Rain From The Past 1: Friend?

She was, at that point in time, perhaps the closest thing to perfection I knew. She was 4 years older than I, and the first older friend I ever made.

We shared the school bus to primary school, and twice a day, once on the trip to school and once on the way back, the whole motley crew would play games, sing songs and drive the bus uncle mad. Friendships were quickly forged, and to my delight carried over to life outside the school bus.

For instance, on the occasions I bumped into her at the canteen, we would chat and talk about the teachers we had, or the little things that had been going on in class. Days few by that way, and you would barely feel the tedium of school.

Once, however, I was in the bookshop when I noticed her coming in with a bunch of her friends. I waved and said hi, but she didn't respond. In fact, she ignored me pointedly. When her friends asked her who I was, and why I was waving at her, she was icily calm.

"Oh, just some brat from my school bus. Don't mind him."

So saying, they left. I don't remember ever talking to her again, after that painful afternoon.

We all know that it's never a good idea to love people too much. Sometimes, we even make little reminders to ourselves to have restraint, and not give so freely. Often, however, we plow ahead recklessly, unable to stem the tide of feelings flowing inside.

With care I must tread - ironically, a 7 year-old is better than handling such disappointments than a 21 year-old can.

Presents

Spotlight, the Australian chain of stores selling art and craft materials for every occasion, is frequently overwhelmingly populated by females. There's cloth of all varieties, sewing equipment, decorative items, costume jewellery... it's almost a rite of passage for secondary school girls to make a pilgrimage here.

Male minds spin fast, and if by now you are thinking, hey, this is the perfect place to hang out and watch girls, you're generally right. Yet, as I have discovered recently, the people most worth watching in Spotlight, are the guys.

It's a fundamental law of nature that there are only two varieties of guys you can spot shopping. One is the enslaved male, who despite his nonchalence is attached to his girlfriend by an invisible leash. The younger, fresher boyfriends still comment on every item they're invited to evaluate, whereas the older, jaded ones just trail behind, blank-faced and drooling.

The other variety, and the one of interest here, is the guy who's out shopping for a gift. You recognize them by the perpetual state of frustration and anxiety they are in - it's the deadline hounding them. The ones who didn't procrastinate, and planned way ahead, have more time of course... give or take 2 days before the birthday or anniversary.

(I do not deny that there's a variety of males who shop for themselves. However, you usually can't spot them in public, because they move way too fast. Such males are akin to homing missiles, and after the purchase, they do not, ever, think about whether the next shop would have sold it for less)

You see, Spotlight usually smells pleasant. There's a light floral scent in the air, reinforced by the many different perfumes wafting in from their female hosts. But especially around Christmas, the season of giving, there's a sharp, primal stink of male anxiety and worry. The following conversation I overheard sums it all up.

Male A: Quick, what can I get her from here.
Male B: What did you get her last year?
A: A necklace. I can't possibly buy her something again, it's impersonal.
B: Hmm... maybe you could make her something.
A: ... what do you think I am doing here?
B: Err... you could make her a cross stitch.
A: Siao ah. I can't sew.
B: Or how about decorating a jewellery box.
A: Siao ah. I can't paint.
B: How much more time you have.
A: Until tomorrow.
B: Die.
A: Die.

And I don't blame them. As males slowly become more sensitive, they realise that they can't keep buying presents off the rack for their girlfriends. Sooner or later, there's this implicit understanding that a personalized, self-crafted present has to come along.

The thing is, guys are guys and girl are girls because they are different. Let's face it, not everyone is equally talented in the arts. You can't flog a dead horse, and you just can't teach some guys how to paint a jewellery box.

I admit quite openly that I am a doofus at personalizing presents. It's not that I'm not good with my hands, hur hur, but just that there's this entire portion of my brain that's not functioning as it should. In fact, I once dragged a female friend down to Spotlight with me - my Cultural Arts Attache.

Me: Ok, what if I want to get her something to decorate her room with?
Attache: What colour is her room?
Me: Err... blue? I think? So what, I should get something blue too?
Attache: No, you can't. You need something to offset the colour, not complement it, otherwise it's not striking. Not pastel, but not a base colour too. Look for a shade that stands out, but not one that clashes with her room's theme. Are you going for a matt look or a metallic, glossy look? And you want a splash of colours on it too, not just... Hanting?
Me: Hurh?
Attache: (sighs) What did I just say?
Me: Err... pastel? Matt? Not blue?

In fact, if you think about it carefully, Spotlight doesn't really sell crafting materials. It sells hope. Guys see the paints and the decorations placed side by side, and a most warming and lovely present blossoms in their mind. They then buy the stuff home, fiddle around for a few days, chuck the whole lot down the chute, and go back out to buy a necklace.

As a public service Spotlight should have stringent criteria for guys wishing to enter. They could have a little booth at the entrance, where there's crayons and paper, and you're supposed to draw a picture of your family members. You then show your drawing to a six-year old female Tester, and if she laughs, you can't go in, and for your own good too.

Of course, not everyone is as uptight about presents as you think. Whilst shopping yesterday this salesgirl started talking to me (because charm is not something you can switch on and off), opening the conversation with the classic "You look familiar, have I seen you somewhere?". Yes, it can also mean that my face is as common as dirt, but I choose to think it was a conversation starter.

One thing led to another, and soon we were talking about how difficult it was to get suitable presents. When I complained that it was impossible to fathom the female mind, she laughed and said that from a female perspective, all my girlfriend probably wanted was me, wrapped up with a bow around my neck.

Yeah right. It would be suicidal to try that - my girlfriend would not even bother unwrapping me before returning me to the store. She wouldn't even ask for a refund. =(

Seriously though, as Christmas looms, maybe it's a good time for people to sit down and re-evaluate just what giving presents entails.

I personally think that it's not so much of whether you made it yourself, or whether it cost a lot, but rather, how much effort and thought went into it. And even if the ultimate result was still a present available commonly, but you knew that your friend went through 18 kinds of Hell to decide upon it, appreciate it.

Top on my Christmas wishlist is actually a nice, long Christmas card, because in many ways writing a meaningful card is so much harder than buying a present. Sometimes you don't even need a present - something as simple as company is touching enough.

It's going to be a magical season. Treasure your friends and loved ones, and jealousy guard those who mean something to you. And in case I don't manage to blog again in time, Merry Christmas.

Santa's coming!

To Trust

I am, quite unfortunately, a very trusting person by nature. So much so, in fact, that a close buddy in the army wrote me a note once, reminding me not to dispense trust so freely, in case I was taken advantage of.

With a certain amount of disappointment, a casual foray into the past has revealed numerous examples of just what my buddy cautioned me against. The first and probably one of the more painful incidents involved none other, than my very own mother.

You see, I had a favourite purple pillow when I was about four. The covers were made of satin, and it was incredibly soft, cool and silky to the touch. But because young children tend to overcome their teething issues by chewing anything that doesn't chew back, my favourite pillow (Mr. Purple) was also clumpy, fraying and soggy.

In fact, if I still had it now, I daresay if you pressed it against your ear you could hear the germs and bacteria on it playing classical music, on account of the ideal conditions for them to multiply and evolve. After which you would probably need a full-time nurse and daily injections of drug cocktails.

But try as my mother could, Mr. Purple and I were inseperable. "Hygiene" was just this 2-syllable word that meant as much to me as "hedge funds investment", and "Let-me-throw-it-away-or-I-will-spank-you" was easily countered by grabbing my mother's leg and screaming "Mommy-mommy-please-don't-I-love-you-don't-kill-Mr.-Purple".

After threats, cajoling, and reasoning (oh when will parents realize that there's almost no way to reason with children until they're older, say, 25) failed, my mother resorted to... deception.

She bided her time, too. When we moved to a new house, she waited until the moving men left before she told me that we had to leave Mr. Purple behind. There was no more space, the moving men told her, for Mr. Purple on the moving truck. But don't worry, now he has our old house all to himself!

Oh, was I a sucker then. I forgave my mother eventually though - after all, she was only trying to save the whole family from the inconvenience of a premature death through disease.

You would think that from that experience I would grow up to be this hardy, cynical, bitter shell of a man ensconced behind high walls. Oh ho ho. Let's just say that maybe if I figured out the truth about Mr. Purple during my formative years, then yes. Finding out when you're 17 doesn't change anything.

Friends have not spared me from such agony as well. Back in JC1, my dear, charming friend Dot told me that in RGS, every belt was unique to the owner. On the inside was sewn a little tag containing all of the owner's personal information, which doubled as proof of identity in exams. From the first day of school, every RGS girl was bonded to her belt.

Maybe it was her straight face and trustworthy demeanour. Maybe it was my eargerness to consolidate our friendship by not doubting her. Or maybe, it was just plain stupidity. In any case she was tickled to no end, and I contemplated throwing a Mr. Purple at her. (But seriously, it sounds possible, right? Right?)

And I must have repeated this army story a million times, but for good measure, I'll recount it once again. In the first few weeks at a new army camp I kept to myself, mainly because I didn't know anyone else. Then, one night I heard screams, laughter and sounds of determined struggle from outside my bunk - another day, another stripping. I turned back to my book.

"Hanting! Quick! Come help us strip him!" Then, more sounds of struggle and unholy laughter.

Those words set my blood on fire. Finally! I was being accepted! I was recognized as one of the them, what with this most dignified invitation to partake in one of their holiest ceremonies! The joy of conquering loneliness was potently sweet. I threw my book aside, flung my door open... and rushed out into a most despicable trap.

When I joined the guys, I sensed something amiss. There was no struggle. There was a guy on the floor, but he wasn't flailing about trying to keep his underwear on. He was only staring straight at me, grinning this horrible smirk. The decoy.

"He's out! Get him!" The 20+ guys turned on me, and a dozen hands gripped my arms and legs. I shut my eyes. 5 minutes never lasted so long.

Some of my friends find it strange the way I don't seem to learn, and wonder why I haven't become less trusting. And the reason simply is that friendships blossom so much faster when you're not skeptical and cautious and preoccupied with putting all your defenses in place.

Of course, this has to be tempered with a bit of common sense. People who abuse that trust simply don't deserve it, and when I say trusting people is good, it doesn't mean you go throwing yourself at everyone.

You see, things like what Dot and my army friends did, don't really matter. I don't mind being caught up in a little harmless joke (ok the stripping doesn't exactly qualify as harmless), but it's another thing when people abuse your trust, knowing full well what they are doing.

I'm not a perfect person. Though I believe in the basic goodness of man, and I try to reach out to as many people as possible, there are some things I find hard to forgive. Though it pains me to consciously keep a distance from some people, I have no choice, sometimes.

Not everybody has the same benevolent, well-meaning intentions for destroying the Mr. Purple in your life.

Romance

Maybe it's just me, but before you watch romantic movies or read romantic novels, you must be mentally prepared.

You can, if you so wish, jump straight in defenceless. You can sit through Titanic with your mind naked and unprotected, or read The Bondmaid similarly unprepared.

But you do so at your own risk. Don't blame me if afterwards you get bitter, upset, frustrated, or even suicidal.

The problem arises because people tend to take whatever they see in the media at face value. This is the exact reason why little kids with capes jump off tables thinking they can fly, and why ruggers suplex each other thinking no one will get hurt from wrestling.

This, of course, spells untold harm and damage on the state of Romance in Singapore, and the world at large. Basically, what happens is that young impressionable people grow up absorbing unrealistic notions of romance, and when they find out for themselves that romance is as real as Santa Claus or as probable as Moderations of Exam Grades, whatever romance in them fizzles out.

In fact, in today's accelerated world it's not uncommon to find young twenty-somethings with all the cynicism and bitterness, of thirty-somethings.

That's why, you have to be prepared. Instead of starting off overly-idealistic and then crashing, it's generally better if everyone began knowing the truth, and then slowly working to make the world a sweeter place to live in. For the sake of our young, let me dispel some myths that perpetually cloak almost every love story out there.

First Myth: Story couples live happily ever after. Generally, they either die just after they confess undying love (Romeo 'n' Juliet, Moulin Rouge), or the story ends when they get together (Just Like Heaven, Eternal Sunshine). Simply put, you never see how these wonderful couples make it through life together, months after the honeymoon period has worn off.

I mean, look at Moulin Rouge. It's great to have your new lover burst into song every time he sees you, but seriously, after a few months of that, you just want to stab him. Over and over.

Any surviving couple will testify to the immense amount of effort required to keep a relationship alive. When I was younger and captivated by the idea of Romance, I used to think that all you needed to succeed in a relationship was love. Now, older, wiser, I have learnt the distinction between real love, and hormonal love.

Most unfortunately, real love is something of a delicate rose. Cultivating it and keeping it alive takes all the skill, energy and dedication you've got. That said, even cactuses die if you just plant them and leave them alone. Hormonal love, on the other hand, grows as spontaneously and ferociously as foot rot. Often, the bad effects last just as long too.

So don't be fooled. Getting the girl might be difficult at times, but in totality, it's only less than 10% of the entire journey.

Second Myth: That love overcomes every obstacle. You just need to realise that there are some obstacles that are just insurmountable. There are tons of movies out there just raring to have you believe in this, but don't be fooled.

Look at King Kong and his little blonde girl. In that movie love transcends species, communication, religious, financial security and hygiene barriers, and yet people still believe that the two had a chance. It's about as realistic as you falling in love with a hamster and hoping to receive your parents' blessing.

Perhaps that's why parents caution us about rushing in. You need to know what your personal stands are, and assume that your beloved's own views will never change, then ask yourself if you can live with it. All in all, if there's a fundamental issue you two can't agree with, it's really worth a meticulous rethink.

Third Myth: That people never change. The quintessential story that perpetuates this myth is probably Legend of the Condor Heroes - in that story, the lovers are seperated for 16 years, during which time the male hero is assaulted by the fervent and insistent affections of no less than three different wholly approvable girls.

Yes, you guessed it. Said male hero, most probably through the use of heavy drugs, suppresses any semblance of libido and common sense and waits 16 long years for his love to return. Romantic? Yes. Drama? Yes. Realistic? No.

Don't misunderstand, I'm not belittling anyone who chooses to wait for his one true love. It's just that people do change, and it doesn't mean that if two people are right for each other at a certain time, they'll always be right for each other. Your postage-stamp-sized bikini makes you irresistable now (if you're female), but donning it 30 years later will only make your children dig their eyes out.

It's all related to maintaining a relationship. People change, and you've got to keep up. If you stop growing in tandem with your partner, if you neglect to keep connected, you'll wake up to find a stranger next to you.

Actually, now that I think about it, the hard part isn't getting people to know that romance in the media is largely exaggerated. The hard part is getting people to stay romantic, despite all the hard knocks they receive through life.

I'm morphing myself, although I am fighting it every step of the way. I'm slowly changing into this practical, cynical person that is the bane of the Romancing Singapore campaign. You can't blame people, I realize. You can't look into the eyes of a person who's just been jilted, and say seriously, don't worry, love will conquer all.

Maybe that's why romance still sells. Although it's sad that people buy into romance but don't really believe in it, in the same pathetic way students like me buy assessment books knowing I'll never touch them, maybe people immerse themselves in romance to glimpse a better world.

A better world where there's unending energy to pull off romantic surprises, where true love is untainted by the passage of time, where partners or spouses aren't just companions who help you through life, but actually are your soulmates.

I encourage you, if you are a romantic at heart, keep that fire burning in you no matter how hard the storm rages outside. It's like believing in Cho. The world may test your strength in a myriad of ways, but if at the end of the day you manage to keep that little spark of belief alive, I do believe life will be a little brighter, a little sweeter.

Keep the faith alive.

Values

As a kid you grow up thinking the whole world is brought up like you. You just assume other dads are like your dad, scolding their kids for the same things, teaching them the same values, as if there was one big leather-bound "Parents' Guide to Bringing Up Docile and Obedient Progeny" that the government issues to all new parents.

Ok wait, given the PAP that was way too believable. But you get what I mean, don't you?

That's why it's jolting every time I find out that other people have completely different views, about vitally fundamental things, from me.

To begin I must first paint a little portrait of my family. My parents may have embraced modern technology wholeheartedly, but when it comes to values, "conservative" is probably the first word to come to mind. At that, calling them conservative is like calling Lee Kuan Yew "a little strict".

The scariest part is that for all the resistance I could muster, some of their values have slowly seeped into my being. And armed to the teeth with values that I haven't fully indoctrinalized, I had bravely set off to face the world.

Getting married and having children were the twin issues that I grappled with first. This was where my beautifully constructed world of ideals and values began to unravel. You see, growing up I've always envisioned myself, near the end of my life, surrounded by little Hantings and little, er, Hantingrinas.

I mean, no one actually sat me down and told me that unless I had children life wouldn't be complete. I sort of picked it up from what I saw of other families, from the storybooks I read. It seemed as if every adult ended up getting married and having kids.

As I got older, an alternative appeared. Adults could somehow, without getting struck by lightning, have kids and then get married. Before long, adults appeared to have kids and not get married. By the time I discovered adults didn't get married or didn't have kids all the time, I wasn't fazed anymore.

The first time I heard a girl tell me she didn't want to get married or have kids, back in JC, I was shocked. The same kind of complete, mind-numbing shock your grandad would get if he caught you juggling ancestral tablets. Then, I debated with her, arguing why I thought kids and marriage were the keys to a complete life.

The debates have not stopped. Since that first girl in JC, I've engaged many a young lass in similar debates, all of whom seem to have been born without a biological clock. Grudgingly, I've had to concede that their views are logical and respectable too, that at the end of the day it's all simply a personal choice.

Another way of life that took a real flogging, revolved around... Sex. I can't help it if I blush as I type the word, and I know that in the long history of this blog not once have I dared to broach the subject, but no time is more appropriate than now to evaluate how my family tackled sex education.

I mentioned my parents being conservative earlier. Don't get me wrong, my parents aren't fuddy-duddies so steeped in the past that they try to marry you off when you're barely a month old. They are just more conservative than others their age.

Let's just say that the fastest way to stop conversation at dinner isn't by jumping onto the table and peeing into the soup, or by stabbing yourself repeatedly with a fork whilst shouting 'Deliver me unto you oh Dark Prince'.

The simplest way is just to shout, in a droningly piercing voice, "SEXXXXXXXXXXX". Or, alternatively, in an irritatingly chirpy tone, "Sex sex sex sex sex SexSex SEXSEXSEX".

(I disclaim any responsibility for any psychiatric harm you may cause to your parents using any one of the above methods)

I remember vaguely being told some things when I was around 12. Actually, what I remember clearly is my dad clearing his throat, then starting to talk to me in this strangely antiseptic voice before my mum would drag him aside for a lengthy, hushed discussion. Normal conversation would resume, and if you weren't sharp, you wouldn't have noticed anything at all.

And that's why, when I found out an army friend watches pornographic movies with his family, as a means of sex education, I was at a loss for words. My mind just blew, no pun intended. Let's not even go into some of the, uh, more diverse views other friends have on the issue. What can I say? Different people just do things differently.

More recently, I had another pillar of my life torn down when I remarked casually to Girl X that it was strange that so many women refuse to breastfeed when it was clearly the right thing to do. I was flabbergasted when she disagreed with me.

Me: What do you mean, you don't want to breastfeed?
Girl X: I mean, modern infant formula is scientifically proven to be more nutritious and beneficial than the natural alternative.
Me: That's hogswash! Even so, what about all the other advantages, like bonding with your kid?
Girl X: Ewww. That's so gross.
Me: Huh? What do you mean so gross?
Girl X: I mean, do we look like cows to you? Eww.
Me: ...... WHAT ARE YOUR GOD-GIVEN BREASTS FOR?!?
Girl X: Eww. Given a choice, I wouldn't want them. Do you want them?

(At which point my brain shut down and she won the debate. I blame it on the sneaky way she phrased her sentence)

At an age where you begin to reason almost as well as your parents can, you suddenly realise that it's up to you and you alone, to struggle through debates of all kinds, to arrive at answers that no one can say is right or wrong.

That many of the values you hold are unchallenged, merely passed down from your parents or friends, and that before you critically assess them, there's no way you will ever feel strongly enough to fight for or defend something you believe in.

Socrates words' ring true, that "the unexamined life is not worth living for man".

Just be kind. If you want to throw some stunner at me, just because you like to see the way I explode into some apoplectic fit defending some cherished value of mine, do it gently and do it slowly.

Random Thoughts 2

No time to blog. No funny juice too, for that matter. Everytime I get down to writing, I think of how I will be buried alone and destitute.

Blog before exam --> Fail exam --> Lose confidence and friends --> Drop Out --> Get disowned --> Drift around living on handouts --> Die alone and destitute

Yet the random thoughts just keep coming.

1. The term 'love triangle' is misused very often. Often, one party is being pursued by two admirers. That only means (for example) that both Girl A and Girl B like Guy HT. Girl A and Girl B clearly do not like each other. If you draw the relationship out on paper, you get a... 'Love Carrot Sign'.

Thus, very rarely is there a 'love triangle'.

2. I found an old handwritten note I scribbled and stuck in my JC Biology file. It reads "Miss Piggy and Kermit cannot biologically reproduce". I forget the scientific reason why, but it's always sad to see another pillar of your childhood crumble.

3. If human beings never stopped producing CDs or DVDs, eventually we'll run out of sand!

4. The single most important figure in legal enforcement, might very well be Santa Claus. If the legends about him are true, he would have the most sophisticated and accurate surveillance system in the world. Even if we couldn't enlist his help directly in fingering the guilty, all we would need to do is to monitor who gets what present at the end of the year.

A suspect in a murder case, getting say a PSP from Santa for Christmas, might very well be innocent. If he gets assessment books or new underwear, he's probably an accomplice. No one can help him if he gets a Robbie Williams CD.

5. You can spend as much money as you want, exert as much effort as you can, but you won't change the fact that no matter how good looking you think you are now, 30 years later your kids are going to dig out your photos and ridicule you.

Back to work.

Day

When the light from the breaking dawn stirs you, you fight to stay asleep.

Two worlds are blended at this precise moment. You are confused, and you forget for a blissful second what is real, and what is only the balming effect of a single good dream. You struggle to believe that all is well, but its no use - slowly your consciousness muscles in and brutally reminds you of the divide between the realities and the figments of imagination.

There is, strangely enough, an overwhelming sense of peace.

You think about the dream some more, and you're pleased to find that it all comes rushing back, every single nuance, every single frame. And you cannot help but marvel - every other time you labour to pass the night under burdens of mind so deep, you inevitably wake up feeling even more distraught, more stranded.

Its the first time you have dreamt a dream that addresses your dilemma directly.

Its the first time your subconscious works with you, instead of against you.

Its the first time... you think you might actually have dreamt the answer to your problems.

Sometimes things just work out in the queerest way
Hold fast your beliefs - keep the doubts at bay
Unless you dare to tread that dreaded path again
Where suffering bears no such merciful refrain
Expect that life's just full of twists and turns
Nothing's insurmountable if you're willing to learn

You hear the world stirring outside your window, and you know you can linger no more. You chose to live this life, and you'll be damned if you didn't try to lead it proudly, to lead it well.

And thus a chapter ends.

Night

In the inky blackness of the night
You clasp your hands and silently pray
That the vice around your heart so tight
Would quickly unravel and fade away

That somehow things could rewind
That life had an undo function of sorts
That amidst this mess you could somehow find
The ending which you orginally sought

In the enveloping blackness of the night
You wonder if you could have made things better
If you'll ever know whether you were right
Or if anything really mattered

A thousand things you wish to say
The words almost bursting from inside
But you can't, you mustn't, no it wouldn't pay
And again you stem this torrential tide

In the endless blackness of the night
You make up your mind once more
To grieve, but to grieve only until daylight
For burdens of the heart are such wearisome chores

In the soothing blackness of the night...

Random Thoughts 1

It's hot. I'm full and sleepy. Here's a list of 5 random things that ran through my mind in the last hour I stoned here.

1. My productivity is very, very low. So low, in fact, that's it's become negative productivity. But wait a minute! If it's negative productivity, isn't it productivity all the same, just in the opposite direction?

So is it a case of being very unproductive, or being destructive? ... the mysteries of Life.

2. I would hate to be Cho Chang right now. Over 23 people on my MSN list have criticized her to no end, elevating her status just above Saddam Hussein afflicted wtih dengue carrying wild chickens in both arms.

3. What does dust turn into? I mean, is there a constant amount of dust in the world, or is it being continually generated and rebuilt into something else? We all know matter cannot be created, so it either has to come from somewhere, or turn into something.

To find out, all we need to do is to start keeping all the dust we collect everyday into big plastic bags. At the end of 10 years, we just need to see what thing in the world has reduced in quantity significantly. Ta-da! Another of Life's puzzles solved.

4. Do judges know that every time they pen long-winded and confusing judgments they incur the wrath of academics and students for years to come? Do they do it purposely, to get back at the judges before them?

5. Do hawker stall owners eat their own food? If so, why is the yong tau foo stall auntie at my wet market plumper than the uncle selling sio bak and chicken rice? Do they pay each other for the meals, or do they just exchange food?

Idol

I first began to hear his name about a month ago. It began as a whisper of sorts, the kind of slithery ambiguous background noise that evaporates the moment you concentrate on catching it. People heard, but failed to remember.

Then, with startling ferocity, as more of his pictures circulated, his popularity began to climb. His name was on almost every single pair of female adolescent lips. As of last week, he arguably stole the entire show.

Cedric. Diggory. Aka, Gorgeous Hunk, Handsome Cutie-Pie, Fried-By-Curse-Boy.

(For those who failed to catch Harry Potter and the Goblet-of-constitutes-magical-binding-contract-Fire, Cedric was this arguably good-looking strapping young man who had more screen time than a cupcake would have in a documentary on lions. Which is not saying a lot)

It's strange how the entire idolizing process plays out. At some point amidst all the outpouring of affection for Cedric, I had to pause and think, why exactly is Cedric becoming an idol for so many? Can there possibly be a pattern to all this madness?

Three hypotheses survive, ultimately. What I'm guessing first, is that there's something in Cedric, or idols in general, that people prize. It can be looks, or charm, or money, or atttitude, or any of a thousand other things. These idols are then the quintessential role models - people either want to gain this characteristic themselves, or are satisfied to have their idol near them.

As you can see, most people who idolize fall into this category.

People idolize Princess Diana for her beauty and heart of gold, Cedric and Brad Pitt for their looks and charm, sporting legends like Mohd Ali for their resolve, spirit, courage. Bands like Metallica or Linkin' Park are also idolized, but mainly only for their flair and streak of rebellion, because God gave man eyes to see and ears to hear with, not to shrivel and bleed from.

This is of course, understandable, and even desirable at times. After all, some idols serve as good role models. Taufik gave up smoking, and performed community service voluntarily, without any booklet to stamp or school requirement to fulfil. Everyone needs to have something to strive after.

But to merely want that idol near you? Watch how fans react whenever their idols are nearby. I remember vividly this clip of a woman fainting as she screamed Micheal Jackson's name at his concert, back when parents still let their kids play with him. It's a phenomenon very much alive, right here, right now. People scramble just to be near their idols, to glimpse them, to see and touch them.

I mean, when you come to think of it, what would happen if these fans could suddenly have their wishes fulfilled? What if your idol was to materialize right in front of your eyes? Would you even know what to say to him/her? What, you would just sit there, smile numbly and poke him/her with a stick?

You: Ooooo! Tom Cruise/Cho Chang/Hagrid!
Idol: Hi.
You: Ooooo! Tom Cruise/Cho Chang/Hagrid!
Idol: Hi.
You: Ooooo! Tom Cruise/Cho Chang/Hagrid!
Idol: Hi. Say, can you stop poking me with that stick?

Of course, I'm discounting all the rabid fans who are way deep in Stalker territory, who want to bear their idol's children etc. Let's not go there today.

The second hypothesis, is that professing idolatry is equivalent to possessing a social passport. It's a bit like beer, or the army, in that sense. Just simply profess your idol of choice, and ta-dah, you're welcome to join any social circle with the same tastes.

I discovered this for myself the hard way. When I first protested and reminded people harshly that Harry Potter's about adventure and magic and courage and friendship and not about Cedric Diggory, I was shunned. People even asked me condescendingly about my educational background.

But the moment I took the initiative to tell people that Cedric was 'hot', man, girls were welcoming me like some long-lost brother. (Although, truth be told, yes I do agree Cedric's a fine specimen of the male species. There. I've said it.)

The last hypothesis I have, is that people choose/reject idols as way of making a personal statement. Thus, a principled and feisty girl might well resist the tides of peer pressure, and refuse to get into a tizzy over Cedric - ironically, some people who succeed in doing so become mini-idols in their own right.

This would be a good point in time to refute the horrendous claim, by a friend of mine no less, that I purposely idolize the most bile-inducing repulsive females for the sake of being different. My friend, it is surely no feat to identify common beauty, and more often than not it is the hidden beauty that astounds.

Also, to the snub that Cho Chang is 'just your average girl-next-door', pray tell, why do a thousand other girls-next-door not match up??

At the very least, thank goodness Cedric's dead. Let's please have more of Voldemort.

Willy

Willy the werewolf had a special trait
Now it wasn't something he would happily relate
To other werewolves who might casually ask -
It wasn't a prideful trait in which to gloriously bask
And the uniqueness simply was this:
All the fur he sprouted wasn't really his

It all began as a receding fur-line
Something unheard of among his kind
Yet before long Willy's fur came off in clumps
And his spirits spiralled down into the dumps
For if werewolves were protective of anything
It was their fur, long, black, luxuriously flowing

Willy could no longer go out like before
For hunting was no longer a pleasure but a chore
Who can savage and claw somebody
While at the same time hold in place a toupee?
And instead of screaming his prey laughed uncontrollably
For no one can take a bald werewolf seriously

Yet since he retained his strength and agility
He tried to salvage the remainder of his dignity
By taking up new and challenging occupations
At various disparate institutions
The first of which was a bouncer at Zouk
No real surprise though at this path he took

But as they say old habits often die hard
And Willy began to bite those who let down their guard
Yet as he bit the occasional thug
Soon Willy's blood was contaminated with drugs
Thus his job ended when a police raid was staged
And he ended unceremoniously up in a cage

When Willy escaped the idea of doing sports stuck in his mind
For by nature werewolves are the competitive kind
And in the sprint trials he broke all the records
Complacency was something he could well afford
But disqualification loomed - his true nature he couldn't fake
For unlike the others Willy competed on all four legs

After further failures Willy just simply gave up
And with his senses dulled and fangs no longer sharp
Willy huddled on a lonely street and cried
(If fully self-aware he would have been horrified)
His heart was shattered his spirit torn
There never was a werewolf quite so forlorn

Then a miracle happened, and not a moment too late -
A little homeless girl passed by that very minute
This girl, though poor and scruffy and not very old
Possessed a loving heart of solid gold
And when she heard poor Willy in his sorry state
To him she found herself gravitate

Fearless, she pattered forward and hugged Willy tight
A gesture which surely caused Willy fright
And in the calmest tones she simply said
"Don't cry Mr Balding Doggy, I'll find you a bed
Though I can't give you all that other doggies possess
Your company's all I want now, I confess!"

And now sometimes out of the corner of your eye
You'll spot a little street urchin go rushing by
Side by side with her new-found companion
Laughing and playing with complete abandon
And not once will you ever observe
The "dog's" almost complete lack of fur

This poem's special for me. I had a dog once, a Dalmatian cross-breed whose spots you could only see when he shed fur. And I think along the way, I grew to take him for granted, and failed to appreciate him while he was still around.

If I had him still, I think now would be a good time to pat him, and have him curl up at my feet.

Dialect

The moment my mum started complaining to my dad about the poor service she encountered whilst shopping the other day, my left kidney twinged.

I don't know about you, but when it comes to matters of personal safety, I have quite the well-evolved and developed gut instinct. Left kidney twinges should never be disregarded.

Logic and rational thought reigned for a moment. Why would you be anywhere in the range of fire, they said. Your mum's talking about some young punk who couldn't be bothered to do a good job - you're not even related remotely!

Ho ho ho, my left kidney sniggered, I'm never wrong.

Logic will always fail when it comes to leaps of understanding, because it demands order and a sequential flow of information. Left kidneys grab pieces from everywhere to put two and two together. As it turned out, my left kidney was right (correct, to avoid confusion). For those more inclined to logical, Science-y thinking, I've repieced together the flow of conversation.

Bad service --> Rude and insolent staff --> Inability to understand my grandma's requests for help --> Inability to understand dialect --> Abhorent trend now --> Shameful that the young can't understand simple dialect --> For that matter, Honteng (my, ironically, dialect name) also cannot speak dialect --> Why can't you pick up dialect Honteng --> Why why why why why

It makes you pause, really, when you think about how just one generation makes so much of a difference. I can understand and speak rudimentary Cantonese and Hokkien, but it hardly counts when half your vocab's, er, anatomical terms.

It's sad, no doubt. At any community service project involving the elderly now, the peers held most highly in regard are those who understand dialect and who manage actually talk to them, instead of resorting to broken Mandarin and more gestures than a mime artist.

I wonder how the elderly feel, watching their world taken over by a tribe of monkeys gibbering away in some unintelligible language. Has it ever occurred to you that the same might happen to us, that our grandchildren might be total strangers to us by virtue of language alone?

At the present moment, however, I was a little chaffed by my parent's remarks. First, my command of English must be good, "because it is my first language". Then, I have to excel in Mandarin too, "because it is my first language". Oh my, did you actually manage to guess that dialect is incidentally "my first language" too, because I am Cantonese?

Which part of "first" do they not understand?!?

It's simply not feasible for the average person to be well-versed in all of the above. I am always mindful of the astute observation my psychologist friend Siaocharn made, that the first sign of being competent in a language, is being able to compose poems in that language.

Poems in English are fun to write, even quite rewarding at times. My poems in Chinese only make my little cousins laugh, and almost always earn me a black mark from Haoyun's family. And the dialect 'poems' I know, are firstly not original, and secondly not the kind you recite over a family dinner.

Sigh, but my parents are right. It all just boils down to effort. My friends in Medicine are struggling to pick up dialect now, in order to converse with their patients more effectively, and before long they will acquire sufficient dialect to sound halfway educated.

Oh well. One more addition to my list of New Year resolutions.

Cute And Cuddly

Received the first official complaint yesterday that my posts are getting too long. Will strive to keep this one short.

Since school began this year, I have heard at least three independant proclamations from various girls that they prefer their boyfriends to be 'cute and cuddly', rather than muscle bound. According to them, meaty boyfriends are nicer to hug, and are warmer in general.

Hello. Soft toys and blankets exist for a reason.

Indeed, this revelation has greatly vexed me. Whatever happened to the over-hyped six-pack alpha male we see in the media, the one who gets all the babes? Isn't he the default embodiment of manhood?

Last night, Haoyun mentioned Panda Xiong's weight, and told me that if ever we got further in our relationship she wants me to be as 'prosperous' as he is. If you haven't read the papers, at his recent wedding Panda looked like this, up 40kg a few years ago to 100kg now.

(If you don't know who he is, you can read more about him here)

Males don't handle mixed signals well. If you want us to be walking rocks or tottering marshmellows, just tell us. Clearly, please.

Life's A Tease

The earliest tease I remember, was waaay back in Primary Three or Four. There we were, a quiet, orderly bunch of students walking up four flights of stairs to our classroom. The epitome of discipline.

Suddenly, out from nowhere, someone shouted "Last guy up to the classroom loves XXX!" (XXX being, of course, one of the prettiest girls in class). Oh, how I remember that lovely stampede. Every guy's skin must have tingled with adrenalin, prickled in response to the challenge! The din we made as we scrambled and leapt and bulldozed our way to the top... sigh.

(Of course, we must have literally trampled over the girls in our class, but it was ok, back then we wouldn't have had to date them for a few more years to come.)

That first tease sparked off an unending torrent of teases. Maybe it was the novelty of the game, or just awakening hormones striving to make their presence felt, but before long everyone had caught onto the teasing craze. In one fell swoop, the entire landscape of boy-girl relationships changed.

One day you could talk to any girl you fancied, could eat with her, play with her, walk with her, and no one as much as batted an eyelid. The next you knew, there were suddenly all sorts of unseen rules in place that governed all interaction with the opposite sex - make even the slightest booboo, and the rest of the class would be up in melodious chorus about how you loved her, how you two wanted to marry, and how many kids you would have.

You know The Song as well as I do. Guy and Girl, under a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G...

For instance, no girl could officially be your 'friend' anymore. They were either an acquaintance or your Wife. You couldn't sit together alone with her in the canteen. You couldn't smile when you talked to her. You had to be mean to her, or else it meant you loved her. The list was endless.

Teasing, as it turned out, played an extremely crucial role in our social development.

Undeniably, it first helped differentiate between the people who could take jokes and the People Who Could Not Take Jokes. I am a person who can take jokes. At the very worst I would get a little miffed and irritated, but at the end of the day I would be fine. We learned to leave the Other Sort alone though, especially after their possessed fits of savage and brutal lunacy in class. You'll be surprised at how much an 11 year old can resemble a pitbull. On drugs.

Secondly, teasing was instrumental in helping us develop social verve. The first few days of the craze, the only known response available to us after getting teased was to cover our faces and run. That simply didn't cut it, and it was not long before we evolved resistence and adapted.

Typically, our development could be charted as such:

Stage One

Teaser: I saw you talking to XXX! You love her right? Waaa... *cue The Song*
Victim: Aaaarrrggghhh..... *wail wail*

Stage Two - The Denial

Teaser: You two were eating together! How sweet! How many children you want? *cue The Song*
Victim: Where got? Where got I ask you? I never sat with her! Girls are evil! I hate them all!

Stage Three - The Counter-Attack

Teaser: I saw you looking at her in class! You love her right? Right? *cue The Damn Song*
Victim: You talk about her everyday! In fact, you are the one who secretly loves her right? Don't worry ok, I'll help the two of you get married! *cue The Censored Version Of The Song*

The funniest thing is, boys and girls learnt to act more maturely somewhere around 13-18, when they realized that there was, indeed, much to love about the other sex. Guys stopped pulling girls' hair, and started stroking them instead. Even without couples officially announcing their relationship, there was practically no teasing at all.

I'm in no position to talk about the girls, but I believe there to have been a reciprocal understanding. All in all, there was a truce...

... which ended when University came around. This, you understand, puts a severe dent in the 'maturity comes with age' theory.

I can't deny it. The evidence is before my eyes. In University, the teasing has been resurrected. And, oh boy, it's a entirely new ball game. Where there was frankness before, there is subtlety now. Where there was inane blanket one-size-fits-all teases before, there are Target-Acquiring-High-Destruction-Homing-Smart-Bomb teases now.

And in this new season, you'll be surprised to find out how relevant the old defences are. It's a bit like war, where the core principles never change, only the exterior facades. As a battle-scarred veteran, may I humbly offer some simple tips for the more oppressed among my friends.

Principle One: Always act innocent. Most of the shots fired at you are test rounds, designed to test your reaction rather than score a hit. Any unusual response on your part would give your weak spot away, confirming any suspicions immediately. Remember, he doesn't know what you know.

A short case in point is reproduced below, taken from real life over MSN.

Me: Wow, today's his birthday. He must be really happy.
Victim: Yar lor. Haha.
Me: Wonder whether he has gotten any presents or not.
Victim: Think so la. Dunno what to get him leh.
Me: I know what's free! A birthday kisssssssss....
Victim: Probably go down to town lat
Victim: IDIOT hanting

(Note the uncommon, unusual and sudden interjection, laced with fire and brimstone. Score.)

Principle Two: Don't encourage them by reacting. Drop your jaw, freeze, stare blankly ahead and go into Suspend Mode. Refuse to react until your tormentors get bored and leave. Not advisable for the ticklish.

Principle Three: Always... wait a minute! Why am I sharing all this?!?

Seriously though, part of the fun is knowing where to draw the lines. People are akin to arable land in this respect. Farm the same piece of land too intensively and too often, and the returns decrease.

There might well be some fundamental anthropological explanation for the existence of the social phenomenon of teasing. Maybe in Univerisities overseas, teasing at this age is extinct, and that it is peculiar to our society. Maybe the effects of teasing upon budding adults has far greater consequences than we imagine.

But surely, life would be so much duller without it.

Movie

I like my movies, but it's really puzzling the way people view the activity of watching movies.

Just think about it. Everyone knows it's one of the more anti-social group activities out there. You hardly get to interact much as a group, and especially when time's tight and there aren't many opportunities to go out, it's a waste to spend a couple of hours glued to a mega idiot-box.

Yet, and test this yourself if you don't believe me, tell anyone you're going to watch a movie alone, and watch them gasp in shock. "Oh no, you're going to watch a movie by yourself? How very pathetic!". It's a mysterious contradiction, I know.

In fact, sometimes you just get the worst of both worlds. When I was out with a group of friends the other day, just bumming around town, I mooted the idea of watching a movie and promptly got crucified. Then, after a night of crying myself to sleep, I decided to watch a movie myself. The first two friends I told made me feel so gooood about it, I stayed home to study instead.

I can't understand it. Ruishan, and probably ten million other people, are right. Maybe it's just me. Sadly enough, the injustice doesn't stop there.

Another curiosity I've observed, is that you are what you watch. Watch too much fantasy and you start running into old houses and gleefully throwing open decrepit wardrobes hoping to find more than mothballs and ancient clothes. Watch too much horror or suspense, and everytime someone makes a loud noise you have to change pants.

For that reason, people keep an eye out for what you watch. In different pockets of society, saying without thinking that you watched a certain movie can be the last faux pas you make.

I remember one particular Monday morning in army. There we were, four officers in the same lift, on our way to work. My OC started off by saying he had a great time watching some gory horror flick with his girlfriend, and began describing the juiciest bits from the movie. We were impressed, after all, this was the movie that had reviewers leaving in repulsed disgust.

The other two officers happened to catch some cool action movie together with friends, and heartily recommended it for the brilliant cinematography and innovative fight sequences. We just had to catch it, they said. Then, the dreaded 8-month-pregnant pause came.

"So, Hanting, did you watch any movie over the weekend?"

"mmmmfff Yes mmmffphffmmmff."

"Huh? What type of show was it? What was it about?"

"Oh, it was quite good, you know, some super violent horror-action-science-fiction thing. Lots of blood, sex and gore. Foreign shows are like that, you know."

"What was it called? You watched with your girlfriend right? Come on, spit it out."

"mmfff Princess Diaries mmmfff."

You see what I mean? I can't watch Doom without being an insensitive tree-residing neanderthal, neither can I watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and escape jibes of being a soppy hopeless romantic. It's a lose-lose situation.

And when you finally do find someone to watch a movie like Nightwatch with, and you start making plans for it, he goes off and watches it with a girl instead. Confronting him later in righteous anger doesn't soothe any wounds either.

Me: Infidel! Father of Lies! Friendship-Breaker!
Mr. J: Sorry la. I lupchu, don't angry la.
Me: You tell me, you tell me, what does she have that I don't? Huh??

(Some questions... just shouldn't be asked)

But I've since learnt to handle quiffling problems such as these. It's very simple, actually - the One Rule To Rule Them All is basically to have an endless supply of imaginary company of the right sort.

Want to watch Sky High? Concoct an imaginary younger cousin. Want to watch Exorcism of Emily Rose? Dream up a bunch of havoc army friends. Want to watch Just Like Heaven? Fabricate a willing girlfriend (I will die for this, haha).

Die-hard movie kakis with similar schedules are just too few and far between. *sigh*

Ms Binder

I've always been soft-hearted. Not completely soft-hearted, mind you. A particularly poignant book will elicit a tear or two, but I won't gush everytime the sun sets beautifully, or weep for evey abandoned hamster out there. Think... The Rock being sensitive.

Strangely enough, I cannot bear to be harsh or cruel even in computer games. Of course, if my task is to fry every ugly alien there is invading Earth, natural animalistic instincts take over. I hardly blink. But conjure a sufficiently believable real-life situation, and I'm putty.

The last time that happened was in Star Wars KOTOR. As a Jedi Knight, I was faced with a deceptively simple choice: either take pity on a desitute mother I rescued and give her money, or kill her and loot the treasure she was hiding. Simple, no?

No. Although I began the game resolving to be a full-fledged evil Sith Lord, swearing to take every opportunity I could to swing to the Dark Side, I just couldn't do it. 5 minutes after killing that electronic character, my Sith Lord deflated. There was pride in ruthlessly taking over the world, but endless shame in killing the helpless. The Force left me. My lightsaber flickered, and went out.

Eventually, I had to load the game, and take the alternative choice of helping that poor mother. It's silly, I know, but I just had to. I would just have to take pains to keep this dity secret from the other Sith Lords.

(Incidentally, I think computer games are a brilliant way to diagnose how much of a risk to society your child is. For example, make him play Sim City. If every city he touches reaches its zenith, good. If every five minutes he triggers an earthquake, typhoon, tsunami, asteroid storm, Godzilla attack, and laughs maniacally, consider an exorcism.)

However, I've also always enjoyed mischief. There is this obscene thrill at delivering a jest so subtle it leaves your victim spluttering in shock, or in pulling off the most nefarious gag on a completely unsuspecting victim. The problem comes when, every once in a while, conscience pricks, just like in Star Wars.

Once at dinner, I discreetly spat out this particular bit of meat that tasted funny. Something was wrong with it, but I didn't know what and I didn't want to find out. Towards the end of dinner my brother spotted the rejected bit of meat on my plate, speared it with his fork, and asked if I still wanted it.

My face went blank, and I said no in the most casual and off-hand manner I could muster. There was no time to think. You can have it if you want, I said. Heaven was only a few steps away.

Ah... the good old days. I laughed sooo freaking hard afterwards even my dad was forced to take a stand and chastise me. A while later however, the thrill faded. My brother's face upon learning the truth, orignally etched in my mind under the heading 'Priceless', troubled my conscience to no end.

O, what had I done? What ancient brotherly conventions had I breached? The trust, the betrayal! The shame!

I marched straight up to him later, and muttered a heart-felt apology, which he graciously accepted. The incident scarred me so deeply, I remained nice to him for a full two days.

More recently, however, there was Miss Binder. For the fortunate few among you who don't know, the Research Binder was this mammoth assignment/project where we had to assemble a case for our 'client'. The Binder was such a huge strain on time and energy, I couldn't even summon the mood to write for weeks.

Near the end, I christened the project my Betrothed, and joked to friends that I felt like I was married to the damn thing. To make things more bearable, you understand. Then, I made the fatal mistake of signing off, in an email to my Tutor, as "Hanting, newly-wed to Ms. Binder".

(NO, I was not acting cute. Erase that thought from your mind, I know who you are.)

Lo and Behold the power of Cause and Effect. The next week, I arrived a bit late for class to find my Tutor looking cheated and forlorn, as she stood over this heart-shaped platter of cookies on the table. My jaw dropped.

The more I heard, the tighter the vice around my heart wound. My beloved Tutor, thinking that I had truly gotten married 'to a Caucasian girl called Ms. Beender', had gushed to her husband and colleagues about her lucky student who found time to get married despite the heavy work schedule.

She admired the courage I possessed to settle down, and had her faith in romance re-affirmed. She even selected a special heart-shaped platter to bring her cookies on, to mark the twin joyous events of school term ending and my marraige.

O, what have I done? What ancient teacher-student conventions have I breached? The trust, the betrayal! The shame!

It's a sign. I just know it is. It's high time to revert to the sweet, wholly innocent boy I was 15 years ago. Because if I don't, at this rate, I'm going to get guano from Santa.

Tender Loving Care

Sometimes, I pity Primary school English teachers. I believe that given a chance they would burn all past year essay topics, and start the slate clean with new topics. Topics which invirogate the mind and stimulate the soul.

I cannot imagine the tedium of wading through a million essays on the same topic, year after year. Can you imagine how depressed a teacher is when she tells her class of 30 Primary school kids to write about why their mother is special to them?

She's depressed, because she knows, to her very bones, that come the deadline, she's gonna read 30 essays about how their mothers showed exceptional love and care when they were ill. 30 varying accounts of illness so severe they were confined to their beds, 30 identical accounts of slavish, caring, loving, doting mothers.

In fact, just to differentiate the essays enough for grading purposes, she'll probably give marks for how many different ways they manage to say "loving" or "caring", or for the vividness of description of illness. Or, she might just throw the papers into the air, ranking the papers by the order in which they float to the ground first.

It all either means that this country is producing entire crops of mothers with all the right values, or our young are watching too much TV.

In any case, an interesting thing is that if you were to task older children the same essay, you start seeing very diverse variations. The older the target group, the smaller the probability of encountering the same TLC-effusing scenarios.

There is only one valid hypothesis. The older you get, the less TLC you get from parents. And, as I found out, from friends and loved ones as well.

Take today for instance. I caught a flu bug that's been going round, and crawled home feeling completely washed out. When I spotted my mum coming home, I jumped onto the couch, curled up in a foetal position, and started making little whimpering noises. For effect, I tried to spasm once in a while.

"Wa. Tough day at school is it? Must sleep more." Then, she was gone.

More drastic action was necessary. I lurched to her room, and sprawled across the floor, tongue hanging out for effect.

"Mum, I think I'm sick. I feel feverish......"

"Take Panadol. Have your dinner. Then sleep!" She then stepped over me, and left the room.

Feeling completely foolish and hurt and unwanted and unloved by now, I retreated to my room and tore up all my Primary school essays on family life. I larked the night away, and when Haoyun came online, I rejoiced. Finally, some sympathy and compassion.

HT: Feeling sick, had running nose for damn long today. Sianz. Now got headache. =(
HY: Erm. Take Panadol.
HT: Wa, only prescribe medication, no TLC?!?!?!??!?!?!
HY: Panadol is good. Dun take too many though... paracetamol overdose can give u acute liver failure.
HT: ..... does that count as TLC.
HY: Yes.
HT: =(

(On the subject of MSN conversations, the one funny thing that did happen today was the following.

HT: Wa, I think I know what I am down with.
Jared: What.
HT: I think it is goodlookingnitis.
J: That's bad. I got it long time ago too. Even worse, mine's terminal.

Oh, poor delusional friend of mine.)

Again, you might ask, what's the point of telling me all this? Of course we know that the TLC you get decreases as you get older! Why, you don't see people coddling adults like they children do you? Whatever happened to resiliance and independance?

The point is this - if people are so accustomed to not receiving TLC, that they have learnt to live without it, imagine how they would melt if you suddenly showered them with a full blast of sustained TLC!

After you manage to convince them that you are not trying to borrow money or get them to change their wills, just watch the glow spread from inside as they bask in your undivided attention and concern.

Seriously, though, do spare some time today to reach out to a friend or loved one, and give them a hug and tell them you appreciate them. We humans tend to take things for granted once in a while, and remember, it's always nice to be appreciated, even when there's no reason for it.

Me? I'm off.

I'm going to write an essay about Panadol and the impact it has made on my life.

Friendship Test

I've got enough time for a quick post!

Need a quick and convenient way to figure out who your friends are, and what they think of you? Look no further!

Step 1: Approach your subject. Engage in light, easy-going conversation to get him off his guard. Limit to about 3~5 minutes.

Note: Create as natural an environment as possible. Ensure that there is no gleam in your eyes. You could wait around a corner until you hear your friend approach, walk out and bump into him, then say, "Oh my goodness it's so good to see you after so long! What are you doing here?"

(Above model subject-engagement method does not work as well with classmates or close friends. Exercise common sense)

Step 2: Begin the test by saying, "Well, I hope I manage to do well in my present course, I don't have many alternative career paths open to me." Tailor this Opening to your individual style.

Note: Do not abruptly insert this opening. If your friend is heatedly attacking the tenets of the abortionist movement, for example, do not suddenly interject with the Opening. Similarly, if your friend is crying over a lost love, keep the Test for another day.

If you need to ask why, this test is not meant for you.

Step 3: Hopefully, your friend will take the bait and ask you whether you have ever considered doing anything other than law/medicine/engineering/living off your parents' hard earned money. If your subject does ask this, you're on the right track. Well done.

Note: If your subject is the submissive or blur kind, and says 'Oh, ok' to everything you say, you've got to try harder to make him ask the question. The Test would fail otherwise. Consider a Paris Hilton approach, ie "Oh I wonder what other careers I would have tried out, and I wish my friends would ask me so that we can talk about it!"

Caution - a Paris Hilton approach with any subject above 5 years old runs an approximately 85% chance that the game would be given away.

Step 4: Say, "Oh, I was thinking maybe medicine, or engineering, or teaching, or modelling." Watch for response. If your subject splutters and sprays his drink halfway across the room in shocked condescension, aghast at how unrealistically you view yourself, the bright side is, you get to save money on one birthday present for that year.

Note: This final step allows for much flexibility. If you wanted to figure out if your subject thought you were a psychomotor-moron, for example, you could substitute Step 4 with "... maybe teaching, or writing, or professional juggling." The possibilities are endless.

Step 5: Analysis of results is next. The question is, what would a true friend say? When someone tells you an untruth to make you feel better, is he doing you a favor or an injustice? Is it true that people merely want to hear what is good for the ego, instead of what is truly good for them?

I don't know about you, but after the test yielded suspiciously similar results from 5 different friends, I chose to happily pull the wool back over my eyes.

Life is a bit easier like this.

To Read Or Not To Read...

Two night ago I received concrete proof that Hanting 21 has, basically, completely failed.

A little explanation is in order. Inspired by the Singapore 21 blueprint a while back, I sat down to chart my desired personal growth for the next few years.

There was probably over-ambition on my part though. Instead of aspiring to be well-rounded (of which I might literally be now boohoo) I simply listed every desirable male characteristic I could think of, thus things like "able to feel genuinely happy and concerned everytime Liver United or whatever-you-call-it-scores" and "able to enjoy rugby whole-heartedly" made the list.

Of course, things haven't changed much. I can't seem to run more than a few kilometres without feeling like I'm giving birth, I still don't congregate at smoky pubs to watch grown men kick a piece of dead cow around, and I watch cool cars zip by without having the slightest idea what engine chassis powers them.

For all I know, they're running on Floo powder.

But I digress. Two nights ago after dinner out, I chanced upon this new quaint little bookshop, and basically experienced feelings akin to a mother holding her newborn for the first time. I rushed inside and lost myself amidst the shelves, burbling with joy everytime I came across a familiar title.

And then, in a moment of extreme weakness, on impulse I bought... my very first Terry Pratchett book. Never did I think that $15 could buy you a little slice of Heaven.

30 minutes later, the shame emerged from the crevice it was hiding it, and overwhelmed me in its entirety. How could I face the world like this, in my bona-fide Geek Mode? What the heck was I doing being happy with buying a book, in an age when only gadgets, girls and sports should be the foundation of the meaning of life for men?

My personal joy quickly became my personal disgrace. I had to stand at Borders and pretend to be interested in FHM for an hour before the social pressure and shame began to subside.

Ahh... yes. Me man, no read big words, like pictures.

The National Library Board has always been in a tizzy over the reading habits of Singaporeans, and rightly so too. Over the years the majority of friends I've made might haven recognized the value and pleasure of reading, but a much smaller proportion actually do so.

In fact, I remember being completely unnerved by a friend who told me, proudly even, that he has never read more than 5 books for leisure in his (sorry) 15 year life. That's like going to Sara Lee and professing your hatred for cakes.

I guess the truth is that books are just not popular as I thought they were, for far too many reasons. Books are boring because they are slow-moving, books fail to create the same intense experience as movies, books take forever to complete. It's amazing how many reasons people will come up with to discharge their guilt.

Given the importance of reading and how you cannot leave it to chance that your kids will develop the reading habit, I delved into teaching methods designed to help your children foster the reading bug.

Although there are many different schools of thought, the general idea seems to be that you need to start them off young. Reading to children before bedtime, or setting a personal example, or encouraging instead of deriding your child everytime he or she picks up a book (aiyoh Ah Seng why read so much read will help you grow brain meh) all help too.

If all else fails I say you should just go and beat them with a chair until they see the importance of reading. Yes, it might hurt you more than it hurts them (though I doubt it), but a little discipline is good in the long run.

I personally have to read something for leisure once in a while, or else I literally feel starved and imbalanced. Reading cases in law just doesn't cut it - in less than half a page the protagonist grows up, gets hit by a car, suffers great injustice, overcomes personal hurdles and sues the butt off the driver.

Sometimes the story ends without you knowing anything more than the hero's first name, which says a lot about developing feeling for the characters involved. After every ten pages or so, I feel like I've been having a row of emotionless one-night stands.

Maybe one day society will progress to the point when avid readers need no longer hide, and can step out from the shadows. When there would be smoky pubs full of people who sit and debate Pratchett, when the rite of passage for young males would be finishing the Wheel of Time in one sitting instead of purchasing their first FHM.

Only time would tell.

Diet II

I believe in karma. There's definitely retribution... and then there's instant retribution.

Just two days after last posting about diets and pondering why girls could never stand up to peer pressure, I found out why.

Interestingly enough, the day had begun quite well. A few hours into school, I noticed a friend of mine who kept staring at me. I tried to ignore it at first - after all, I long ago reasoned that being scrutinized in public like a zoo exhibit was a small price to pay for being criminally good-looking.

Imagine my surprise, however, when my friend suddenly quipped, "Hey, did you do anything over the weekend? For some reason you look damn good today."

Of course, even though I had condemned superficiality with conviction on a number of occasions, what was to stop my little heart from brimming with joy? Oh, but for my strict self-imposition of humility I would have sprouted wings and fluttered away!

In my opinion, the praise was no less diminished (no matter what my other friends say) by the fact that the astute friend in question was Jared. A guy, just in case you haven't had the pleasure of meeting him.

(It didn't count, my other friends maintained, if the person who praised you wasn't a girl. You want to look good to girls, not guys!

Desist in that line of reasoning, I replied. Jared is good-looking, that's been established. If you were a learner driver, would you rather be praised for your skills by your mother, or the driving instructor?)

But the happiness was not to last. Shortly after, I met a female JC classmate, who took one look at me and said, in her own words, "Sorry Hanting, but I've got to say this. You look like you've... gotten bigger."

I like to think that if I had met my female classmate before Jared, this post would never have come to pass. But in meeting Jared first, my ego had been set up for a bigger roasting at the subsequent bon-fire. Therefore, there are divine forces at work, hence instant retribution.

Sorry to all the ladies out there. It is nigh impossible to brush peer pressure off like nothing, and we all have our moments of fallibility. You are forgiven for skipping the occasional meal.

THERE I HAVE SAID IT I HAVE ABSOLVED MYSELF. NOW LET ME BE.

Diet (Not The Government)

Warning: the following fact may shock you.

According to my mother, in the thirty odd years it took her to mature from an infant to a mother of her own... she did not go on a single slimming diet.

In fact, when I asked my mum to air her views on girls who go on diets nowadays, I realized people would pay good money just to see the look of pure horror and disbelief on her face. I might as well have just told her that I was the father of an illegitimate brood of children.

In my time, she would say, it was practically impossible to find a girl who consciously dieted. Everyone ate as much as they could get their hands on, and never worried about how much their fats were showing. Healthy mindset, healthy lifestyle.

Of course, I rushed to the photo cabinet to check out the girls from her era. An age where no girl dieted? Amazing! Was the smallest size in the clothing market equivalent to our current XL? Was every group shot taken with wide frame lens?

To my surprise, the girls from her age looked pretty much like the girls, well, now.

Simple analysis offers a host of explanations. Nutrition was not as plentiful or affordable back then, girls (people in general) take to more sedentary lifetstyles now, there's a higher value placed on looks as compared to before, girls just worry too much, the list goes on.

Of course, knowing all that doesn't help you grasp the current reality as it is. Today, through random conversations with friends, I discovered four girls who are currently on diets. Yes, although every single one of them looked perfectly healthy to me, all four were actively dieting and missing the occasional meal.

To all the girls in the world, are you worrying that you would lose potential suitors owing to your weight? That you wouldn't look good in, say, your wedding photo? All you need is a simple change in perspective.

Starve now. Order a big bowl of mee pok, with less oil, less vege, less meat, less sauces, then just suck on the wooden chopsticks for sustenance.

Get a boyfriend. If the conviction is so strong that being fat reduces your chances of getting attached, then being thin should make the guys flock. If they still don't come, then, well, starve more. Nothing destroys self-control in a guy faster than the sight of a girl who weighs less than a PSP.

Binge. Once you're attached eat to your heart's content. Love produces a hallucinogenic effect stronger than Ecstasy cut with talcum powder. At this stage in the relationship, nothing in the world would make him think you're anything less than tantalizingly desirable.

Plan. Six months before a photo shoot or The Big Day, return to The Wooden Chopsticks diet. 2 weeks before, allow for the sucking of 3 Tic Tacs a day, so that you may look svelte instead of severely malnourished. Choose a train for your wedding gown that can conceal the bag of saline for your IV drip, to give you the extra boost to say 'I Do' with conviction.

Cross the finishing line. After the last camera fires away, collapse into the arms of your beloved. He won't be able to tell exhaustion from malnourishment.

Seriously though, I agree that I shouldn't be propagating the sexist view that girls only diet to attract guys. Not every girl thinks that hitching a guy is that important after all, at the end of the day. Also, what's wrong with dieting simply to feel good and look good?

But times sure change fast.

Now, just before any girl meets her boyfriend's parents for the first time, she has to worry about how she looks, how she talks, what she talks about, how she carries herself. In fact, my mum told me some time back that she too had developed a list of criteria for any girlfriend I brought home.

Before, my great-grandmother's vetting process was far faster. She didn't care if you brought home a girlfriend who was 1.9m, or who had three arms, or who needed to shave more than you do - she just looked straight to the hips.

Big hips, pass. Small hips, fail. If you don't know why, don't ask me.

In any case I admit that it's much harder living life as a girl. Guys never have nightmares over which potential wardrobe misstep would render us social outcasts, or worry about how the rest of the guys would spit on us for putting on 0.5 kg over the holidays.

In fact, I salute any girl over the age of 18 who still has 3 approving friends - you've treaded through a minefield I never would have known to navigate. You'll go far.

Just eat more please. You wouldn't believe the physical pain we guys feel when we see you girls skip meals.

Hush

Why cry, my long-time friend
Those tear-drops of misty sorrow
There is no hurt too deep to mend
No shoulder too unwelcoming to borrow
So sprinkle away like grains of sand
Your pent up sadness, and joy will surely follow

No wait, humour me and let me guess
The nature of the woe plaguing you
From what I see it's easy to assess
It's an affliction that hounds not one but two
That the one whose composure is likewise dispossessed
Is none other than your beau

How did I know? Why don't be silly
Few things would affect all people this way
That would make one abandon hope so freely
Or cast a gloom over the brightest day
If before you doubted how heartache could hurt so dearly
Well now I'm sure you have nothing to say

... Oh I see, so that's why you're so distraught
But be strong now you silly thing
His going away to study is no one's fault
It's only patience you'll be needing
Plus he'll return even faster than you thought
You'll be surprised at how time had passed a-flying

I know, it might be hard for you to believe
But truly you're among the fortunate few
Though your heart aches now with no reprieve
It surely means your love is true
For wouldn't it be worse if when he had to leave
No longing or pain on your part was due?

You're lucky, really I do think so -
How many have yet to find the love they long for
Though the sadness and longing that you now know
May conspire to drive you up the wall
But take strength in knowing that all your woes
Are petty next to all that your love with him stands for

So hush now.

Age

This morning, I awoke to a major crisis.

For one, my phone alarm didn't wake me up. This normally gets me in a bad mood, because I like to think I've grown past needing the Multiple Alarm System (one alarm under the pillow, one by the bed, one by the dressing table, one being my Mum In A Bad Mood). In any case, being late is never a good thing (not being dead, but not being on time, that is).

The crisis well and truly began to unfold, when I checked my phone to see why it didn't go off. I turned it on, and waited for the welcome screen. Then I waited some more. And some more. And then some more.

But the welcome screen never came. My phone just lit up, displayed a very friendly blank screen, then beeped non-stop like a happy idiot.

My brain woke up in double-quick time. The entire list of potential repercussions flooded my mind as I mechanically tried to restart and save my phone. The first beads of cold sweat rolled down my brow.

How could I rescue the priceless SMSes I'd stored? What about all the contacts from my fan club? Most importantly, and by far the most worrisome, how would I ever adapt to a new phone?!?

It is well-known that when the human brain is unable to handle extreme shock, it will unfocus to allow some other more pleasant thought to occupy the owner of the brain, to prevent the owner from doing anything stupid.

In my case, a distant memory of a conversation between Enying and I was dredged up. That day, we were discussing the merits of different brands of laptops that the school made available to us. Eventually, an Apple vs. Microsoft issue arose.

In response to the query why she was reluctant to purchase a Powerbook, Enying said that she did not embrace the idea of learning to adapt to a completely different system. I concurred then, saying that the whole notion of having to relearn the basics from scratch just put me off.

Only after a further five minutes of griping about why things had to keep changing, why consumers were always being forced to adapt and update, did we stop to listen to ourselves and the things we were saying. As the awful realization sank in, we simply burst out laughing.

Yes. If you haven't figured it out by now, we were laughing at the way we sounded just like our parents griping about keeping up with technology.

Oh, the way age creeps up on you.

One moment we were the upstarts, the firebrands, the young ones brimming with the energy to change the world with our ideas and actions. Out with outmoded rules and archaic systems; the young are here to infuse flexibility and invigorating lifeblood.

And the next moment, we're sitting comfy among our established habits and practices, tsk-tsking radical ideas and hating the way iTunes and MSN Messenger keeps asking us to update.

Eventually, I managed to save my phone, and avoided the unimaginable alternative of having to learn to use a Samsung or a Sony. How did I fix my phone? Did I troubleshoot the phone systematically, slowly identifying the problem? Did I go on the Net, source for solutions from support websites and attempt electrical engineering on my own?

Nah. I just did what my mum would have done - I dropped my phone on the floor, and prayed damn hard.

I hope my mum never reads this.

SMS

I used to laugh whenever I read articles that cautioned against sending emails or SMSes to unintended parties. I thought, that could never happen to me, I'm young and nimble and quick-minded, it's only the elderly who can ever do something like that.

And the horror stories that abound really do chill you. You've probably heard of the disgruntled worker who sent a vulgarity-laden tirade against the boss, to the boss. Or the daredevil Casonova who's called the right lass by the wrong name.

Yes, I've had the distinct pleasure of finding out myself, just how much your skin can crawl, how much your spheres can shrink, when you really do make a mistake like that.

The first time it happened was when I was at a group outing with a girl I once loved. The thing was, another girl (whom I was on good terms with) she particularly disliked was there as well. In a moment of extreme folly, I sent a semi-flirtatious SMS to the friend, thinking to tease her on her dressing that day.

And as I sent it, I told myself, 'Na, Hanting, don't be stupid and send it to the wrong person ah. Just think of what she would do to you. Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid.'

Was it my fault that their names were just two letters away from each other in my phonebook?

The moment I saw the SMS going to the wrong number I freaked. I know, I should have kept cool, then fenced off the resultant outpouring of fury with a sauve and debonair attitude. 'Aiya, just to see whether you will get jealous la' could probably have saved the day.

Oh, but I was so young and inexperienced then. When I freaked, I did a mad little dance around, clutching and squeezing and contorting my phone, in the vain hope that the outgoing electronic signals would somehow jam. My face went into Botox mode. I began to gurgle.

The best part was, when the beep on her phone came through, she looked at me and asked what was wrong. She then said, and I remember thinking then then that on the bright side we'll get to see how strong our relationship was,

"Why are you so excited? Ok ok, I know you've sent me an SMS already, I'll read it now."

Sometimes, nowadays, when my thumb wavers over a keypad, about to press the Send button, the scars still tingle. Honest.

A favourite story I like to relate about my BMT days, in fact, bears a close resemblance to my own personal tragedy. There was this guy who was on the phone every single night for hours on end, but he just simply refused to come clean with us and tell us about his girlfriend. According to him, he was just updating his mum on his day.

We thought hard about it. If he was lying to his army brothers, he deserved what was coming to him. If he wasn't lying, and really was talking to his mum while smiling like an idiot and giggling like a schoolgirl, then, well, by general standards of morality, he deserved it all the more.

One night, we waited until he left the bunk, then sped to his phone. We checked to see who he was calling every night, and promptly switched the number under that name with his mum's number. The dastardly deed done, we replaced his phone as we found it, and sat back to watch.

A nauseatingly cloying goodnight SMS and the relevant reply later, we watched a Jekyll/Hyde transformation unfold. It's memories like that which make Army worthwhile.

(On hindsight, we tarnished a good friendship, with only a barrel of laughs in return for it. On the balance of things however, seeing that our world is sullen and gloomy enough as it is... it was probably worth it.)

I've since learnt a lot. For instance, that there are situations in which you purposely make a mistake like that... but that's another post, another day. Suffice to say that while the uninitiated make mistakes, and the experienced avoid making them, only masters turn mistakes into opportunities.

Lastly, if you're in a relationship and you think both of you can't get any stronger, test it with a little boo-boo as described above.

If she doesn't stop hitting you after ten minutes, be warned, there's still room for improvement.