As Subtly As I Can Say It... =)
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Accident 1 : Ground Zero (Short)
I admit, the very first thing that leapt to mind when the black BMW smashed into my bumper, was, "Who's the unlucky bugger who just got hit?"
Now, six hours after the horrid incident, I'm just too drained to write any more. The details, as they say, will be flowing in soon.
And though I am too tired to write any more, damn if I haven't earned the right to BITCH.
And though I am too tired to write any more, damn if I haven't earned the right to BITCH.
Accident 2 : The Perspective
Recently, the much-publicised Bloggies Awards have captivated, spellbound and intrigued me for much longer than I expected, when it consumed my life for almost over a minute. I personally think that the moment you start giving out awards for blogs, it's the same thing as organizing Singapore Idol, where the core talent of singing is overshadowed by the pressing demands of showbusiness.
This way, it's the best-designed blog that wins, not the blogs which mean the most. The best blogs (in terms of writing, meaning) often lose out just because they lack something (design, flair, panache), and can you really say you're happy then? Hands up, all those people who saw True Idol Daphne lose just because she lacked luck.
But I digress. One of the winning blogs was in fact by this lady who did nothing but BITCH. I've seen the site. All she does is BITCH, BITCH, and then BITCH some more. I think we need some responsiblity around here, man. Look, every time someone visits your blog, a bit of your mood rubs off. The more suicidal you are, the more depressed you are, the more BITCHY you are, the less your readers benefit in terms of mental wellbeing.
Yet, just to prove my point, let me tell you about my last two days, in a BITCHY way.
It all began with the maid leaving. Leaving under a cloud of pent-up unhappiness and mutual suspicions. We would have managed ok, normally, if everyone (excluding my mum) hadn't developed some degenerate slothiness due to over-reliance on the maid.
Fast forward to my brother. While the house slowly crumbles under an accumulation of dust, unwashed crockery and miscelleanous muck, he is mostly exempted from the house-keeping responsibilities as he is a student, and it's tough balancing practicing guitar, practicing guitar, and practicing guitar. Furthermore, all his leisure time is taken up by practicing guitar, so it's unfair to him if we expect him to upkeep the house too.
But it's no longer ok if you just up and leave for school expecting everyone to wait at home to open the lousy door for you. And that's what happened. After I arranged to meet a friend at 4pm, and was just about to leave the house, my mum tells me that I better rid myself of my degenerate slothiness, and fetch my brother from school. And open the gate for him.
It's pointless arguing how stupid it is to thrash all of one's plans just like that. It would still be ok if my mum and I could contact my brother and at least find out his plans. But noooo.... I think that out of all the brilliant services Starhub offers, like 16 Channel Mosiac Surfing (16CMS) and Conference Calls With A Thousand People Simultaneously (CCWATPS), one of the most important is where you dial an 8 digit number, causing the related phone to ring, and the other person picks up. It's the Receiving A Lousy Normal Call (RALNC) service. But I'm guessing my brother's subscribing to Starhub only for 16CMS and CCWATPS, because he certainly doesn't or cannot RALNC.
By the time the fan can hardly rotate anymore (on account of all the s*it hitting it), my 4pm-friend's become an acquaintance.
The next day, whilst rushing to finish chores for my dad, restore the house to a semblance of serviceability, wake my brother for school, being late to meet aforementioned acquaintance, and still maintaning a cheery disposition so I don't ruin my girlfriend's day, a lousy BMW hits my car.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the night is still young, there's more.
As I panic on account of having an extensive driving experience of 0 year(s) and 1 month(s), as stated in the Accident Report Form, I realize I have no one to call for help. My dad's overseas, my mum's at class, my brother's practicing guitar, my girlfriend's waiting for me to have dinner. I logically then turn to a complete stranger from a car repair workshop for guidance and help, since she obviously has no vested interest in helping me. Right. The same no-vested-interest way farmers would force feed their livestock.
When I finally manage to return the car to a silent home, I find out my girlfriend's family's still waiting for me for dinner. So I rush down, because I'm thinking, hey, my day's been s*itty, but that's no reason for screwing up other peoples' day. Yet, for some reason, maybe because I'm still joking about the whole thing and not removing my hair in clumps, I mislead everyone to think I'm still happy and all inside. And thus, I end up getting rubbed the wrong way entirely. Girlfriend, I really couldn't talk more tonight, I really didn't want to screw your mood.
My dear reader, the end of this fantastic day is nigh. I delude myself by thinking my family will be so concerned over my safety (the accident, remember?) that all will be forgotten and forgiven, at least for one night. But I was wrong, and it's probably my fault, for not coming up with a better reason than I GOT HIT FROM BEHIND. MY CAR WAS STATIONARY. DOES IT LOOK LIKE MY FAULT? My parents ask me how come I didn't handle the entire accident/insurance reporting/claiming better, how come I made an error in the reporting of that silly guy's name. Gee, yeah, I really shouldn't have let the shock and the stress of getting hit on a jammed PIE bother me, huh.
Tomorrow morning I will rectify the Accident Report Form. Then I will meet another friend. Then I will split myself to go for three birthday parties, while keeping in mind that no matter who I honour with my degenerate slothy presence, I will still piss two friends off and make them think I'm anti-social and a Daphne-hater.
Damn, all this bitching and I don't even earn a prize.
This way, it's the best-designed blog that wins, not the blogs which mean the most. The best blogs (in terms of writing, meaning) often lose out just because they lack something (design, flair, panache), and can you really say you're happy then? Hands up, all those people who saw True Idol Daphne lose just because she lacked luck.
But I digress. One of the winning blogs was in fact by this lady who did nothing but BITCH. I've seen the site. All she does is BITCH, BITCH, and then BITCH some more. I think we need some responsiblity around here, man. Look, every time someone visits your blog, a bit of your mood rubs off. The more suicidal you are, the more depressed you are, the more BITCHY you are, the less your readers benefit in terms of mental wellbeing.
Yet, just to prove my point, let me tell you about my last two days, in a BITCHY way.
It all began with the maid leaving. Leaving under a cloud of pent-up unhappiness and mutual suspicions. We would have managed ok, normally, if everyone (excluding my mum) hadn't developed some degenerate slothiness due to over-reliance on the maid.
Fast forward to my brother. While the house slowly crumbles under an accumulation of dust, unwashed crockery and miscelleanous muck, he is mostly exempted from the house-keeping responsibilities as he is a student, and it's tough balancing practicing guitar, practicing guitar, and practicing guitar. Furthermore, all his leisure time is taken up by practicing guitar, so it's unfair to him if we expect him to upkeep the house too.
But it's no longer ok if you just up and leave for school expecting everyone to wait at home to open the lousy door for you. And that's what happened. After I arranged to meet a friend at 4pm, and was just about to leave the house, my mum tells me that I better rid myself of my degenerate slothiness, and fetch my brother from school. And open the gate for him.
It's pointless arguing how stupid it is to thrash all of one's plans just like that. It would still be ok if my mum and I could contact my brother and at least find out his plans. But noooo.... I think that out of all the brilliant services Starhub offers, like 16 Channel Mosiac Surfing (16CMS) and Conference Calls With A Thousand People Simultaneously (CCWATPS), one of the most important is where you dial an 8 digit number, causing the related phone to ring, and the other person picks up. It's the Receiving A Lousy Normal Call (RALNC) service. But I'm guessing my brother's subscribing to Starhub only for 16CMS and CCWATPS, because he certainly doesn't or cannot RALNC.
By the time the fan can hardly rotate anymore (on account of all the s*it hitting it), my 4pm-friend's become an acquaintance.
The next day, whilst rushing to finish chores for my dad, restore the house to a semblance of serviceability, wake my brother for school, being late to meet aforementioned acquaintance, and still maintaning a cheery disposition so I don't ruin my girlfriend's day, a lousy BMW hits my car.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the night is still young, there's more.
As I panic on account of having an extensive driving experience of 0 year(s) and 1 month(s), as stated in the Accident Report Form, I realize I have no one to call for help. My dad's overseas, my mum's at class, my brother's practicing guitar, my girlfriend's waiting for me to have dinner. I logically then turn to a complete stranger from a car repair workshop for guidance and help, since she obviously has no vested interest in helping me. Right. The same no-vested-interest way farmers would force feed their livestock.
When I finally manage to return the car to a silent home, I find out my girlfriend's family's still waiting for me for dinner. So I rush down, because I'm thinking, hey, my day's been s*itty, but that's no reason for screwing up other peoples' day. Yet, for some reason, maybe because I'm still joking about the whole thing and not removing my hair in clumps, I mislead everyone to think I'm still happy and all inside. And thus, I end up getting rubbed the wrong way entirely. Girlfriend, I really couldn't talk more tonight, I really didn't want to screw your mood.
My dear reader, the end of this fantastic day is nigh. I delude myself by thinking my family will be so concerned over my safety (the accident, remember?) that all will be forgotten and forgiven, at least for one night. But I was wrong, and it's probably my fault, for not coming up with a better reason than I GOT HIT FROM BEHIND. MY CAR WAS STATIONARY. DOES IT LOOK LIKE MY FAULT? My parents ask me how come I didn't handle the entire accident/insurance reporting/claiming better, how come I made an error in the reporting of that silly guy's name. Gee, yeah, I really shouldn't have let the shock and the stress of getting hit on a jammed PIE bother me, huh.
Tomorrow morning I will rectify the Accident Report Form. Then I will meet another friend. Then I will split myself to go for three birthday parties, while keeping in mind that no matter who I honour with my degenerate slothy presence, I will still piss two friends off and make them think I'm anti-social and a Daphne-hater.
Damn, all this bitching and I don't even earn a prize.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
The Value of Art
Consider this: How is the value of an artistic work derived?
Art is unlike science in that it can never be accurately and adequately deconstructed and quantified. You can't say, oh, this painting is composed of 136 brushstrokes, 60% of which are good strong strokes while the remaining are mediocre strokes, but since the colours used blend in with each other, plus it is recognizable to both the young and the old, it is a work of art.
So where exactly does art appreciation begin, or end?
How does one know whether a dance piece, a painting, a song, is good, bad or excellent? Wouldn't a person's taste vary greatly from one individual to another, one society to another? Does an art critic, definitely schooled in the expression of his thoughts but not necessarily as cultured in his taste, automatically deserve more air time and respect than the man in the street?
I wanted to say once in secondary school, when my Lit teacher was unceremoniously savaging my critique of Shakespeare's work, 'Mam, do you know what you're talking about? You're not him. How would you dare to go far as to assume he meant to say all these things? What if you're completely off the mark, and in reality when Shakespeare was writing he was also high on drugs?"
I mean, doesn't it then occur to anyone that while it might be true that man's genius is often most reflected in the artisitic works he births, art critics are the ones who inflate or deflate an art piece's true value? Yet a paradox exists, for if we ever want an objective, quantifiable way of deriving the value of an art piece, beyond the mere swaying 'gut feeling' of the art critics, we will have to apply Science to value Art, and that is both unimaginable and impossible.
Rather, the question is, how many art critics does it take to make a piece of art, a work of art?
Art is unlike science in that it can never be accurately and adequately deconstructed and quantified. You can't say, oh, this painting is composed of 136 brushstrokes, 60% of which are good strong strokes while the remaining are mediocre strokes, but since the colours used blend in with each other, plus it is recognizable to both the young and the old, it is a work of art.
So where exactly does art appreciation begin, or end?
How does one know whether a dance piece, a painting, a song, is good, bad or excellent? Wouldn't a person's taste vary greatly from one individual to another, one society to another? Does an art critic, definitely schooled in the expression of his thoughts but not necessarily as cultured in his taste, automatically deserve more air time and respect than the man in the street?
I wanted to say once in secondary school, when my Lit teacher was unceremoniously savaging my critique of Shakespeare's work, 'Mam, do you know what you're talking about? You're not him. How would you dare to go far as to assume he meant to say all these things? What if you're completely off the mark, and in reality when Shakespeare was writing he was also high on drugs?"
I mean, doesn't it then occur to anyone that while it might be true that man's genius is often most reflected in the artisitic works he births, art critics are the ones who inflate or deflate an art piece's true value? Yet a paradox exists, for if we ever want an objective, quantifiable way of deriving the value of an art piece, beyond the mere swaying 'gut feeling' of the art critics, we will have to apply Science to value Art, and that is both unimaginable and impossible.
Rather, the question is, how many art critics does it take to make a piece of art, a work of art?
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
What You Wish For
As they say, be very, very careful of what you wish for.
When the dentist extracted my wisdom teeth, she had to suture the gaping holes in my gums by stitching them together. However, as my gums slowly regenerated, the stitches began to unwind and come loose.
As a result, I've been quite irritated at the way the loose threads flap around in my mouth whenever I talk or eat. A quick peek in the mirror reminded me of the Sentinels from Matrix. And like any normal person, I wished so hard that the stiches would somehow magically disappear.
Today, this very morning, three threads disappeared. They just weren't there anymore.
Gulp. =(
When the dentist extracted my wisdom teeth, she had to suture the gaping holes in my gums by stitching them together. However, as my gums slowly regenerated, the stitches began to unwind and come loose.
As a result, I've been quite irritated at the way the loose threads flap around in my mouth whenever I talk or eat. A quick peek in the mirror reminded me of the Sentinels from Matrix. And like any normal person, I wished so hard that the stiches would somehow magically disappear.
Today, this very morning, three threads disappeared. They just weren't there anymore.
Gulp. =(
Monday, February 21, 2005
Liondance
In a most unusual turn of events, a travelling liondance troupe performed on my front porch today. It's too distressing to explain the convoluted circumstances that gave rise to such an eventuality, so suffice to say that my mother had seized her opportunity when the troupe came a knocking on our door.
My younger cousins were present as well, and it was only a matter of time before they started directing some extremely disconcerting questions at us. Namely, :
1. What is the liondance held for?
2. What is the red ball that the lion is pursuing?
3. What is the significance of the loud accompanying 'music'?
4. Won't the guy at the back have to sniff the front guy's butt?
To tell you the truth, I don't know. I needed Google to help me, when by birthright I should have bloody known the whole thing by heart. My dad's right, if an ang moh was there and asked me, and I couldn't answer, where can I possibly hide my face? It's like I'm genetically Chinese, but culturally Junk.
I suspect I'm not the only one though. Which other nation publishes in the national newspaper 'A Complete Guide to the Truths and Myths of CNY'? It's not a good enough excuse, but spare me for the moment, I'm still grappling with the notion that Chinese culture, distilled and refined over thousands of years, is going to stop with Me, at least in my family.
Bleah.
My younger cousins were present as well, and it was only a matter of time before they started directing some extremely disconcerting questions at us. Namely, :
1. What is the liondance held for?
2. What is the red ball that the lion is pursuing?
3. What is the significance of the loud accompanying 'music'?
4. Won't the guy at the back have to sniff the front guy's butt?
To tell you the truth, I don't know. I needed Google to help me, when by birthright I should have bloody known the whole thing by heart. My dad's right, if an ang moh was there and asked me, and I couldn't answer, where can I possibly hide my face? It's like I'm genetically Chinese, but culturally Junk.
I suspect I'm not the only one though. Which other nation publishes in the national newspaper 'A Complete Guide to the Truths and Myths of CNY'? It's not a good enough excuse, but spare me for the moment, I'm still grappling with the notion that Chinese culture, distilled and refined over thousands of years, is going to stop with Me, at least in my family.
Bleah.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Trauma
I've only lived for less than 21 years, and in this time there have been certain things that affected me so much that I cannot help but revisit the same problems when I sleep. That's the flip side of dreaming then - for every wild flight of imagination that is so characteristic of the good dreams I have, there's the evil twisted sibling nightmare that's well, too real for me sometimes.
Of the two recurrent nightmares I still have, one of them, freshly reimagined in my head last night, was of the A Levels. Yes, you read that right. The dreaded A Levels.
It's the same thing everytime. The whole school's in the school hall collecting their results, and as I queue up to collect mine from my form teacher, I notice how everyone in front of me is getting perfect grades, a government scholarship as well as an acceptance letter from a prestigious university overseas, all at the same time.
When it's my turn though, Ms Gong sneers at me, tells me how I'm the only one in the whole school who failed (4 F9s!). As the whole hall quietens to investigate this unusual case of failure, she then delivers the coup de grace - an acceptance letter from the Army.
Man, how I hate that dream.
Of the two recurrent nightmares I still have, one of them, freshly reimagined in my head last night, was of the A Levels. Yes, you read that right. The dreaded A Levels.
It's the same thing everytime. The whole school's in the school hall collecting their results, and as I queue up to collect mine from my form teacher, I notice how everyone in front of me is getting perfect grades, a government scholarship as well as an acceptance letter from a prestigious university overseas, all at the same time.
When it's my turn though, Ms Gong sneers at me, tells me how I'm the only one in the whole school who failed (4 F9s!). As the whole hall quietens to investigate this unusual case of failure, she then delivers the coup de grace - an acceptance letter from the Army.
Man, how I hate that dream.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Little Alice: A Poem
I wrote this during a meeting which bored me to tears. It's strange how I managed to find an little personal oasis in my head while a hundred idiots chattered around me.
Little Alice was a natural whiner
There was no skill at which she was finer
Her demands were few and far between
But the tantrums she threw were really mean
Her parents gave in most of the time
Often parting ways with many a dime
For her taste for things was sometimes exotic
Sometimes refined and sometimes bimbotic
She had a bikini made from Chinese silk
Would drink nothing at breakfast but pineapple milk
Had sneakers with wheels which glowed at night
Barbie dolls all dressed up in tights
A little submarine which could really float
Models of castles complete with moats
Even a vintage guitar she couldn't play
(Plus a lifetime account with that website Ebay)
But still her parents' hearts filled with dread
And they feared they would go quite mad
Whenever Alice came with that look in her eyes
Which they had long since learnt to recognize
As the start of a new demand, a new request
And again their love for her would be put to the test
"No!" said her father before she could even speak
"I won't give in, and I won't be weak!"
And so Alice pouted and Alice whined
Alice cried till she almost went blind
Yet just as her father nearly gave in again
A plan so evil, so diabolically insane
Bloomed in his mind like a plant on drugs
A plan so simple and free of bugs
For this time it was a pup that Alice demanded
And her dad knew just the dog that couldn't be refunded
Unknown to all her dad was really a warlock
Certainly not the kind you'll laugh at or mock
Because he was powerful, really quite strong
Just a softie at heart, nothing so wrong
And with a swish of his wand he opened a door
A portal from Hell to Singapore
Out stepped a dog drenched in darkness so black
The kind even Osama wouldn't attack
And the hound even gave Alice a reasonable chance
Until Alice asked, "Can this dog dance?"
"And why is it black, wouldn't a brown dog be nice?
This one won't do, this one won't suffice."
Although the hound's anger the parents couldn't dissolve
At least one problem was finally resolved
Of Alice's demands they were no longer afraid
Because the Hell Hound had bit off her head
I've always been inspired by Roald Dahl. =)
Little Alice was a natural whiner
There was no skill at which she was finer
Her demands were few and far between
But the tantrums she threw were really mean
Her parents gave in most of the time
Often parting ways with many a dime
For her taste for things was sometimes exotic
Sometimes refined and sometimes bimbotic
She had a bikini made from Chinese silk
Would drink nothing at breakfast but pineapple milk
Had sneakers with wheels which glowed at night
Barbie dolls all dressed up in tights
A little submarine which could really float
Models of castles complete with moats
Even a vintage guitar she couldn't play
(Plus a lifetime account with that website Ebay)
But still her parents' hearts filled with dread
And they feared they would go quite mad
Whenever Alice came with that look in her eyes
Which they had long since learnt to recognize
As the start of a new demand, a new request
And again their love for her would be put to the test
"No!" said her father before she could even speak
"I won't give in, and I won't be weak!"
And so Alice pouted and Alice whined
Alice cried till she almost went blind
Yet just as her father nearly gave in again
A plan so evil, so diabolically insane
Bloomed in his mind like a plant on drugs
A plan so simple and free of bugs
For this time it was a pup that Alice demanded
And her dad knew just the dog that couldn't be refunded
Unknown to all her dad was really a warlock
Certainly not the kind you'll laugh at or mock
Because he was powerful, really quite strong
Just a softie at heart, nothing so wrong
And with a swish of his wand he opened a door
A portal from Hell to Singapore
Out stepped a dog drenched in darkness so black
The kind even Osama wouldn't attack
And the hound even gave Alice a reasonable chance
Until Alice asked, "Can this dog dance?"
"And why is it black, wouldn't a brown dog be nice?
This one won't do, this one won't suffice."
Although the hound's anger the parents couldn't dissolve
At least one problem was finally resolved
Of Alice's demands they were no longer afraid
Because the Hell Hound had bit off her head
I've always been inspired by Roald Dahl. =)
Friday, February 18, 2005
Valentine's Day
Yes, yes, I know V-Day's over, but it's never too late for a bit of hindsight, ya?
In the first year of Army I encountered this friend of mine who lamented the entire week before V-Day 2003, that he just had to find a way to get out of camp for the occasion. According to the poor love-afflicted soul, that one day would severely affect the longevity of his relationship, and oh my, how he wailed and moaned every night that week. The officer who wouldn't let us out on V-Day, we dedicated enough cursed effigies to him to rival an entire Barbie Summer Collection.
Fast forward to V-Day 2005.
"Man, I just can't seem to get duty on Monday," he said to me during a catch-up session.
"Monday? Ain't that V-Day?"
"Yeah. I can't find any excuse to stay in camp..."
I admit, I backed away a little bit. Forefront in my mind was the not-too-distant recollection that this was the guy who single-handedly destroyed morale during V-Day 2003. Now that he could get out, he wanted to get guard duty? Mentally unstable people scare me, really.
"No, you see, if I don't have duty, I'll have to plan something to surprise her again, and man oh man, I can't think of anything else anymore!"
That little comment of his led me to quite a significant insight, really. For all the gender equality we're supposed to be having nowadays, most of the burden of organizing such memorable dates still falls on the guys.
I mean, I take my hat (or helmet, considering I haven't ORDed) off for every single girl who put effort into finding a little keepsake, or writing a little note of affection for her guy on V-Day. But I also recognize that there are still way too many ladies out there who expect their guys to be solely responsible for picking the place, the time, the event.
The worst part, the absolute worst part is that most of the time the girls keep mum about what they would like to experience, for the sole purpose of "seeing if he knows what I like or want". Yes, this is a test of sorts, to see if your guy is sensitive enough, but this leads to a most pressing problem. Which guy wants to disappoint his girlfriend with a differently conceived surprise? Which guy wants his girlfriend to compare with other girls later to realise that their night out wasn't exactly the most romantic?
How many man-hours are lost when guys around the globe toss and turn in their beds at night, agonizing over the perfect date? ' What would she like to eat? Will she even eat? Will she find flowers tasteful, or a waste of money? Will she like the Godiva chocs, or refuse them for fear of getting fat? Will she hate me if over a romantic dinner I grasp her hands across the candle-lit table, and instead of saying something touching or memorable I say "Wa lau it's damn dark here?" '
And now if you ask me, I think that officer who kept us in during V-Day 2003 was only trying to help us. Bless his ORDed soul.
In the first year of Army I encountered this friend of mine who lamented the entire week before V-Day 2003, that he just had to find a way to get out of camp for the occasion. According to the poor love-afflicted soul, that one day would severely affect the longevity of his relationship, and oh my, how he wailed and moaned every night that week. The officer who wouldn't let us out on V-Day, we dedicated enough cursed effigies to him to rival an entire Barbie Summer Collection.
Fast forward to V-Day 2005.
"Man, I just can't seem to get duty on Monday," he said to me during a catch-up session.
"Monday? Ain't that V-Day?"
"Yeah. I can't find any excuse to stay in camp..."
I admit, I backed away a little bit. Forefront in my mind was the not-too-distant recollection that this was the guy who single-handedly destroyed morale during V-Day 2003. Now that he could get out, he wanted to get guard duty? Mentally unstable people scare me, really.
"No, you see, if I don't have duty, I'll have to plan something to surprise her again, and man oh man, I can't think of anything else anymore!"
That little comment of his led me to quite a significant insight, really. For all the gender equality we're supposed to be having nowadays, most of the burden of organizing such memorable dates still falls on the guys.
I mean, I take my hat (or helmet, considering I haven't ORDed) off for every single girl who put effort into finding a little keepsake, or writing a little note of affection for her guy on V-Day. But I also recognize that there are still way too many ladies out there who expect their guys to be solely responsible for picking the place, the time, the event.
The worst part, the absolute worst part is that most of the time the girls keep mum about what they would like to experience, for the sole purpose of "seeing if he knows what I like or want". Yes, this is a test of sorts, to see if your guy is sensitive enough, but this leads to a most pressing problem. Which guy wants to disappoint his girlfriend with a differently conceived surprise? Which guy wants his girlfriend to compare with other girls later to realise that their night out wasn't exactly the most romantic?
How many man-hours are lost when guys around the globe toss and turn in their beds at night, agonizing over the perfect date? ' What would she like to eat? Will she even eat? Will she find flowers tasteful, or a waste of money? Will she like the Godiva chocs, or refuse them for fear of getting fat? Will she hate me if over a romantic dinner I grasp her hands across the candle-lit table, and instead of saying something touching or memorable I say "Wa lau it's damn dark here?" '
And now if you ask me, I think that officer who kept us in during V-Day 2003 was only trying to help us. Bless his ORDed soul.
Under The Knife
As I'm writing this, my head is tilted a few degrees lower than it normally is positioned. I tell you, it's my cheeks.
I went under the knife just a few days ago, not in an effort to look better (Oh God whatever will I do with more good looks) but to remove my wisdom teeth, those wicked food-trapping-decay-catalysing-abdominations. I thought, hey, fantastic, here's my great chance to act sickly and incapitated and distressed after the op, so that I'll get pampered silly.
In the end, I hardly needed to act.
First there was this tingly itchiness to my gums, where my wisdom teeth used to be. When I awoke in the ward suffering from the debilitating effects of the anaesthesia, I fought this insane urge to just keep spitting everything out. Before today I never accumulated enough blood in my mouth to gargle. Before today.
Then, the stitches. The first food to cross my lips after the op was pea soup, and since I was extra careful not to get any food near the sutured gums, I was surprised when Mr. Tongue reported traces of what might be pea skins stuck to the roof of my mouth. Hardy-har-har, imagine how amused I was when a quick peek in the mirror revealed a mess of black threads running amok in my mouth. I was so amused, you can say the op left me in stitches...
And the final tragedy. Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I was upset about looking swell, for it was only a matter of time before I developed a square-cut jaw. Superhero looks? Yes, if you're looking at me from the side. In what I believe to be an uncharacteristic and unprofessional fit of jealousy, the surgeon had cut one cheek deeper than the other, thus affecting an uneven swelling of the face.
I realised this when I relaxed completely, and found that my view of the world was just a little bit tilted to the right.
So sorry Limin, I missed that lunch appointment with you. As my fan club aptly put it a few months back, "we're undergoing upgrading to serve you better." =(
I went under the knife just a few days ago, not in an effort to look better (Oh God whatever will I do with more good looks) but to remove my wisdom teeth, those wicked food-trapping-decay-catalysing-abdominations. I thought, hey, fantastic, here's my great chance to act sickly and incapitated and distressed after the op, so that I'll get pampered silly.
In the end, I hardly needed to act.
First there was this tingly itchiness to my gums, where my wisdom teeth used to be. When I awoke in the ward suffering from the debilitating effects of the anaesthesia, I fought this insane urge to just keep spitting everything out. Before today I never accumulated enough blood in my mouth to gargle. Before today.
Then, the stitches. The first food to cross my lips after the op was pea soup, and since I was extra careful not to get any food near the sutured gums, I was surprised when Mr. Tongue reported traces of what might be pea skins stuck to the roof of my mouth. Hardy-har-har, imagine how amused I was when a quick peek in the mirror revealed a mess of black threads running amok in my mouth. I was so amused, you can say the op left me in stitches...
And the final tragedy. Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I was upset about looking swell, for it was only a matter of time before I developed a square-cut jaw. Superhero looks? Yes, if you're looking at me from the side. In what I believe to be an uncharacteristic and unprofessional fit of jealousy, the surgeon had cut one cheek deeper than the other, thus affecting an uneven swelling of the face.
I realised this when I relaxed completely, and found that my view of the world was just a little bit tilted to the right.
So sorry Limin, I missed that lunch appointment with you. As my fan club aptly put it a few months back, "we're undergoing upgrading to serve you better." =(
Karaoke 1: Girls of the Night
So it was at another class gathering that I found myself enveloped in yet another of those labyrinthine Party World KTV lounges, nestled in a cosy room wondering why a completely different sampling of young adults had chosen an almost completely Mandarin song playlist again. I was sitting next to Zhihaotan (name changed to protect Tan Zhihao's privacy), contemplating which song to murder next, when I noticed him being uncharacteristically quiet.
"Hanting," he said after a while, "do you frequent KTV lounges?"
I paused. If the Truth was to battle Machoism everyday, then everyday Machoism would win. "Of course," I said with a barely-concealed smugness in my voice, "I happen to go out quite often with my army friends." Yeah. Like once a year.
"Then... you tell me... where are all the KTV girls?"
To tell you the truth, I was stunned for a while. Of all the questions, I didn't expect this one. Yet, strangely enough, with my limited experience I still had culled sufficient knowledge to answer him.
"You see, there are two kinds of KTVs, ya? One's the normal, decent kind, like the one we're in. And the other type, well, they're known as the lap sup kind, the kind that well, employs more staff, to say the least."
"But how do you know? How do you tell?"
"Well, mostly by word of mouth. But, hiyar, you can usually tell one la. Just look at how decent the entire setup is... I mean, if you notice that the aircon's just about right, it's not too hot, yet the girls serving you drinks are barely clothed, well, either there's a budget cut for uniforms or it's the lap sup kind."
"Ok. So let's say I get myself into one of those kinds of places, accidentally of course, how do I let the... er... ladies know I'm not interested?"
For a short moment Zhihaotan's question triggered a violent relapse of a particularly unpleasant encounter I had, which will not be discussed here. "Well, first of all you've got to start acting completely disgusted, and keep politely refusing their advances. Don't ever tip anyone to get them off your back too! You'll start attracting them by the dozens. Then, if they still come at you, start flapping around like a gay and declare you're a homo."
His eyes sparkled, an amazing thing in an already glittery room.
"Really? That'll keep them off?"
"Of course man. Would I lie to you?"
I would, actually. That last piece of advice should provide a bit of entertainment, once he actually does try it out. Only God knows what kind of response he'll get. =)
"Hanting," he said after a while, "do you frequent KTV lounges?"
I paused. If the Truth was to battle Machoism everyday, then everyday Machoism would win. "Of course," I said with a barely-concealed smugness in my voice, "I happen to go out quite often with my army friends." Yeah. Like once a year.
"Then... you tell me... where are all the KTV girls?"
To tell you the truth, I was stunned for a while. Of all the questions, I didn't expect this one. Yet, strangely enough, with my limited experience I still had culled sufficient knowledge to answer him.
"You see, there are two kinds of KTVs, ya? One's the normal, decent kind, like the one we're in. And the other type, well, they're known as the lap sup kind, the kind that well, employs more staff, to say the least."
"But how do you know? How do you tell?"
"Well, mostly by word of mouth. But, hiyar, you can usually tell one la. Just look at how decent the entire setup is... I mean, if you notice that the aircon's just about right, it's not too hot, yet the girls serving you drinks are barely clothed, well, either there's a budget cut for uniforms or it's the lap sup kind."
"Ok. So let's say I get myself into one of those kinds of places, accidentally of course, how do I let the... er... ladies know I'm not interested?"
For a short moment Zhihaotan's question triggered a violent relapse of a particularly unpleasant encounter I had, which will not be discussed here. "Well, first of all you've got to start acting completely disgusted, and keep politely refusing their advances. Don't ever tip anyone to get them off your back too! You'll start attracting them by the dozens. Then, if they still come at you, start flapping around like a gay and declare you're a homo."
His eyes sparkled, an amazing thing in an already glittery room.
"Really? That'll keep them off?"
"Of course man. Would I lie to you?"
I would, actually. That last piece of advice should provide a bit of entertainment, once he actually does try it out. Only God knows what kind of response he'll get. =)
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