoring fans waving digital cameras. Small fry like myself are impressed that the queue to the refreshments move very fast. Considerate people.

I discover Xiaxue is a really small girl who knows how to wield her makeup.

The #tomorrow.sg IRC channel developed a personality of its own. Along with it, a liking for lightbulb jokes as well as fondling someone's 17-inch.

The geek shall inherit the earth. And it appears that they shall do so with Apple. Irregardless of the drinks Microsoft buys them. Because they'd be too busy educating the ignorant that flickr is somehow allegic to 'e's.

There was a contingent from blog.vjc.sg. I groaned and covered my face accordingly as the shameless plug ensued, followed by multiple echoes on the IRC screens. Such blatant and despicable tactics - advertising The Victoria Junior College moblog in public. To think that the National Interschool Blogging Campionship which ends on the 31st June has encouraged such obvious, desperate attempts at publicity. Simply horrendous that the bloggers@VJC.com team has to stoop to such lows to ask people to vote them at 96183799 by smsing 'nibc vjc'. Who on earth would part with the sum of 35 cents per sms to help deprive RJC of the championship. Or go visit and raise blog.vjc.sg's hit count.

Shameless, I tell you.

These legs are meant for

2005-07-12T03:14:00.000+08:00

If you look closely, my 5 month old kitty left a message.

It was Caleb's idea.

Giving Relief

2005-07-12T02:34:00.000+08:00

Via Tomorrow.sg, go get Mis-educated by Khelath with her Tips for First Time Relief Teachers.

About a year ago I stopped being a student and became this automation on two legs that slept, ate, farted and performed all usual bodily functions under constant stress, anxiety and Bad Thoughts.

My higher brain functions were thinking metaphysical, waxing philosophical and seeing the bigger picture - being after all, higher brain functions. They decided that there was indeed much more to Life than mugging. The rest of me, in a remarkable display of bodily coordination and microscopic democracy, voted to mass panic.

Back to the point. About 6 months ago I started relief teaching. So it was quite the sudden role-reversal. And you just know it's karma payback time.

Two cents worth.

Teaching as Performance Art

There is a stage in every classroom, even if it's only a strip of empty space between the whiteboard and forty desks. It is there because students see and teachers feel it. They make it up, in their heads. This is hallowed ground. Trespassers should be prosecuted.

Just ask a student to come out and stand out there, in front of the class and talk. And talk. And talk. Public speaking isn't easy. Let alone in front of a firing squad.

Teachers are actors, playing both a function and character. For first-time relief-teachers, it then begs the question: as a role-player, what role do you want to be?

Know your Roles

It's like say... Dungeons and Dragons. (Ok, I admit I've never actually played D&D or any RPG game thoroughly but based on what I read and see, I know somethings.)

There are naturally sterotypical roles you could already slip into without much creativity. The barbarian warrior, the magical elf, the hyper-sensitive screaming banshee in the disciplinary department, the motherly naggy persistent auntie teacher.

Each has their own attributes. Their own costs and benefits. You only get a limited number of attribute points after all. When selecting your character (which you'd better stick with for the duration of your term), realise that you can't have your cake and eat it. Every student out there might wish for a young, sugarly-sweet, soft-spoken, fun, empathic and entertaining teacher out there in the firing range stage of the class. The price of this being overdue or unfinished assignments, truancy, yelling and fights, constant noise, bad grades and that dreaded chit-chat with the HOD who just got hold of the report cards.

It's either that or a totalitarian regime.

There are compromises, of course. But as creating a custom character, it's more tedious and difficult.

There may be such a thing as an enlightened despot, after all.

Much Ado About Nothing

2005-07-11T13:28:00.000+08:00

I have come across blogs that excitedly proclaim how their site traffic has crossed the (insert large figure) number threshold and there is that proud celebratory mood familiar with reaching new heights, grand achievements, crying newborn babies, scaling mountainous peaks, cheating Death or achieveing 280 for your PSLE score.

I have not seen blogs that mope about their dwindling number of site hits. I suppose it has to do with a measure of self-dignity.

Where climbing traffic are matters of momentous celebration, falling hit counts make one go into secluded corners to cry, or hug stuffed animals (or real ones, should they be available - kitties, perhaps) or drop all trappings of civilisation, embark on a frugal life living on remote peaks with only a bunch of chanting monks as company.

They bring out the worst in people.

Including pointless posts.

I am not a fangirl. Really.

2005-07-10T19:30:00.000+08:00

This I have discovered: when in doubt, stumped by Blogger's Block and not to lazy, inspiration is only a click and five minute attention span away from another person's (in this case, Tym's) blog post.

The morning after last monday's Neil Gaiman QnA session (boy, was that 8 bucks worth it) that had the author signing past midnight when the event started at eight that evening, I feel misty, drained and star-struck.

I am not the only soul affected.

Via sms, a friend informs me that the whole night her brain screamed "Do me!", evidently finding leather-jacket-wearing beer-bellyed British man attractively normal, in her book. Adding that this was a terrible development considering she is not swooning over his works, which she has only read one of.

Two days after, the same few of us are at Borders. I arrive at about 5:20pm. The signing begins at six and as you have already heard, the line of people already stretches from the Borders entrance, around the circular glass doored area and outside towards the back.

Despite arriving 20 minutes earlier, my friends were already seated beyond the grasp of air-conditioned comfort. I discover that a friend of a friend had already started queuing past 2 o'clock. There was a buzz of anticipation, of mania in the air. Among which lurked the typical large overweight security types in blue uniforms.

One of which was hassling a troupe of cosplayers dressed up as some of the Endless: Dream (with really badly gel-spiked hair), Desire, Destiny (elevated on wooden clogs) and Death. Why, in this country, even the Endless have to queue.

I observe that the display for Harry Potter in the front windows of Borders is even further pushed into oblivion, more overlooked than usual, should that be possible. All the hanging colour drapes in the world and mountains of unsold Goblet of Fire books going at single digit prices each could not compete.

From teenagers in school uniforms (familiar hues of several junior colleges) to many adults in black sporting many ankhs (groan), each with their own story, each holding their own statement. Collectively a diverse selection of works, spiralling around the queue, testament to varied interests: plenty of Sandman comics (decade old single issues faded and yellow, or the more recent collections), American Gods, Neverwhere, Good Omens, Coraline, Wolves in the Walls and so forth.

Each a different version of fascination.

Neil Gaiman arrives, bearing shades and clad in Armani leather. After answering a few questions, he announces a set of book signing rules that he repeatedly emphasizes are not fair but there so he can retire before midnight. A maximum of 3 works. Only one to be personalised. And no posing for pictures, because past experienced threw up thousands of accumulated seconds of wasted shuffling, positioning, re-positioning and reshooting missed attempts.

We weren't one of them. Exercising efficiency and consideration, squeezing three people together in one single shot.

Fantastic Publicity

2005-07-08T19:11:00.000+08:00

Wah. Haven't seen so many trailers devoted to a movie on the Apple Movie Trailer page before. Maybe they should've spent their publicity budget on other things. Like finding a better director and script.

Enter Sandman

2005-07-04T23:58:00.000+08:00

Just returned from the Neil Gaiman signing at Orchard cineleisure, held after a lovely question and answer session and screening of a digitally packaged Mirrormask preview. I left approximately 45 minutes ago and I guessed there were still about fifty fervent fans still waiting behind us in line.

At first, waiting in the dim theatre (the price of being punctual for once), listening to two samples off the Mirrormask soundtrack: weird music and an even weirder rendition of 'Close to You' sang by something reminiscent of a small girl being half-asphyxiated, with chimes and hums in the background. Neil walks in and I'm oddly relieved to see the trademark leather jacket. Less than enthusiatic about the paunch though (Singapore: "You're welcome."). I know you guys are keeping him well-fed.

The turnout was enormous and after the theatre closed for the night, practically everyone poured two levels down to line up to get their books and figurines and pictures and ticket stubs (and iPod) signed. He was amazingly, mightily gracious and very much obliging to everyone, despite having circulation to his legs, lower torso and organs restricted for two hours and enduring the embrace of local heat and humidity, in the face of limply flapping paper fans by British Council members, after the air-conditioning to the building was switched off. Not to mention the signing session in the afternoon prior to this one. And being held up at a restaurant for photographs, explaining his late arrival. Kudos to Neil!

Neil Gaiman was hilarious. And it was reassuring to see most of the crowd rollicking in good humour at his quips and dry observations. One of the most notable being his confession that one of his interview extracts in the Mirrormask package was hopelessly and horribly false: a tale of Dave McKean being weirdly tramatised in his early childhood (small beard included and all), manufactured as a better alternate to "I don't know." to the question of "Why does Dave McKean use many masks in his works?"

He swears he didn't know they were going to use that as their widely marketed preview. He also wonders why they included a 1994 clip of McKean with a different beard and more hair, talking out of context about art in comics was included. Bizarre.

He also mentioned how someone criticised Mirrormask for unoriginal because the artwork in the movie resembles that of the person who did the Sandman covers. Oh well.

We got to enjoy this short film called 'A Short Film about John Bolton', which is about John Bolton but really not, especially with Neil writing and direction. It's an ending you can guess a mile away but we love it because we love Neil. By the way, this blog's url is attributed to one of Neil's short stories, of the same name. You can actually check it out here.

It's past one and I hope Neil has escaped the less-punctual hordes of relentless fans (or beaten them away with a cricket bat) and has gotten some sleep and has tucked out his shirt and doesn't mind me throwing about his first name as though we're on an amazing first-name basis.

Everyone lurves kitties

2005-07-04T00:36:00.000+08:00

So my youngest cat Daosah decides to launch himself at my other cat Flo in that typical self-absorbed, frenzied, estatic state cats go into when playing with each other. Unfortunately, my leg got in the way. And Daosah decides to use it as a sort of meaty launching pad.

And to think he's hardly an adult cat. He whines for attention, this one.

And to think I volunteered during matriculation to help the Cat Welfare Society catch disgruntled probably feral, possibly furious, fang-and-claw-happy adult cats for sterialization. Duty calls.

Almost Matriculated

2005-07-01T23:38:00.000+08:00

Almost there. But not quite.

The story of my life.

Despite arriving at around three yesterday on the first day of SMU's matriculation runs, it turns out that two and a half hours isn't enough to finish everything. Especially so when one is obligated to attend a community service talk in order to be allowed to begin clocking our compulsory 80 hours of mighty good deeds. The logic of this obligation eludes me. But then so do many things.

Cruel fate scheduled the 4pm talk to concern the protection and maintenence Singapore's vital waterworks, a subject with as appeal to me as a enduring thumbscrews. The speaker whose primary task is imparting crucial information to the audience unfortunately found his duty upsurped by the wordy Powerpoint slides and decides to fulfill the optional role of comedic effect. He fares not better than the wordy, hugely uninteresting dull Powerpoint slides.

Hinting of desperation, the speaker recounts an annecdote of his that attempts to leech off the hype surrounding the recent body-parts murder. He implies he might have disposed of potential police evidence, thinking it was smelly river garbage. Dang, he didn't. The murder happened after he threw it away. Dang, the suspense.

Today I return for my interview for a forum mentoring CIP project. Unsurprisingly, they want the right kind of people to impart the right kind of values to teens so that they make the right kind of choices. I might not be selected. We'll see.

As a finishing touch,

"Can we wear black pants to Convocation?"

"You have to wear a black skirt. Last year's batch even wore their SMU scarves so it's already better for you guys this year."

"You have a SMU scarf!? Well. That's not very... practical."

Pants and boots. I'm be most happy wear that to both my convocation and graduation.

panels, words, forms

2005-06-30T21:50:00.000+08:00

1.
For those of you who have been living in a cave, type "i" your browser window. Ok? Then type "harth". Yup. For the answer your questions, please type "darth.com" and hit Enter.

Everyone <3th Darth. 2.
The good news: The termites are gone.

The even better news: We're still here.

The bad news: The whole row of kitchen cupboards are gone.

I do a double-take when I walk past the kitchen door, staring at the empty gap where the overhead cupboards used to be. No wood, no ugly beige tiles like on the rest of the walls - just dark grey exposed cement of that knotted, raw texture that never seems to go away after being slopped on during the construction process.

And a big grimy pipe sticking out of the wall.

3.
Love. Lust. Loneliness. Lies. LA. Life. Loss.

4.
Matriculation.

Once again at the mercy of public transportation, I arrive at the SMU Bukit Timah campus on foot. On site, I discover the Evans building is way way round the back, tucked in the unchartered unfamiliar depths of treacherous, unknown, unexplored, strange regions beyond the comforting civilisation of busstops and traffic.

And because we are always at the mercy of higher powers, it starts to rain as I am halfway there.

And because bureaucracy is the fun and magnificent invention of our century, I get to be at the mercy of that.

5.
To whom it may concern,

Everything happened so fast and I tried to catch up but I think I was a few Stations behind at goodness knows what number and then those people kept coming at me with all these community service project propositions and throwing pieces of colorful paper and things happened kinda fast so maybe you could come by and pick me up whenever it's convenient for you and remember to inhale and exhale and everything else should run like clockwork but don't forget to drop by later ok.

Neurons & Synapses,
Your Brain.

Highly Flammable

2005-06-24T22:05:00.000+08:00

The termite fiasco continues. The white destructive things have struck back, nawing and nesting in another one of the old, dingy, browning kitchen cabinets that have been courting infestation for many years.

As the logical, practical and perfectly sensible response to this unexpected complication, my Grandmama cries havoc and drenches the cabinets with kerosene. Nothing makes a mockery of her imposed order on the domestic universe. To be frank, she sprayed the cabinets, but hell-bent on vengence, the end result was no different from someone simply pouring the highly flammable fluid around: kerosene on the kitchen floor and dripping from the shelves. The fumes were overwhelming.

My dad, walking in and taking a whiff, "If anyone lights a match the whole place will go up."

"At least the termites will be gone," I returned.

"So will we."

Traffic

2005-06-21T23:07:00.000+08:00

I think I saw Adri (first name seems inappropriately personal, but the old Popagandhi persona is kinda dead and since I'm prefering to her person, it has not to be confused with a writer's persona which is separate and abstract so does a persona exist in a physical sense or only in a frame of mind? But then again, the written word is physical and this could go on forever so am shutting up now back to...) the other day outside the Orchard Apple Centre (notice that in an ignorant context, one might think this has something to do with fruit).

Prior to this, briefly escaping the entanglement of a group of friends, I was once again confronted with the awful reality that I was magnificently screwing up my life through a pursuit of the wrong course, wrong university, wrong priorities, wrong life. All this though the unexpected encounter with an ex-jc friend, whose anguished exclamation of "Why aren't you doing lit? You're GOOD at lit!" momentarily threatened to push my recovering walking-on-eggshells ego back into the abyss of Deep Angst, with all the theatrics of a megalomaniac on-screen villian.

Leaving the aforementioned company in a slight daze, survival instincts must have taken hold. Or maybe it was just the fact that I was already in Wheellock Place, because my metaphysical turmoil found itself facing a formidable challenger: material indulgence. I found myself standing a the Apple Centre staring at the signs at the entrance.

If my head or just the day it was living through was not crowded enough, I had the remarkable chance of meeting a friend 3 times after the group supposedly parted for the day. Once, walking out of the loo. Second, standing outside Apple where she asked whether I was getting an iPod.

I felt obliged to convey the understanding that since the educational discounts advertised on the signs outside the Centre only covered PowerBooks and iBooks, it would not be a logical extension that I was looking to procure an iPod as I was looking at the signs. Had I managed to impress this upon her, I would then have said, "And yes, I do want an iPod."

Unfortunately, my very complex train of thought fell apart with all the grace and subtly of a multi-highway-pileup car wreck as I tried to discern whether it was Adri (Popagandhi/textSOAP/the blogger once known as Adri etc. - I think watching Buffy's Earshot episode today with Oz's philosophical musings on well, Thought must have hit a cortical nerve). My reoccuring friend must have been confused at my mid-sentence lapse into silence. I would have another shot at explaining my very weird state of mind when I bump into her again downstairs at Borders after parting ways for the third time.

Edited to add:

I am my thoughts. If they exist in her, Buffy contains everything that is me and she becomes me. I cease to exist. Huh.
No one else exists either. Buffy is all of us. We think. Therefore she is.
- Oz, Buffy the Vampire Slayer 'Earshot'

Because right now, Oz makes total sense.

An Ancient Curse

2005-06-18T23:07:00.000+08:00

National Geographic was showing a feature, something along the themes of King Tut's Curse or Killer Mould? and What did Tut in? Was it an assassin with a blunt instrument to the head? A chariot accident with multiple fractures? Or an unglamorously infected impacted wisdom tooth that realised the perils of an era before dental surgery?

I like watching documentaries. My only pet peeves are that as with any television show, there are advertisments (sometimes advertisments pertaining to the very show we are watching which is not very clever, network people). And that every documentary narrator, acting as though it is a job prerequisite, partakes a tone and pace fitting for a five year old after the child has asked a particularly sensitive question, the sort adults usually want to avoid with a ten-foot pole:

'On closer inspection, the experts found resin in an unexpected place. The resin was found inside a cavity within the hole in the knee cap. What does this mean? It means that the resin somehow got into the knee. The answer to this mystery will led experts to finally solve one of the greatest mysteries of all time. How did the experts find the answer? Did the resin get in before the king died? Or after he died? This is what we already know...'

Unfortunately, I do not bear the indomintable patience of an inquisitive five year old.

My Grandmama gave her take on the operation.

"What are they doing that for? So much effort! Alreade so long ago, got use meh? What if they find out who killed him? How to take revenge!"

"Nothing to do still find something to do."

Coulda Shoulda Woulda

2005-06-16T03:07:00.000+08:00

Sometimes I wonder. Such times typically involve being alone, stranded on unfamiliar turf in the middle of the night and at the mercy of Singapore's public transport system and my instinctive sense of direction (The profit-maximising efficiency of the former tends to cancel out the lethality of the latter).

I wonder because there isn't much to do at a lonely bus stop next to either blindingly apathetically fast traffic or in front of a shady field that screams homicide victim dumping ground in the paradoxically silent way it just sits and waits covered in shadows. This was the time when my new handphone's battery also died.

I specifically remember being told not to get myself in situations I get myself into. In all sincerity, I'm glad wiser people have tried. Even if potentially fatal circumstances tend to eclipse my path with the inevitability of a shifting teutonic plate, it is the thought that counts. Thanks Grandma.

I do wonder though.

On another note, on rummaging through my email, I suspect that NUS has attachment issues. I could be wrong, of course.

Our records indicate that you have applied to the National University of Singapore in 2005 but eventually did not accept our offer. As an institution of higher learning which prides itself on recruiting the best students, we are saddened by your decision.

Is there an awkward pause here or is the paragraphing just misleading? Um.

We acknowledge however that you would have good reasons for doing so, and would like to request 5 minutes of your time in sharing them with us.

Look. It's not you really, it's me. Yes, there is another university in my life right now. Maybe it's for the best that we just go our separate ways. No hard feelings? There there now. You'll find other candidates out there.

Aw, man. Anyone got a hankie?

Things I've learnt catering to Singaporeans' philanthropic whims

2005-06-13T01:37:00.000+08:00

1. That Singaporeans are able to momentarily tear their eyes off their living room staple - The Television and regard you with the spirit and vigour typically associated with severe cases of Post Tramatic Stress Disorder.

2. Said individuals are able to deliver a curt "I'm busy." - emphasis on the full stop there - before reverting their attention back to their regularly scheduled programming.

Either
3. The architects behind the design of the older HDB flats had all been trapped in an elevator at some point in their lives (quite possibly all together during one time as part of their endurance training to become proficient HDB architects) and have been vengefully, psychologically scarred so utterly permanently that they have collectively subconsciously repressed the painful memory.

Or
4. The architects have a very warped sense of humour that ceases to be funny after you've climbed the 378290 flight of stairs in the past 6 hours.

5. That Singaporeans can own television sets you have to strain sideways in the flat's doorway to obtain a better spawling panoramic view of and still refuse to donate to charity.

6. That Singaporeans are married to their television.
You know, certain population policies could be reviewed. Instead of baby bonuses, tax cuts, advertising and all that, maybe television should just be outlawed.

7. Only outlaws will have televisions. Many many outlaws.

8. There are good people in Singapore, overflowing with generosity, kindness, graciousness, harbouring profound consideration for their Fellow Man, acting shining exemplars of noble humanity.

9. The aforementioned individuals are usually not at home.

10. The NKF is an evil corporation monopolising Singapore's market of Goodwill, sucking and the scarce charity out of the population and must be stopped at all costs because any entity supporting the careers of Mediacorp artists belongs to the biblically undesirable, fiery pits of damnation.

Point of No Return

2005-06-08T02:37:00.000+08:00

There've been alot of things on my mind. Things such as eradicating global poverty, human rights violations, the public transportation fare hike, Desperate Housewives, the grand Singapore Blogger Convention conspiracy (sshhhh!), spiralling third world debt, development in robotic legs, the O.C. and advancing world peace have not been on my mind.

Although to be honest, I did try my hand at the sgblogconspiracy, blowing bubbles into my creative juices. The only thing that reluctantly bobbed to the surface was: 'One Con to rule them all, One Con to find them, One Con to bring them all and in the darkness bind them'. Oh, gosh.

I'm going to smoo (SMU for the uninitiated) Econs. Should anyone discover why, kindly inform me. I would really like to know.

Every thought in the past few weeks pertaining to the decision has been dissected, prodded and analysed. Argument, Counter-argument, Counter-counter-argument and so forth. New defenses are built, found to be leaking and left broken. Not one string of thought can proceed without getting hijacked and derailed. Trains of logic run circles around each other. Priorities get shuffled and re-defined. I realise now how to over-think.

It is so easy for one to say "Well, (insert tentative pause here as though the following enquiry requires considerable contemplation to formulate) what do you feel?"

Frankly, I do not know how I feel. Every naunce of emotion that has chanced through me has been stripped, studied and subjected to intense suspicion and scrutiny. Proposition, Rebuttal and rebuttal again, again, again. A self-imposed lobotomy. At the bare, naked, quivering core of it all is an old fear, around which all emotion has been scared away by the intense skepticism, hot, searching and questioning; like a drying mollus feeling for safety.

I feel afraid. And tired. Tired of defending myself from me, justifying myself in front of others and grinning and bearing that half-hearted support that is so marginally better than outright condemnation. The familiar raised brow, the incredulous lightness in tone, the weighed syllables speaking volumes of exasperation, disappointment and disapproval through their cautious pauses, enough to displace the content, though it may be "Oh. You. Have. My. Fullest. Support."

So if anyone asks why I'm not going to NUS law. I'm just going to say, in all honesty, 'I don't know.' Because I really don't. Maybe I once did, but not anymore.

Why I'm Not a Happy Girl

2005-06-01T00:48:00.000+08:00

[edit@ 0721am]

It's my blog and I can cry if I want to. No wait, that's not right...

NUS law versus. SMU (or as everyone puts it: SMOO) econs.

Ding-ding-ding. Round 2381920.

My Grandmama versus the TV

2005-05-30T19:35:00.000+08:00

The television was showing a jewellery commercial. I'm not sure which brand they were advertising exactly (edit: Lee Hwa Jewellery, watch for it), or even what the commercial was about - after prolonged viewing, they all tend to blend together into one cohesive syrupy-sweet glittery monstrosity that sends boyfriends and husbands scurrying.

Without any warning whatsoever, my Grandmama launches into something of a tirade against the idiocy of that particular jewellery commercial.

Cantonese expletives aside: "What is that stupid woman doing? Walking down a deserted street alone and wearing so much jewellery! Nobody to show off to, what is the use? She walks under the street light, flashes her jewellery. Stands in front of a shop with nobody inside and her jewellery flashes some more. So bright but still no people around. Later she get robbed than she know! So silly one."

That had me chortling for about ten minutes. My brother must have thought I was having an epileptic fit, especially when I keeled over and kept laughing. Formidable logic there is.

Another night, while messages were scrolling across the television screen telling the public Channel 5's version of breaking news: the OC will air at 11:30pm.

My Grandmama takes one look at the information and wonders aloud, "What is that? Oh-see? Aw-see ah?" Which in Cantonese, translates to: What is that? O-shit? Passing shit?

Even for (or perhaps especially so for) one who doesn't watch the much acclaimed the OC (ed: sounds rather like The Chinese High, donnit? Can't miss out the the in there. And then it became Hwa Chong Institution, although no one is fooled), hilarity ensued.

Gahmen says we not scared, ok?

2005-05-28T19:57:00.000+08:00

Reuters reports:
Singapore says no climate of fear in city-state
Singapore defended its media laws on Friday and balked at the suggestion that its citizens live in a climate of fear... [Singapore's home affairs minister Wong Kan Seng] was quoted as saying in Singapore's Straits Times.
"Get real. Come on, we live in the real world in Singapore."

Yessir, whatever world you want us to live in, we will live in it. Real or fake also can. No problem.

Wong, who will assume the post of deputy prime minister later this year, also defended a law which bans political videos, saying that the law is applied in an even-handed manner...
"Political videos, by their very nature, will be political, will be biased and, therefore, will not be able to allow the listener or the viewer to see a whole range of arguments."

Statements by politicians, by their very nature, will be political, will be biased and nonetheless will be entertaining.

Actually, I not very greedy. I know all the 3-in-1 products - like shampoo-conditioner, fax-copy-print machines, handphone-organiser-gaming handset, gaming-dvd-chatting console - all very popular nowadays. I know the gahmen work very hard to make Singaporeans happy. Maybe Singaporeans should not expect our political videos to be also 3-in-1.

Even if I don't get all the arguments in one package, I won't be unhappy. I can go see other videos to have the full range. Then maybe we can have a political dvd box set like LOTR and Star Wars. Imagine the collector's edition: we can have the PAP video, the opposition video and the behind the scenes 'Making of' footage and interview clips with more political statements inside. Not bad marketing idea leh.

Can charge S$200 per box set. Soundtrack and miniatures included.

School of Tai-Tais

2005-05-28T01:27:00.000+08:00

From singaporean schools defined:

SCGS:
the bitchiest girls’ school in existence, rivalled only by WASPy east coast schools of america. the total income of the kids’ families in SCGS (and MGS) would easily surpass the GDP of most third world countries...they have a tendency to morph into tai tais post-marriage.

Quite amusing. I never had the financial fortune to aspire to such... heights.

The amount of flames on the guy's blog probably serve to suggest that Singaporeans had their sense of humour surgically removed in a vast government conspiracy. Lepak lah.

To the Marketplace, my minions!

2005-05-26T22:10:00.000+08:00

(also entitled Why I Will Get Burned At The Stake)

'It'd be our subcultural expedition!' Jan proclaimed.

I was noticeably less enthusiastic. After weeks of insistent whining, pestering and bugging by one of my students of the decibel level and frequency that prompts martial homocide (or at least aggravated domestic violence) in households worldwide, I finally caved.

And with the assurance of like-minded company (my unfortunate associate Jan), we took a deep breath and took the plunge into the nortorious, infamous, treacherous waters of City Harvest.

Over 3,000 souls packed into an auditorium 4 stories underground. The electric band onstage dutifully assaulted our eyedrums. The flashing colour strobe lights finished off our other remaining senses. Youths, teenagers, young adults were jumping, singing, stretching out their arms, their eyes shut and faces grimacing in obvious effort.

In Neil Gaiman's American Gods, Belief can be distilled into a liquor and Mr. Jacquel, a modern incarnation of ancient Egyptian god Anubis who runs a mortuary with his partner Mr. Ibis - also the god Troth - warily observes, "Jesus does pretty good over here."

Having travelled halfway across the island to ulu Boon Lay and in the intrepid spirit of our subcultural expedition, we paid careful attention to the entire duration of the sermon - all 2 hours of it, given by a pastor (a Rev. Kong Hee) with a Texan twang, sporting a tweed grey business suit I think God will want to have a word with him about.

To surmise the 2 hour endurance test (I wonder how much of the sermon the teens actually listen into - I can barely get them to pay attention to an hour of teaching): there are 7 pillars holding up society. These are: Family, Religion, Education, Government, Arts, Media and Business. In Singapore, Christianity has done very well in the above two (Family and Religion).

Curious that there was no mention of science and technology as foundations of society. Then again, I doubt the Church and the Sciences have been on good terms since the latter propsed that the Earth revolved around the Sun and people evolved from apes.

Dare say science and tech not important in Singapore? Later City Harvest kena sued by A*STAR then they knoe.

However, sayeth the Rev. Kong Hee, this is not enough. Religion is not just about transforming people, friends or family. It's about changing societies and nations! We must push our influence into the other 'pillars' of Media, the Arts, Government, Education and Business - collectively known as The Marketplace.

Ay, sorry ah. Isn't that a tad dangerous, bordering on religious fundamentalism: when religion ceases being a personal matter and becomes a state-governed issue? Courtsey of en.wikipedia.org:

"Very often religious fundamentalists, in all religions, are politically aware. They feel that legal and government processes must recognise the way of life they see as prescribed by God and set forth in Scripture."

The Pastor continues: promoting Christianity need not only fall on the 1% of pastors and priests, we need more influencial people to push the religion to the masses. We need to make religion more accessible to the people, through the Marketplace.

Sayeth the Rev. Kong Hee, 'Jesus wore the modern-day equivalent of a business suit. That is why I'm dressed like this. I want to be like Jesus! Hallejulah!'

Something seems amiss when Jesus gets an Extreme Makeover going from humble carpenter to Donald Trump.

The pastor proceeded to give many examples from the Bible of people Jesus met and formed Marketplace business contacts with, including tax collectors - which happened to the most depised people in society at the point in time, so I wonder what kind of connections Jesus was making. Not to mention what kind of argument Rev. Kong Hee was making.

Rev. Kong Hee also says Jesus attended high-class functions and banquets to further his Marketplace influence.

From Donald Trump, Jesus now become wedding singer liddat. I dunno leh, if Jesus so well-connected and popular, why he still crucified ah?

Apparently, according to Rev. Kong Hee, God thinks the whole Marketplace idea is great so God knows alot of multi-millionaries that have their own helicopters and 5-star hotels (cue: 3000 'wooo's and 'ahhh's - amazing how sensitive their ears are to some words). And God likes his multi-storey multi-complex stadiums (churches too small and so yesterday alreade) so much that he bestows great wealth of those who want to build some for him.

Like in this example Rev. Kong Hee gives, this businessman wants to build a super stadium dedicated to God in the middle of urban Jakarta. He owns a field with tons of coal underneath but the price of coal is so low it's not worthwhile to mine it and make money.

So how? (This is where Rev. Kong Hee sounds really excited) God answers this guy's prayers. Hundreds of miners in China die in multiple mining accidents forcing all the mines in the country to close. The price of coal goes up, giving the guy a profit margin to mine his coal! Hallejulah!

I've been to Sunday school as a kid. My parents are Christian. Although my knowledge of the religion is nothing to boast of, I've come to expect something from a church service. It's a vague, indefinate impression, formed more of instinct than acquired lore.

The idea of a church, of a place of worship cannot be seperated from a higher sense of spirituality, of holiness. This loftiness and tradition might not appeal to the 'hip and in' crowd. The younger generation might not respect or enjoy the rituals of the church. But that shouldn't matter. God's house deserves a sanctity, a dignified detachment that preserves and elevates.

Mass appeal or popular marketing shouldn't be a church's main agenda.

Oh wait, in the future, maybe there won't be any churches. Only auditoriums, stadiums and raves. The pastor made it a point to emphasise that City Harvest is moving to the Singapore Expo. Singapore Expo leh! Can seat 7,000 people you know! Shiok right? Got more space to jump up and down.

I did not see a single cross in that auditorium.

Star Wars ROTS (oh, but who cares)

2005-05-22T11:21:00.000+08:00

Some of you may have heard of this movie.

Boys, I don't care what people say. No matter how many hundreds of dollars you fork out for a lightsaber (apparently duplicated painstakingly from the very props they used on the set - using real shiny metal no less! Exactly the same weight! The same grip! The crafted exquisite detail!), it never looks as good as the real thing lah. You look like you're carrying a glowing plastic stick, a fluorescent tube - not very intimidating. Don't even compete with CGI.

Girls, summing up the plots of all 6 movies very tiring leh. Can I have some water? Mouth dry liao.

I watched it the day after opening night, which by fandom standards, seemed like an embarrassment. We went to the suppoedly wu-lu Beach Road cinema to evade the hordes. Our strategic foresight was rewarded not only with the hordes, but also with a 2-and-a-half hour experience breathing in a thick lingering stench of sweet pee, sitting amongst inconspicuous mounds of bagged rubbish in the asles, more inconspicuous mounds of un-bagged rubbish in the seats, as well as a floor so sticky small animals and children might die trapped in its deadly syrupy suction while the audience spends the hours puzzling over what emotion Hayden Christensen is trying to well, emote.

There are two lines that an successful actor must master. Firstly, the script lines. And secondly, that well-moulded, furrowed crease you get in between the eyes after sharpening your brooding skills to perfection.

Hey, I mean, just look at Leonardo DiCaprio in The Aviator. Golden Globe Best Actor huh.

My own forehead started to throb for the sustained effort of Christensen's brow - solely channeling all that stormy inner turmoil, bitter confusion, seething envy, smouldering anger, tender worry, naked fear, wavering guilt and dark ambition.

Ian McDiarmid, on the other hand, looks like he's having fun. And lots of it. Oozing diabolical fiendishness, Senator Palpatine a.k.a Darth Sidious shows just how good it is to be bad - skilfully, singlehandedly plotting wars, manipulating both heroes and villians, along with his own disposible Sith Apprentices, he is the big bad villian to savour before Darth Vader steps in for the later episodes.

When Palpatine sneers 'Are you threatening me, Master Jedi?' (oh, the delightful weighed naunces), you know this is where the movie really takes flight. The range, from his pathetic, pitiful whimpers of 'I'm too weak! Don't kill me! I give up! Please! Please don't...' to his triumphant ghastly, crackling howl of 'Power! Un-lim-mited POWER!' is a sheer delight to watch.

Ewan McGregor also seems to be enjoying the ride, although his somber, tragic Jedi role limits his fun to a more subtle brand. Anyone else think he was trying to hide a smirk when Obi-Wan Kenobi first righteously proclaims, 'You won't get away this time, Dooku.'?

I'm sure that name strikes fear in the hearts of many.

What doesn't kill you

2005-05-19T12:35:00.000+08:00

There was a bird at the side of the road. I approached the clump of grey feathers and it struggled, scrabbling to move away. So it wasn't dead. Not yet, anyway.

I picked up the creature and admired it. It was a grey pigeon. White bone peeked out from a joint in the middle of a wing. Broken? I tried not holding onto it too tightly. As I repositioned my grasp to avoid crushing a probably fractured wing, the bird tried flapping its wings, squirming loose.

It fell. I felt a small horror as it hit the ground squarely and bounced off the grass, feebly fluttering.

Upon closer examination, I saw a similar bone sticking through the feathers of the other wing, unnaturally white, sun-bleached and exposed. Instead of a lush belly of feathers, there were large dry patches of pink skin, punctuated with tiny nobs where the larger feathers wouldn've been. It appeared very thin. And tired.

I wondered if the bird was sick and if, by handling it, I'd exposed myself to some avian-related virus. The paranoia engine in my brain started churning, under the heat of the afternoon sun. Beads of sweat didn't wait to form before I felt my forehead getting wet. I suspected I looked silly, holding a bird, standing at the side of the road.

A cold logic surfaced in the midst of the heat.

I picked up the bird and positioned my thumb and forefinger around it's neck, gently. I feel bone underneath the meager layers of feathers and flesh.

How do birds see? Out of that black tiny dot, passively immobile in the center of their eye? Its brain is the size of a pea, yes? Does it think?

I hesitate. I take my hand away and try going through the motions. A firm grip. A quick, solid twist to the side. There will be no noise. The theory is sound.

A quick violent death or the slow corosion of starvation?

How many religions will applaud and how many condemn?

It's a stupid pigeon. I tell myself. But the imagination is a powerful thing. Who knew killing a dumb bird would be so hard?

You can teach someone how to shoot, how to kill someone with your pinkie but no one really trains for war. One trains to fight. Training to kill is another matter altogether. That is a spiritual battleground.

I left the bird alone and walked off. It felt wrong.

Sucks to play God.

Aw, shucks.

2005-05-19T12:00:00.000+08:00

(Leave your staffroom desktop alone and by the time you get back from class, it has resetted itself and your last post has disappeared. Damn it. Either the machine is possessed or my collegues are.)

My English Secondary 4 class gave me a going-away present. It came as quite the surprise - considering I can't remember what and if I'd taught them anything. They are supposed to be mugging away for their Mother Tongue. I guess any alternative to that is motivation enough.

Ok, I kid. They are a bunch of lovely buggers.

A group of them were frantically waving at me from outside the staffroom. I exited, feeling returning to my extremities after being compromised by a combination of rainy weather and air-conditioning set to repell the hotter Singaporean humidity.

As embarrassing as it is, I can't recognise a whole lot of my students. Not after one month. And when they thrust this happy green envelope under my nose, the first thought that jossled for attention was 'Dang, there's no clue here!' So absorbed as I was in the search for their identities. And the reason for their... enthusiasm...

Upon realising that it was a goodbye-sucks-that-you're-going-and-the-old-****'s-coming-back gift, I didn't know how to react. Again! Confound it! I stared. I gaped like a goldfish. I stared some more, trying to figure out what class exactly they were from so I could just plunge into the thank yous. I stood there basking, glowing in magnificent idiocy until one of the girls asked "You're not gonna cry, are you?"

Uh, no. Just uh, well, um. Er. I uh, how sweet.

Spontaneous eloquence was never my forte.

Hip 'n' Cool

2005-05-16T10:06:00.000+08:00

So exciting. I've been Brown'd (or something like it). The lack of Kids Central cartoons that I like on Sundays (I'm usually sleeping late on Saturdays) was suddenly offset by my noticeable jump in blog traffic - not of xiaxue-magnitude of course, more like the number of comments one of her average, less controversial, flame-less, obscure posts gets.

Nonetheless, I feel hip and cool.

And I say hip and cool because I'm kiasu mah. The term cool feels kinda old. Like it's on its way out but we can't seem to find a suitable candidate to replace it. Fetch didn't catch. AwwwSUM! couldn't survive the climate beyond US borders. The most likely substitue seems to be Hot, as per Paris Hilton's uber-versatile 'That's Hot.'

The only problems I see barring Hot's triumph over Cool is that one, enough people hate Paris Hilton. Having her enormous semi-orgasmic self sprawled over the walls of Guess at a popular junction in the middle of a hectic shopping centre is not helping. (Is anyone going to help that poor chihuahua? What are those PETA people doing?!) Two, people will be immensely confused:

Dude: 'Whoa, that's cool.'
Dudette: 'No, that's hot.'
Dude: 'That's cool.'
Dudette: 'I told you, that's totally hot!'

If cool is a tad outdated, then the prehistoric hip should balance out.

In my quest to reach newer, greater heights of hip coolness, I have cut my hair. More specifically, I cut my hair short. Consequently, as I walked into class, my ears picked up whispered, horrified exclamations of 'Oh my god, what did she do to her hair?!' and the more subdued ''cher, why you cut your hair?' Hey, they should've seen it when I woke up in the morning. It looked alot like carpet grass - complete with the trampled look of random cow-nibbled-ness.

Wait 'till I do highlights.

Aye, the rub

2005-05-10T19:46:00.000+08:00

Yes, inviligating is boring. And yes, as per the cards Life usually deals, it could always be worse.

I could have been teaching the buggers.

I believe teaching is causing my IQ to plummet. Yesterday, I was overcome by the hilarity of chunky french fries. More specifically: the fat potato slabs you can get in a basket at Billy Bombers that cost an inordinate amount of money. Atkins can spin away in his grave.

A year ago, I would have slapped myself for finding fried potatoes funny. Now it's just Oh look, I can make bite marks of my entire row of front teeth in this single fry! Wow! and They're as large as fishfingers! and Do you think that with some ketchup we could take all these chunky fries and piece 'em back together into one BIG potato?!?!

I blame teaching for making me stupid. The excess of food helped, that's all.

*
Hot elitist babes.

That's what the NUS law interview more than a week ago churned up. A lobby of well-groomed chio bus. Girls strutting their stuff, dabbing on make-up in the toilet, balancing on microscopic-point heels, suits so sharp they could cut and generally looking kinda dumb since it's only an interview for cryin' out loud.

My interview started about an hour after the scheduled time. Cicak observed how when one traverses down the long and winding corridors to your assigned room, the other shortlistees that you past on your long and winding trek- your ahem, competition - suddenly find floor-gazing or ceiling-inspection a fascinating study. She concludes that this a sure omen of ill-will. Of course. Evil is afoot. Lawyers are being spawned.

I was interviewed by an indian chap and what I assumed to be a chinese lady in her mid-forties. After consulting my peers, I have concluded that watching a pot of water boil might hold more interest than holding a conversation with the Indian associate. Having to hear him lecture might make local sitcoms entertaining to endure.

And the lady professor is in her seventies. I was perhaps, too dismayed at her murky green plastic spectacles hovering right in front of my face to have noticed. She is evidently quite well-preserved. We should carbon-date her, just to be sure. The living fossil might hold potential significant contributions to the world archaeological community.

She had the nerve to ask: "...But don't you think Shakespeare is becoming increasingly irrelevant in today's society?"

It was one of those prime Ally McBeal moments. A loaded silence. A raised brow. Someone getting dumped into a giant trash compactor. Arrows shot at the chest. One of those big roundhouse knockout punches. K.O.

The words of Shakespeare's Henry VI wrafted through my head. 'The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.'

Fun shall now commence

2005-05-01T23:24:00.000+08:00

I had been out of the house for over 24 hours. But things were cool. I had my fun.

And I was assured that a missing person's report could not be filed until after 48 hours. So that was well, nice to know. But things could have been worse, I could have ended up like my country. Our very own Minister Mentor recently noted how Singapore was having no fun. It was quite the proclamation. Our very own Straits (I'd linked but they'd made me pay) Times dutifully followed with suggestions on 'Injecting fun into Dullsville Singapore', a smart neat one-page article outlining several strategies on how to combat the boredom.

Yes, so here is a structured response to MM Lee's speech in which an 'anti-structure' solution, placed aside other structured arguments and strategies, proposed to combat the problem due to the strict structured nature of Singapore; a suggested solution that is housed in a structured newspaper article belonging to a structured media network (ranked only above Iraq in several internet surveys).

Another solution proposes that to have fun, the gah-men should have nothing to do with it. This sounds neat, but the only reason why we're even hearing of this solution is because the gah-men has already decided to do something about it. Why else would your suggestion be in the Straits Times?

Fortunately, there will be no campaign. There will be no advertisments, no posters, no slogans, no t-shirts, no logos, no fines, no mascots. After all, we're still busy trying to learn chinese well, learn english well, be courteous, practice life-long learning, stay fit for life, not do drugs, not smoke, report suspicious articles, not leave belongings in our cars, be vigilant in our neighbourhood, be cultured, not drink and drive, eat healthy, check for various cancers regularly, use the electronic tax-filing system, rest our eyes after staring at computer for a long time, not litter, not sell gum and vote for NKF leh.

Instead, going fun will be a gah-men structured hands-off spontaneous hands-on affair by Singaporeans.

There appears to be a problem. And I'm not sure where to start.

I think the Singaporean definition of fun-ness and the means of indoctrinating introducing it to us young yuppies needs some tinkering. I found this lime green booklet lying around the house, from A*STAR. Like all things A*STAR-ish and government sponsored, the booklet looked expensive. And since it was from the Agency for Science, Technology and Research, this former Arts student could not resist reading it. Ha-ha. Especially since the cover (decorated with funky scribbled science formulae and DNA models) cried out "My Journal" in hip purple cursive font (it went with the apple green, perhaps). Oh, the fun awaited.

On the "Introduction" page, not only are we once again confronted with the horrors of 'The King and I' number Getting to Know You, Getting to Know All About You... as the heading merrily exclaims - the perky booklet prolongs the agony by engaging in jovial rhetorical banter, asking "ARE you humming to that ever-engaging tune?" Ha-ha-ha.

Several more rhetorical questions later, we meet SAM and TIAN - the apparent owners of the "journals" we will be reading. Ah, but just when you thought you'd be enjoying voyeuristic fun, it is revealed:

Are these two guys for real? Mainly "Yes!" with a bit of "No". They are composite characters formulated for the purpose of getting real-life information across in an appealing manner...

So these two people you've languished so much detail and colour on aren't actual people?

But they are based on real people, on seven living A*STAR scholars whose identities will be revealed...

Well, aside from the fact that these are two fake people whose fake journals and fake emails we will be falsely violating, I'm just wondering why they're both chinese. I mean, to be politically correct and accurate to Singapore's famously multi-racial demographic, shouldn't one of them be like, one quarter Malay, another quarter Indian and maybe throw in some "Others" blood in their "composite" character somewhere? And why they're both good-looking. Scholars are not supermodel drop dead gorgeous and the face of this imaginary girl here looks rather like Annabelle Francis.

Hey Sam,
Will happily read the attachment right now.
Really sweet dreams. tian.

If this is A*STAR's or the government's idea of fun, I find it somehow, somewhat unsettling. And funny.

Shiny Happy People

2005-04-23T21:55:00.000+08:00

[ Edited April 26: Because hor blogs cannot be whineey. Because that's what my friend thinks blogs are. Whiney. Why would she think that? Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy? ]

Am I lacking the Shiny Happy gene? Was the gene pool lifeguard looking away when tragedy struck because the giant pharmacutical companies slipped him a tip? Did the family tree lose one too many apples? Was I the branch that fell too far off? Am I ever going to stop with the silly metaphors? Who knows!

Maybe my environment explains it. In a Freudian kind of way. Maybe I should just open up and talk more to the folks at home and unburden my miseries. People seem to think that alot. Yeah, that's it.

Me: "Why do bad things happen to me so often?"
Grandmama: "...you have bad luck, you have always had bad luck and there's nothing you can do about it. So don't be sad."

Ah. Excellent. I sense a few more universes imploding under that epiphany. Grandmama: destroyer of worlds. My maternal Death Star. Note to self: in times of emotional crisis, ask not Grandmama for help (depending on what kind of help, you are seeking of course - reader discresion is advised).

Perhaps a parental figure, one of the two pillars nurturing child development, the foundation of character, the touchstone of principles, growth of the psyche and fulcrum of a child's universe, the provider of Love, Guidence and Emotional Nourishment, your model for God:

Dad [reading papers]: "You applied for what course?"
Me: "Econs."
Dad [reading papers]: "(Pffft) Oh boy." [reads papers]

Thanks Dad.

My dad, resident poltergeist: not seen enough to be substantial, seen enough to be noticed too much.

He reads religious books. Ironic in a way, that.

Bright Young Things

2005-04-23T14:35:00.000+08:00

I have bad mood swings. Whereas most people manage moods that are more predictable - oscillating back and forth relentlessly with the lethal gleam of a pendulum down-down-down towards Poe-inspired decapitation - my moods are atomic monsters that lurk at oceanic depths dragging aircraft carriers and oil tankers to a watery grave, if not scaling the heights of some culturally significant architecture (If you promise not to look closely too into my metaphors, I promise I won't either).

Stricken, I did what every smart, rational, thinking person in the Twentieth Century would do: I looked for something to throw blame at. Many people have turned blame lobbin' into an sophisticated art-form gun-slingers would be proud of, following the rise of other social activities, such as bitchin'-until-the-other-gives, two-handed-back-stabbin' and everyone's old favourite bootlickin' the boss. Such trends should continue if arenas for the aforementioned interaction increase - starting with the increasing Project Work for secondary school kids to initiate the future of our nation into the corporate world.

Hey, maybe primary schools should start looking into it - imagine the fun: " Tee-char!! You ver-lee preety today leh!" " No fair one tee-cha, he make my crayon broken now cannot finish!" "Must punish her leh, she always colour so slow one!" Haha. See, our next generation of entrepreneurs. Doesn't it bring a tear to your eye? Tissue, please.

Instead of developing into a bio-medical hub or a ~~casino~~ Integrated ~~Sin City~~ wonderland, maybe we should tap into our comparative advantage and develop our never-say-die kiasu-ism. Then hor, with our grammatically more efficient Singlish lingo facilitating communication and cannot-lose-out attitude when bargaining, we can win more awards and be Number One in stuff again! This time business stuff.

Okay, maybe I've been watching too much of The Apprentice.

Morning sacrilege

2005-04-20T10:41:00.000+08:00

Every morning that I manage not to be late, I am subjected to a news update by a couple of student councillors that Prozac will not be reaping profits off of. It should be a crime to be that cheery in the morning. Punishable by an angry mob armed with pitchworks, medieval weaponry and burning torches.

Why, blasting happy music over the PA system and chripily reading out news headlines on a working weekday morning should warrant Death by Mob (not a spectator sport, my dears). Blasting happy music in what appears to be chinese over the morning PA system that I do not understand should warrant consecutive Death by Mob(s), where we simply dig you up and kill you again until the appropriate somber morning mood is met.

And if the collective morning mood didn't sway us from casting the first rock well, we'd have done with... ZZzzz.......

Councillor voice [totally gushing]: "I hear this guy at the Lord of the Dance is reeeeeealleeee good-looking!"
Teachers [disturbingly ad union]: "WHO?!?!?"

The Other Shoe

2005-04-14T20:51:00.000+08:00

When your eyeball is an inch away from an angry cat, you tend to remove yourself from such a situation as soon as possible. There might be the unfortunate 'pop' as claw meets membrane, the wet sensation of vitreous humor dribbling down one cheek.

It suddenly dawns on you that your cat is a natural lethal killing machine. The rapid slapping of her tail against your face implies that the only thing barring her from exercising her razor sharp implements on your supple human skin is the provision of all her future meals.

You hope cats plan for the future.

**

Flag-raising in school. The only glimmer of interest rests on the school flag creeping behind the national one. The assembled students continue to murmur the anthem (the troupe of latecomers gathering strength at the gate) as the school flag creaks up the string, persevering yet perpetually lagging.

Each morning the doomed affair plays out before the oblivious hundreds in uniform - a strained pursuit, a tedious resignation, a last-minute scramble to meet at the apex.

**

Aiyah. You kenna rejack. Nowadays always liddat one. Noe result quite jialat alrede but still damn sad ehh.

How to say... Keck Sum.

Pointless remarks

2005-04-13T19:47:00.000+08:00

My grandmother just pointed out to me how Chinese singers always cry with one eye in their music videos. I added that they not only have one eye to cry with, they also only shed one tear - rolling down their cheeks in that gratuitous close-up slow-motion shot designed to convey their emotional depth and grand acting prowess. I suppose it's because when people are truly distressed, they are stricken by this strange affliction which paralyses half of their face (or the whole of it, depending on their acting scope) minus the tear ducts in one eye.

Another meaningless observation: If you ever past by the green field next to the Liang Court area, turning into town (it would be Fort Canning Park), you will be struck by the mysterious appearance of many colourful cows. They're rather adorable in a cardboard cartoonish way - painted warm colours, spots included. There are dozens of them, just standing around as mounted cut-out boards tend to do, staring wide-eyed at their surroundings the way real cows never do.

I wonder if the cows have anything to do with the vehicle cow tail advertisments. The rear of the buses say "Moove is More" - another cryptic clue. I wouldn't be surprised if this were some dastardly scheme by some modern-day supervillian designed to confound superheros (and in so doing lead to the former's inevitable defeat).

Inertia

2005-04-09T13:26:00.000+08:00

Not being particularly keen on renewing my Amore subscription, I only dread reverting to being that inert pale yellow slob at the end of the A levels. I am currently quite satisfied with my lumbering (given the right conditions) murky-yellow (under varying lights) self. And there must be cheaper means on the road to glorious unashamed-to-wear-tube-in-public fitness. Especially if bright shining magnificant fitness comes with a range of accessories.

Like sports shoes, which I attempted to buy. As with any discerning, informed consumer unwilling to part with a large amount of cash on one purchase that one might not frequently (or ever again) use, I checked out the online websites. The Singapore Nike women's website was undeniably chic, colourful and high-tech. It was also utterly useless for anyone wanting to browse through say, oh-I-don't-know sporting goods. As I clicked at the screen searching for links perhaps deviously hidden in the hot pink background, I only hope that their shoes manage more practicality than their websites.

My confusion was heightened as I took to the shops to look and handle the shoes. Alot of sport shoes these days bear trendy, hip labels like Presto and Supernova. While all this is nice and good, sometimes I want a specific kind of shoe like oh-I-don't-know running shoes. Maybe I'm too demanding. The labels on the shoes say things like TorrentMax or Vertico Extreme or Clima Vortex or Express Buzz Duplex or SuperGravoHyperPlus! I know it's important to make us consumers feel happy that we're buying shoes that will allow us to break the sound barrier and escape the atmosphere. I just want to ask: What kind of shoe is it? Tennis? Running? Cross-trainers? Walking? Well, yes, I can tell a soccer shoe from the rest but you could at least try squeeze in the shoe type beneath RadicalReduxGalaxticStarburstThrustNova.

Just a clue would be good. Maybe a letter. Before I get too lazy to leave the house.

Job Perk

2005-04-09T12:07:00.000+08:00

After class, a student comes up to me, "There's something I want to tell you."

I blinked, "Uh, okay." I hoped it wouldn't be anything bad.

"I think you're damn cool teacher!" She says. Her friend next to her agreed and nudged her to say more. Helpful friend, that.

"The first time you walked into class, I asked [my friend] who you were because you were damn cool!"

I blinked again. Okay, this was good and... Creases started to appear on my forehead as I concentrating on delivering an appropriate reply. Thoughts sluggishly fought to the surface, squirming for attention. How does respond to an unexpected direct compliment?

Answer: Probably not like this.

I muttered a dazed thank you. And then added a totally unnecessary remark on rethinking the teaching bit because it was a stressful occupation. I suddenly had the pressure of living up to the label of damn cool. A small voice inside whimpered for coffee. Correcting her language was the most remote thing on the desolate landscape of my mind at this moment.

The students shuffled off to their next session of mental hibernation cum idle chatter. Having survived the latest onslaught of lessons, I scurried back to the air-conditioned sanctuary of the staffroom.

The sound of her wings

2005-04-06T17:36:00.000+08:00

Requiescat in pace, little one.

Let's talk about Death

2005-04-06T13:07:00.000+08:00

[7th April: minor modifications to post. Typos & stuff. Nuthin' big, just being picky.]

Morbid, yes perhaps. There is a typical chinese wake outside in the carpark. The kind with elaborate decorations, a big red tent gleaming white and neon lights, flowers on display for the deceased, visiting relatives playing majong and chit-chatting late into the night. A stray antique lantern with a piece of white cloth attached can be seen at the bottom of the hill - a sign of Death having passed this way, welcoming visitors.

For the past few hours they have been blasting karaoke-type songs that are decades old, traditional tunes that sound alot like noise when played through crackling muffled loudspeakers. It's funny how such rituals are supposed to honour the Dead (and Death by association, I suppose) but the only thing I felt was a twinge of annoyance, hidden at home, being made to listen to old music played right in the middle of the afternoon. There wasn't a sense of Death, only a barrage of noise, colour and ritual.

And then I realised my kitten was dying.

A couple of weeks ago, two kittens had appeared on our ground-floor balcony, courtesy of one of our looked-after strays (creatively-yet-affectionately called MeowMeow). Grandmama and myself have been looking after the neighbourhood cats (yeah, catz in da Hood) for a long while now. Maybe it's because we're lonely. Or weird. Or both. Or that we're both born in the year of the Tiger.

Here we go: Awww...

I named the kittens Cain and Abel. The names never really stuck. But there's nothing else to call them by so.

Abel's daddy tom cat (like himself, big and brown and striped) got 'de-throned' by Cain's daddy tom cat (like himself, bigger and grey and striped). This is going to sound like a feline soap opera. Consequently, Abel's daddy got sick and died. But since both tom cat daddies had fucked MeowMeow, both of them had kitties, both looking their their respective daddies.

This is Abel. He is currently very very sick.

Death is not the painful part. Dying is. As cats are nearing Death, their bodies begin to stink. You guess there's something rotten on the inside but there's nothing to do about it. Maggots appear in their feces. It's too late. The cats can't move as easily as before. They refuse to eat. Their back legs go limp and their heads start drooping. They start to get unnaturally cold and spend most of their time immobile, slumped on the floor, with only the feeble heaving of the chest showing signs of Life.

I pick Abel up too easily with one hand. His ribs are painfully pronounced to the touch. He hasn't eaten for days maybe. The thing that makes the whole process more painful is that he refuses to just quit. Obeying some greater instinct, he still manages to crawl into the sandbox. But he can't crawl back out.

Is that it? Is that all I get?

I suppose you don't really feel Death until she's close by. I imagine her stooping over Abel, smiling. Being Death. Not rushing, not exactly waiting either because she doesn't have to wait. She just does, in her own time. Of all quotes, I remember Neil Gaiman's:

"It's hard not to love [Death]. She loves you, after all."

The grandeur of a wake for a loved one. A good cry for a small animal waiting to die. All are simply goodbyes.

If you wanna be happy

2005-03-30T12:39:00.000+08:00

Thinking about the A level results makes me depressed. And I think nobody wants to read a depressing post, which is why I've been having some difficulty posting lately. A typical post I would've submitted would have gone along the lines of:

Grrr. My A level results suck. My life sucks pretty much right now. There's nothing to do but wait for more scholarships to reject me. Sucks. And I can't complain. Because people who did better wouldn't know how it's like. And people who did worse, well, no point burdening them more.Sucks. Except complaining's what I'm doing here.*^#!%&@) What if I'd done things different? What a difference one syllable, one vowel, one letter makes... Why the hell am I so pissed, it doesn't make sense angstangstangstangstangstangst...

That wouldn't have been a very pleasant read. I don't think I'm one of those poetic sorts that can make depression sound eloquent. So I figured, think happy thoughts. Let's talk about babies and kittens instead.

No, really.

Just yesterday, I was on the bus heading to town. I used to complain about people living right across from college coming late to school because it seemed absurd, especially for someone living about an hour's bus ride away. It made no sense why people couldn't simply cross the road on time. Then I realised I walking straight into the same phenomenon en route to town, appearing frequently late for appointments and such. Apparently ~~space and time get really bendy and~~ ~~we are just lazy~~ there is a perfectly good psychological explanation behind all this.

The nearer you are to your destination, the more unwilling you are to leave early. So you procrastinate, figuring that you won't be too late anyway. Unfortunately that's exactly what happens when you overindulge in your close vicinity. So ultimately it's the ones who live the nearest that usually end up the latest.

With discoveries like these, it's a wonder our species came to be the dominant one on the planet. Maybe the ones with species dominance in close reach decided nah, no rush I think I'll just lay back and relax and stopped evolving super killer biological weapons and brains and before they realised it, they were lagging behind in the race for survival. And we humans got there ahead instead because we were so much more backward. All because of a psychological loophole.

Back to point, there was this baby on the bus in a stroller. (I wondered how the parents got both the baby and the fully loaded stroller onto the bus) There are some things words fail to describe. I mean, words try but they're not very good at it. Things like beauty or love or sheer utter adorable-ness. I think words have better things to descibe than the latter. That could explain why when you see something cute, your once maybe-adequate vocabulary suddenly drops to "Awww..." and "That's so [insert expletive] cute!!!!" and you sound like a total idiot but don't care because that's so @#$! cute!!!

There might be amazing marketing potential if one manages to tap into this giantic pool of mental simplicity. Oh wait, the Japanese already did that with Pokemon. And a bunch of other... thingys. Drat.

The chubby baby was quite happily sucking cum chewing on one of his hands. Parents, you really ought to get your babies chew-toys before they lose an arm. Everyone knows how single-minded babies can be. How they latch onto things. God forbid it should be one of their own limbs!

Fortunately for the cute baby, it soon got distracted by something and started crying. The primeval alarm system that is triggered by a baby's wails kicked in and although I was a complete outsider, even I started panicking: "What? What?! What do you want? What do you need? What's wrong? Tell me!! Ahhhhh!!!" Of course, I was doing all this inwardly. No point frightening the kid. The parents, on the other hand, looked totally unfazed by this eruption. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation.

Who knew what bothered the baby? Maybe it was a sudden overwhelming sense of isolation. Once Daddy peered over the top of the stroller, he/she started to quieten down (whew) and gaze at the new round thing hovering above his/her head. How fascinating! What is that! Wow! Even the hand became less interesting.

Babies never get bothered by A level results. Without any grasp of the alphabet, babies are totally immune to the devastating effects of result slips. Awww...

Whither art thou

2005-03-29T10:49:00.000+08:00

This is Karmic Hell. I cannot see the desk. There must be a desk somewhere around here because all this junk can't be supporting it's own weight (or can it? Ahh.). I see papers, notes, transparencies, files, log books, note books, worksheets, plastic folders, more papers, paper files, reading books, tapes, dictionaries, even more papers, stationary, sweet wrappers and bars, a green plastic cup and mug (plus other assorted Teachers' Day presents from eons past) and even some plastic flowers that look as if they are going to grow mold despite their synthetic origins.

Three months into the new year and it's been a rather eventful trek through the working life (if that's anything to be proud of). Thus far, I have been an usher cum waitress harrassing patrons long Boat Quay, an intern at a tiny law firm for one pathetic day, a relief-teacher at two schools and now, savouring two weeks off, I'm back to relief-teaching. At the same school. Bounce, bouncey, bounce.

I step out of the MRT at Seng Kang (the maximum MRT fare is $1.60, for any of you interested) and the prospect of teaching again has all appeal of a pile of bricks. Or perhaps even cat poo, which I am becoming much too familiar with around the house - but that's a story for another day. Of all things, at this very moment, I recall Sam's final line in The Lord of the Rings "Well... I'm back". I nearly keel over from the irony. Try saying that line en route back to Mordor, 'cos that's how I'm feeling.

I have to hold the proverbial fort for about 2 months. First things first, I have to find the fort. It appears to be some kind of intervention from the Powers That Be. Is this where i'll wind up decades down the road if i continue my tardy, procrastinating, slothful ways? Is this a sign, to show me my errors and to have me repent? I can't move the computer mouse more than an inch either way and a corner of this keyboard hangs off the table.

The disturbing thing is that I'm not questioning why the desk disappeared. I know how the desk disappeared. Operating on the principle that 'What Is Left Behind Stays Put', I leave things around hoping that they'd stay put, as inanimate objects tend to do when untounched. In the best of scenarios, what results is a sort of organized chaos where I can at least identify what pile is approximately what. But this here is nasty.

Although if I really tried, I suppose, I could probably achieve the same result. Perhaps even quicker.

Consumer is King

2005-03-27T12:55:00.000+08:00

I just bought a pair of expensive pants from TopShop: the last in a string of purchases since January when I started work. The siren in my head more commonly atuned to When Animals Attack,Worst Car Disasters or Mother Nature Always Has The Last Laugh or any situation FOX might make a reality television special of (with myself cast as reluctant star), has found new purpose in stressing me out over such trivial matters as Buying Work Clothes.

I admit that a general cheer did ring out when the spending floodgates broketh but being the slow person that I am, it might be a while before the state of emergency is called off and my creative brain juices quit generating excuses for purchases (as opposed to more productive uses, like... conjuring pleasant dreams, or such). So I only have my warped evolutionary instincts to blame for my shopping binges. And my huge delusions.

TopShop gave me a 400ml bottle of water labelled 'Drink and Shop' which is rather cute, you've got to admit. Shopping expeditions are reknowned for their staggering durations and immense pressures and staying hydrated is always important, especially when quick reflexes and keen faculties mean all the difference.

Especially when one is shopping alone without the invaluable assistance of friends, eager to offer disparaging remarks such as "NOnonono... I think...ah... No." and helpful advice like, "Wellll... it's... oookaaaaayyy... if you like it then BUY it lah...". If you're lucky, they might even go as far as engaging in absorbing conversation behind your back as you shoulder on - the public acknowledgement of "She's hopeless. Com'on."

I do not think I am materialistic. Being materialistic means that instead of you owning your things, your things actually own you. They take over your life such that your moods, your happiness depend on owning things. So as I was deciding whether to buy my over-priced pants, I'm talking to myself (as is usually the case when I'm shopping alone). My internal dialogue went something like:

Me: "Shit, you're a nice pair of pants."
Me: "LIMITS LIMITS!!"
Me: "If only you didn't cost so bloody much for a pair of pants..."
Me: "You're getting worked up over buying pants! You're losing control! Your things are starting to own you...!"
Me: "Ahhh nooooo! I shall own you! I r t3h l33t! ph33r m3!"

And then I bought the pants. I could've sworn I heard a snigger.

An Okay day

2005-03-23T22:23:00.000+08:00

The funniest thing I remember after exercising:
Bev: "My mom thinks practising Yoga is wrong because you worship the 'sun god'."
Me: "Huh."
Bev: "I told her that if positioning our bodies a certain way makes the Devil enter us... Well, he must be quite strong then."

Yesterday was my job interview. As usual, I was late. I wasn't running late because I rarely run for, towards or at things. The only explanation I offer is that I look stupid running. And I'm lazy. Lateness is one of those things that do not inspire me to run. Neither does a bus I am about to miss, or bad weather. Impending death might be a source of motivation, although it would still depend on how excruciating and grosteque my manifestation of imminent doom will take. Anyway, my interview went something along the lines of this:

Interviewer #1: So the job basically consists of blahblahblahblah...
Me: Okay.
Interviewer #2: For the most part blahblahblah...
Me: Okay.
Interviewer #1: You will be required to go for a training course of 4 days starting blahblahblahblah... Me: Okay.
Interviewer #2: Remember to bring blahblahblah...
Me: Okay.
Interviewer #1: You will be working from blahblahblahblah...
Me: Okay.

Granted, this transcript is not wholly accurate. In real life, interviewers #1 and #2 will never take turns to speak and will never share what they are supposed to say. There might also be an extra 'blah' here and there, but hey, I can't be expected to remember everything.

During an interview, a scrape with death or some other potentially psychologically-scarring incident, one tends to have an outer-body experience. The kind when you see yourself reacting in a most (un)characteristically stupid fashion and feel totally helpless to prevent consequental annihiliation. I envisioned my head spinning around and exploding from my accumulation of sheer utter moronity if I said 'Okay' one more time. With great determination, here's how I fared:

Interviewer: "...so you might end up wearing those (dorky) mike and earphone headsets."
Me (lamely): " ... that sounds... interesting."

I left the high-security building (you will recognise this from the confusing number of white winding corridors designed to disorientate potential intruders and staff personel, the battered security card passes and the totally blase woman security guard sitting at the front counter wearing a cast on one arm) and decided to make my way home, or at least somewhere less boring.

My keen sense of direction and many years of harrowing experience transversing public transportation (getting myself lost, being late etc.) has taught me that to head back to where you came from, you simply cross the road to the opposite bus stop and take the same bus from there. Unfortunately, someone had inconveniently planted a towering skyscraper right across the road. In fact, there were many giant corporate buildings blocking my view of the counterpart bus stop. The one-way street in front of me twisted and turned at near 90-degrees in an obvious effort to emphasise Singapore's land scarcity.

Next to me, Hong Lim Park, in all its greenery and space, lazily rolled its eyes.

Why why why why

2005-03-23T12:36:00.000+08:00

The weather is making me cranky. In fact, it's getting so hot 'n' humid that the air-conditioning in the house (more specifically, my room's) has been turned (gasp) on for (gasp) prolonged use. It might ultimately result in (god forbid) a higher electricity bill.

This deviant act might never have been allowed to continue if my mom had not taken the incisive decision of terminating the household's newspaper subscription. It appears to be an established law of physics that everyone should hate bills. The relationship between person and unpaid bill is akin to inverse gravity, a strange phenomenon that causes one side to always attempt to repel the other. Unfortunately, with certain individuals such as my mother, this adversion is particularly powerful, producing the cosmos-crushing space-time-bending forces of a collasping star.

To limit the number of bills and hence, protect the structural integrity of the galaxy, my mother decided to get rid of frivolous bills, such as our newspaper subscription. This does not mean we do not buy newspapers. We simply do not subscribe to them, thereby generating the dreaded bill. Granted, the accumulated cash spent buying each individual edition outstrips what we would have paid for the subscription but it is a small price to pay to preserve our space-time continuum.

How does this relate to our transpasses in using our installed air-conditioning? Aside from the fact that the destructive effects of Mom + Bill are strangely negated when said Mom is inside the room enjoying the air-conditioning (an anomalous loophole still being investigated by top scientists), it is not the amount of the bill that matters as much as the number of bills. This is the only logic that accounts for our lack of a newspaper subscription and yet, our continued subscription to cable television and cable internet.

Unfortunately, no air-conditioning exists around the vicinity of the computer. Senseless advertisments shall continue to be targeted.

Like the one on the MRT screens about jumping cans. At least we have a clue about what the company is marketing: a range of canned products. I imagine fruit, preserved meats, that sorta thing... I'm not entirely sure about the exact range of products they offer, or the all-important name of the company the ad is so vigorously rooting for because the advertisment ever so sleathly steals my attention away from information about the product to the engrossing action taking place: jumping, dancing, bouncing cans.

These sprightly metal containers are no, not actual things but animated cans. It explains why they are able to leap off their shelves en masse with fabulous aplomb and parade down the animated asle in ecstatic formation. My question is: How does this make me want to buy your (whatever your company's name is, I was too distracted) product? As cheap as that computer animation looks (a rule to follow: the more shiny and plastic the animation is, the cheaper the animation budget - ever watched the Final Fantasy movie? ), it must have still cost quite a considerate sum to make and broadcast. I and a generous portion of the population, do not quite get the appeal of jumping cans.

I think the worst advertisment on television has to be that mattress one. You know, the one that begins with that somewhat-middle-age somewhat-chubby supposedly-married couple in bed. I know the media is superficial and materialistic and shallow and evil and the Devil's advocate. But do I really need to see an overweight couple in bed? I already know how I am going to end up twenty years down the road, there's no point rubbing the image in.

And they cannot speak proper English. I am not talking about the posh Queen's English we reserve for use in our Oral exams. The woman saids something like "Hon-neee, what kind of mattress is this?" and the husband flips up the bed covers to reveal numerous layers of sponge and pulpy mattresses stacked like pancakes. Hey, that's more than what I sleep on, missy. At least they are keeping their airy dialogue to a minimum.

I only wish they'd cut out the finishing line where the whiney wife (urgh, sterotyping) hugs her hubby and thanks her "Hon-neee" for buying them a proper mattress. Dude, if this keeps up, getting a comfy bed is the least of your marriage problems. Get a comfy couch instead. And have a lawyer ready.

I hope this suffocating weather doesn't keep up. I haven't even started on the stuff they are showing on TV mobile.

Why why why

2005-03-22T14:49:00.000+08:00

Have you ever seen those bus and taxi advertisment gimmicks where they have bizzare spotted-cow-like tails drooping from the back of the vehicles? I saw my first one the other day while waiting for the number 14 bus. I'm just wondering: what are they about? What company do these monstrosities work for? They are more inscrutable than Lassie trying to signal Timmy's down the well! You people spend hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to be creative. What am I supposed to buy?!

There are a few weird advertisments on MRT trains. When you spend about an hour on public transport travelling to school and then an hour back again, you tend to notice things. There are rice ads with a young chinese girl eating rice with this elderly man wearing the SMRT uniform. First of all, I wonder why people even bother advertising for rice when it's just well... rice.

Second of all, I already know that I am sitting on one of the best public transport systems around. I'm looking at these giant-sticker ads and the rice company probably has some sort of contract in place with the SMRT line. But do I really need to see the old chap in the vaguely green-blue-ish SMRT uniform? Is he fulfilling the protective father figure role, giving a sort of parental assurance that eating that brand of rice is an excellent choice and so is riding the only available subway service in Singapore?

The stupidest advertisments put up at MRT stations seem to originate from (who else) SMRT themselves. They have this running tag-line that goes 'It didn't GET OUT enough', implying that your corporation should place your ads on their trains and stations because they get around alot. Now, riding the public transportation system isn't exactly my idea of heading OUT. It's more of a necessary evil individuals without cars have to endure to get from point A to B. And there's this one ad that goes 'Why did the Dodo become extinct?' Cue: 'It didn't GET OUT enough'.

Firstly, the crudely drawn cartoon bird on display is NOT a dodo. A dodo does not even remotely resemble an owl. Owls, fabled predators of the night and symbols of wisdom, would be immensely insulted at this association. And the other thing, wasn't GETTING OUT the whole reason why the dodo got extinct? Staying outdoors meant getting hunted to extinction by the most savage and destructive of unnatural predators, namely us.

Dodos should have bummed around in their burrows, watched teevee, feasted on chips, played mahjong and gambled until they all keeled over from strokes, heart failure and other sedentary lifestyle health symptoms. It would have been, on the whole, a more pleasant demise for the species.

There and Back again

2005-03-21T17:30:00.000+08:00

When you are not getting paid and not contractually obligated to wake up at 6:30am, wash-up, stagger out of the suddenly-overwhelming comfort of your bed and lug a heavy load to a place you bear no significant amount of affection toward (at least in the present moment), it feels just like any typical student's early morning trudge to school after a week-long holiday. The only difference is that I'm no longer a student. And I am doing this because I would like to maintain the illusion that I am a decent human being (relative to other scumbags).

The amount of gossip, rantings and complaints that abound in a typical staff-room (I realise I am generalising here - I've only been in 2 staffrooms so far, but the obvious parallels are too staggering to avoid generalisations... In other words... I don't particularly care) should not be surprising. Indeed, however inappropriate or unsavoury these behaviours seem, these few outlets have evolved throughout the eons since the first primeval cave-dwelling parents-meet-the-teachers session and have played an invaluable role in maintaining teachers' sanity, thus making sure that the students stay in the caves and out of the trees, hence keeping precious evolution on track.

Memorable quotations from my brief career as a relief-teacher:

Teacher (referring to a particular student): "She is sooo irritating. She's like ELMO. You know Elmo?"
Me: "Er, yes. "
Teacher: "She's like Elmo. Only evil."

Teacher #1: "I'm going to visit the student hospitalised at NUH."
Teacher #2: "Could you get her to... [mutters some tasks, the specifics of which I cannot remember] "
Teacher #1 (mock horror): "What kind of SA (Student Affairs) are you?"
[pause.]
Teacher#1: "Should I bring her maths homework?"

[On a student's script.]
Q. Why are elections held?
Student's Ans: To pick a new PAP.

Class outing at Bugis

2005-03-21T00:32:00.000+08:00

So I've just had my second can of coffee for the day. It's past midnight and I'm not feeling sleepy. I suppose I've accomplished my totally pointless aim of throwing my sleep-cycles out of whack for the holidays. Last night's small class outing helped, with me sadly heading home earlier (before midnight) so as to catch the not-so-last bus and negate my fears of getting stranded.

It was quite a subdued quiet affair, since only about ten classmates showed up. The western-country style restaurant at Bugis Junction that we went to had unimpressive food and rather bad service. Their supposed 'apple strudle' took the form of a sad apple pie-ish damp pastry, cold for the most part and looking as if it had been whalloped by an embarrassed scoop of vanilla ice-cream.

In the proud tradition that is 03A53 (although grossly under-represented as we were then, in numbers), we schemed to flee the establishment. We didn't do so in the end, of course, but given their at-best-average food and understaffed service, it was awfully tempting. With bad seats and lousy ambience put-together, it was a wonder that place survives. Restaurant bashing aside (and I'm usually not a terrifically picky eater), what was left of the diminishing class group later headed to CHIJMES (yes, I note the capitals).

I've only been to chijmes about say, twice or three times. The only thing to conclude is that, especially for girls (and guys) not interested in football matches projected on large screens, there is nothing remarkable about chijmes (isn't this developing into a running theme for the night: un-remarkable-ness). Although cute, there was nothing remarkable about the strawberry magaritas. There was definately nothing remarkable about the waitress who served us at the Mexican-ish place with the red-cloth-wrapped seats that got rather hot after lounging in them in a humid evening. I would venture to shove her beyond un-remarkablity into plain bad-ness, since she asked us (rather curtly) to remove our terribly offensive waterbottle from the table. A waterbottle! Good grief. And she does not know how to proportionate six glasses of magaritas from our one ordered jug.

This is turning into one peevish, un-remarkable night that I am describing. Funny how things get narrated in retrospect. Good points? Gee well, Daniel was properly clothed in something with a collar and sleeves. And proudly displaying his iPOD shuffle (a stupid device that heralds the triumph of great marketing and cool Apple branding over pure, simple sense - what's so great about randomness anyway! I want to know what song I'm going to hear! What is the big breakthrough?!). Granted, it was still an ugly polo-tee (I think most polo t-shirts are ugly, anyway). But it's quite a feat to overthrow the nortorious Grey Singlet. And the aforementioned vanilla ice-cream was decent.

And, naturally, it's always a good thing to meet up with the folks who had the misfortunate of crossing paths with yours truly for the past two years, if only to remind them that I'm as weird as ever.

This is the new shit

2005-03-18T11:00:00.000+08:00

The only thing worse than losing your job is having lost your job while still having to mark a giant pile of test papers, or more specifically literature test papers that take forever to grade properly. Of course, I am so so tempted to throw responsbility (and the unmarked test scripts) to the four winds. But as nasty and as tactless as I know myself to be, I am sure that's just my PMS talking. And the thought of a hapless NIE trainee handling my Normal Tech classes makes me smugly gleeful, in a schadenfreude kinda way.

Curiously, it seems that before every class outing, I lose my job. I hope this tradition doesn't carry on. I would have to dread class reunions when I'm into my thirties for fear of losing my rice bowl. My numerous scholarship applications also appear to be having a severely demoralising effect. Today should be the deadline. But it looks so bleak that I can't bring myself to be too concerned.

Circumstances are sure making it hard for me to be happy!

And we are still uncertain whether there are still termites in the cupboards. A few days ago, after my Grandmama was done washing up the dirt-encrusted china and cutlery, her fingers (already swollen hard and knobbly from generations of housework and cleaning - most of her finger nails now look as if they were stuck in as an afterthought) started hurting from the large amounts of detergent used. Past experience has already taught me that the elderly can be mightily tough - such as the time when my Grandmama accidentally sliced off the tip of her index finger using a large pair of scissors and started bleeding all over the floor (while still managing to scold me for my incompetence and inefficiency). She quite plainly noted how it looked worse than her usual cuts because she could see the tiny red holes in her flesh, her capillaries. For those who've read Plath's Cut: I sure wouldn't be waxing philosophical if my sliced open finger was refusing to clot!

To dampen the throbbing pain in her swollen fingers, Grandmama instructs me to get the flask of hot water and pour it into a metal basin. The next step seemed logical enough. At times like this, the whole schbang about we being a pampered generation, turned soft and spoilt rings loud and true. Without hesitation or flinching, my Grandmama puts both her hands into the hot water, soaking and rubbing them as though temperature didn't mean a difference.

I wondered how hot the water really was... Although I wouldn't want to find out for myself.

Kids these days

2005-03-16T14:05:00.000+08:00

By now, the annual CT Council initiates camp should have ended (unless, of course the Year Twos decide to give their initiates heellll and actually make them do their 230 x 4 push-ups, sit-ups, star-jumps and what-have-you as payment for the dreaded Spiderweb challenge they had to squirm through the day before). A handful of us Grandsenior Year Threes went back to school last night to visit. While Cicak and myself strolled through the front gates in full view of the newly-hired tubby security guard (security guard booth included) whom as per usual, does absolutely nothing to warrant his salary (except maybe standing some times) by barring strange visitors to the school; the others decided to climb the 2 metre high backgate - a logic that still escapes me, although it might just be due to good ol' nostalgia. Nostalgia for me, however, usually consists of less strenuous activites without the threat of bone fractures.

The Talenttime segment once again proved how damn spastic people could get when put in spontaneous performance moments, with little rehearsal time, some sleep deprivation and an audience mostly consisting of your older peers who have been yelling at you for the past couple of days. My personal favourite goes to the team of Orange Juice, whose Talenttime star was this geek-ish boy my friend Cicak spent the better part of the night incessantly gushing about how-damn-fucking-cute he was, squeals and flustered flailing hands combined.

Cicak (on the junior's droning rendition of Welcome to my Life, awful hand signals included): "It's like a gospel song gone wrong..."

The big highlight of the night (and camp) is our exclusive nightgame Utopia! (I think the exclamation does it's fun factor justice). It is an ironic title considering that this is a game with no rules and encouraged outlets to gamble, publicly betray and humiliate your peers, "smuggle" items, participate in "illegal" activites while all the while being on the run from the "secret police" who on a whim, might just drag you screaming (I kid you not about the screaming, it was thankfully reduced from last year's) to our "torture chamber". The gist of the game, played into the wee midnight hours, is that your tribe or group needs to make money to buy materials to build a structure of sorts to commemorate the mighty accomplishments of the CT Council. Unfortunately, as the storyline goes (with an uncanny parallel to the reality of the situation), you are a downtrodden impoverished grunt with very little money to begin with, extremely vulnerable to the "upper classes" whom you have to please for the cash (some of which, are counterfeit and might get you arrested).

It's fun. The Student Council doesn't know what the screams and running are all about.

Me and Cicak spent the better part of the night harrassing the poor initiates, who seemed too stunned to react when a Grandsenior (wearing slippers, jeans and carrying a shoulder bag no less) grabs and runs off with your bandana, delivering you effectively to the secret police.

Quotes from the Night Game - credits to Cicak, who lately wandered home totally stoned but still remembered many funny incidents:

Claire (giving out instructions): "So if you go to the torture chamber and see someone's name on the board, if you deliver that person you get the bounty reward..."
Junior (rising hand): "What if you go down there and see your own name there?"
Cicak (sitting next to me in the back, snerking): "Then you die lah."

[Near a legal shop.]
Cicak: "Year Ones, you can steal money from them y'know!"
[Initiates discuss among themselves.]
One junior (goes up shopkeeper): "Excuse me, can we steal money from you?"
Me and Cicak: *facevault*

[At the torture chamber, looking in]
Me: "Hrm, didn't expect her to be torturing people..."
Year Two (in semi-gruff voice): "Straighten out your arms I say! STRAIGHT!!"
[pauses.]
Year Two (looking up, back to usual sweet tone): "Erm... Could somebody help me please?"

[Still in torture chamber. Greggan decides to volunteer his aid.]
Greggan (chants): "Endure prisoners! Endure the torture! Endure the pain! Endure! ENDUURRE!!"
Year Two: "Is Greggan depressed?"
Me: "Nah. It's... probably NS."

[A Year Two walks around trying to sell black market goods.]
Year Two (yelling): "Black market! Black market!"
Me: "People aren't going to come near you like that."
[Later.]
Year Two: "Not black market! Not black market!"
Me: *face-palms*
Year Two: "Okay to make it less obvious I shall say, "White market! White market!" How's that?"
Cicak: "FAIL."

And even as Grandseniors and with a teacher at our side, we still had to climb over the school gates once again to get our iced coffee from Parkway.

What if I don't want to come into your world

2005-03-15T12:45:00.000+08:00

I promise never to make bad jokes about JLo. Or at least, until the bones above my kidneys stop hurting. Last night was my first attempt at Jazz class. Now, I have abolutely no dance background whatsoever (unless you count those pathetic excuses for ballet lessons I had when I was five, in which we simply bounced around wearing tight pink outfits, learning nothing remotely useful I can recall). Although every sign for the class indicated it required no previous experience, 5 minutes into the lesson made me realise an important Life's lesson: Never trust signs.

Already into the warm-up and finding myself sprawled on the battered wooden floor no doubt countless others had sprawled themselves upon in the past, I could hear my inner voice of self-preservation screaming in indignance 'This is so not designed for beginners!!!', followed by 'What the hell would the normal classes be like!?'

The trainer, clad in tight black dancer shorts, was rather entertaining. Unfortunately, the thing about having a male trainer guiding one (such as myself with a negligible sense of body coordination) through dance steps is that he's really intimidatingly good at executing moves, especially those requiring body strength. So most of the time, I am inwardly gawking stupidly at his amazing super dance physique and feeling my ego shrivel up into a little prune.

And then the guy tells us he's going to teach us the choregraphy to the accompaniment of JLo's second new single Come into my world. (And yes, there was a running joke about the song title and our unremakably unseductive dance moves) The very suggestion put towards me is laughable. I cannot remember dance steps to save my life. It seems that my brain has only been hard-wired into memorising words and pictures, beyond that nothing else. I somehow found it ambitious when dance instructor guy wanted us to lift our legs and lower back straight into the air using our (supposed) backward rolling momentum so that we balanced only on our shoulder blades, maneuver our (supposed) straight pointed legs up-and-down to the beat and roll ourselves back upright for the next barrage of steps.

Well, in the end, as excruciating as that may have been (I am aching - but that could have been more due to Friday's kickboxing), at least I had learnt JLo-worthy dance steps! Now, if only I could remember them in a few days time...

2005-03-14T14:03:00.000+08:00

I was awakened before 9 in the morning because no one knew when the postal service collects the daily mail. I had to send the few supporting documents for my PSC scholarship application (a laughable attempt, I realise) and the deadline was... well, today actually. It's too bad the postal service doesn't work Sundays. It somehow contradicts the whole 'No matter, rain, snow, killer dog or cosmic sucking black-hole, we will deliver' mantra.

So someone got the idea that there was an early collection at 9am. So bright and early off I went, in my slept-in shirt, flip-flops and shorts ton the post box right across the street, only to discover that the mail collection does it's rounds at 5pm. And then I went back home and learnt that the kitchen was infested with termites and the counter was soaked with kerosene. Since my Grandmama has so conscientiously reminded me, I thought I'd share: my black cat Hero has recently developed something resembling diarrhea and regularly passes his faeces in the living room area. Somehow, nothing quite disturbs me anymore.

It's going to be one of those languid days.

Last Saturday was the NUS openhouse and like all openhouse events, was spectacularly dull and hellishly crowded. It does not help that the university is tucked into an obscure pocket in the West, requiring multiple bus-train-bus journey transfers even for someone living in the central area. Thankfully, although most of the talks were choked full and we couldn't bother to cram ourselves in (ascending the stairway was claustrophobic enough, thank you very much), it was not a total loss. I was delighted to learn that NUS Law did offer jurisprudence, although now that I check the website, I learn that the girl I asked gave me the wrong information about jurisprudence being a second-year compulsory course. I hope she mentally kicked herself after misleading me. As my ol' Amath tutor sharply pointed out just now while we were both buying lunches from the coffeeshop outside and I mentioned my interest in studying Law: as a lawyer, you can't make a mistake! Not one!

For the sake of my mental well-being, I shall believe that may be a slight exaggeration.

And before that, I learnt that the cool (yes, cool) law and econmics double-degree honours programme will only accept ten (yes, ten) people from the A-level intake. The lady at the booth pointed out how the programme was an elite one and would only take in the very best. I wondered, if the NUS Law faculty already holds a reputation for being snobbish elitist bastards: would this herald in a new generation of super-uber snobbish elitist bastards? I mean, with the university already hailing it an elite programme, it wouldn't take too much imagination. Fancy the university finally approving a double-degree that truly sounds fun to attempt and taking the fun out of it.

As I pointed the intake bottleneck to a friend, she replied: YAH. wtf. like, how to get in?! Seeing as how this particularly girl has a perfect score of 4As and two S paper distinctions going for her, I think the sentiment expressed speaks immense volumes for myself, what with my less than satisfactory A level scores. The thought makes me very depressed.

The termites appear to have been vanquished. I'm helping return the china to their lofty spots.

2005-03-14T12:03:00.000+08:00

There are termites in the house. The kitchen reeks of kerosene fumes. The toilet sink is filled with an odd colourful assortment of plastic cups and containers I have never seen before in my whole life. Whatever spare room the house can spare without looking too unpresentable is being used to hold the many neglected appliances (salt and pepper grinders, utensils, glasses, age-stained china etc.) that occupied the now rotting cupboards for the galzillion years since we moved into this house (I'm thinking Primary two).

There are disney-inspired plastic plates (Anyone else thinks the Beast looks cool?), plastic kid mugs - one with adorable (quite) realistic rabbits printed on, the old white slightly-yellow plastic orange-juice squeezer that I quite fondly remember playing with when I was little: cut the orange into two, grind the halves into the squeezer using your hands and pour whatever pathetic amount of juice you could press out into a glass. The glass was quite important, I remember. Nowadays, I pour my carton suger-saturated orange juice into the same mug I use for all my beverages. I was less lazy back then, but I prefer to think that I'm become more effective now... when I opt to be, of course.

My Grandmama reacts with a panicked frenzy to any, however small, threat to her domestic domain. Getting her to calm down and give her sixty-six year old nerves a rest is impossible. I've tried, and all I ever got for my effort was a stern flustered look of incredulity, the same look one might receive if you told someone impaled on a pike 'That doesn't look too bad.' I have learnt, over the years, that the best approach is to do nothing and stay out of her way. If a glass breaks, or a plate shatters, I know better than to assist. I usually just makes things worse (or so she quite irritably asserts). I might be labelled 'unhelpful' but please remember: me helping out might make things more hazardous for all parties involved.

My Grandmama and the handyman uncle she called in to help are still working on drowning the white destructive critters in kerosene, the very flammable fluid that Grandmama reports is highly effective in exterminating the home-wrecking insects. This is no easy feat, considering that the damp, old shelves are well, shelves. Meaning that they're elevated some height above the ground. And on another point: am I the only one who is envisioning a burning kitchen? We are drenching the wooden shelves in kerosene. Well, at least the termites will be dead.

For my credit, besides trying hard to be nonchalant and unhelpful (the best course of action considering my Grandmama's increasingly frazzled, stressed state, believe me), I have helped in helping move the piles of junk from the infested cupboards to the new rising piles of junk growing throughout the house. All the while, passing around the junk up and down, being caffeine-deprived, I was mostly concerned with the termites finding their way on me. Cupboard boxes in storage are the usual suspects for holding termites within. I reasoned, if termites chew through wood, the prospect of them nawing on my very human skin would be terribly unpleasant. For those who have never had the privilege of seeing real termites, they do not resemble ants in the least (unless you count six legs). They are pale, rather translucent white and possess a huge abdomen and head, closely joined.

We're under attack by miniscule house-ravaging sausages. Oh my.