I've always thought it to be strange how people develop such varied tastes in music.
If you subscribe to the Nature argument, then we are all born with brains that respond differently to various strains of music, giving rise to natural preferences of one kind of music over another.
The Nurture argument, in contrast, states that if one continually associated pleasurable experiences with a certain kind of music, or endured continual exposure to that brand of music, a taste for that music would soon develop.
Both arguments, however, do not provide for how some of my friends can like the music that they like. In my opinion, no creature in God's own land can ever be meant to naturally enjoy unholy abominations like Trance - it simply goes against the order of nature.
And as for people slowly acclimatizing to unorthodox forms of music... well, I do agree that people in different cultures have managed to perform amazing physical feats like fire-walking or self-branding, but surely no one relishes self-infliction of pain?
This whole train of thought had its roots in witnessing my friend pay a good $20 for a celebrated Alternative Rock album the other day. Curious as to why he wasn't being more discerning with his money and buying a Mariah Carey album instead, I had a quick listen.
3 random tracks later, I was sure I had uncovered one of the greatest scams in the music industry.
Somebody out there, someone very smart, I grant you that, has been recording the sounds of cars exploding, milk souring, couples screaming and giraffes in heat, then marketing the product as music. And as long as there as people like my friend around, the scam will go on.
Curious to see how extensive this spiderweb of deceit had been spun, I began exploring other friends' MP3 playlists, and the results are shocking. Over and over again, I've uncovered samples of Heavy Metal, Trance, RnB, Dance etc, that serve to do nothing but reduce the average human brain to pulp.
I may be ranting, but I demand to know why the free world has not responded to such a severe assault on the human spirit. If I had my way I would round up the artistes who record such atrocities, dump them on a remote island in the Pacific, and begin testing of new atomic weapons.
Those that survive, should be electronically tagged with a microchip. Every time forthwith that they attempt to compose another 'song', the chip would issue a deterring electric shock.
Forgive me. It's been a bad weekend. I aplogize.
Maybe things would be better if people developed more backbone and resisted peer pressure more. All it takes is for one guy to stand up in the middle of a Metallica concert, shout "Wake up you mad toads! Don't you see you're bleeding from your eardrums?" for the diabolical spell to be broken.
Maybe it's all just a matter of fads and trends. My dad loathes comtemporary music more than I do, and my gut feeling is that grandpa felt the same way about music during my dad's time. I guess I'm just getting old and out of touch with the stuff they play nowadays.
Maybe it simply boils down to personal taste. Or personal injury. After all, there are probably lots of kids out there who have fallen off a swing or bike before and suffered permanent head damage.
In any case, reread this post while listening to Missy Elliot's new song, Lose Control. You'll see what I mean.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Friday, July 29, 2005
Tried & Tested (Prove Me Wrong) 3
People mistake a lot of what I come up with as shameless pick-up lines. Please, for the last time, they are merely harmless little ice-breakers.
Of course, in the hands of a professional, they can wreck serious damage.
Walk up to a person and say -
"Hi! My name is XXX! It's nice to meet you, but please pardon me for the way I talk, whenever I talk to cute girls/boys I always sstt... tters... stutttter."
Of course, in the hands of a professional, they can wreck serious damage.
Walk up to a person and say -
"Hi! My name is XXX! It's nice to meet you, but please pardon me for the way I talk, whenever I talk to cute girls/boys I always sstt... tters... stutttter."
Packrat
In many respects, I take after my mother. Not only do I bear a strong resemblance to her, I've also inherited her knack of insight into human relationships, her bubbly and cheerful disposition, her keenness to reach out to others... amongst a whole list of other strengths.
Unfortunately, it dawned upon me today that I may have also inherited a particular neurosis of hers.
In my case, the snowflake that precipitated the avanlanche, may well have been a rubber seed.
When I was a boy scout, 13 years ago, I found a rubber seed during an expedition to Pulau Ubin. My patrol leader had commended me for recognizing it for what it was, and, glowing with pride, I stashed that rubber seed away in my drawer - a little medal of the day.
It was to become the oldest item in my entire hoard of 'treasures'.
Soon, I began to attach emotional significance to the strangest items. A little telescope birthday gift, a candle that saved the day during a black out, a scented eraser from a crush... let's just say that by the time I was in JC, I had one drawer labelled 'Stationery', one drawer marked 'Books' and 45234 drawers of 'Miscellaneous'.
According to psychologists, people who hoard things compulsively, or packrats, have manifold reasons for doing so. Mostly, these packrats attach to the items a physical, potential or emotional value that others don't see.
Armed with the above insight, I finally understood why I just can't seem to make space in my room for new things. Just before I empty a cabinet, I will swear to discard 80% of the items inside, but once I start sifting through my collection, what I end up throwing away barely fills up the pockets on a bikini.
Yes, I effectively merely take everything out and put them back in a different order.
When I moved into a new bunk with Desmond in the army, I thought I had left my troubles behind. Here was a brand new room, one unfettered with years of accrued sentimental keepsakes, finally I would have a fresh start.
Today, if you meet Desmond and mention 'Hanting' and 'room organization' in the same sentence, you can still see his face twitch and spasm as he recollects the trauma.
The latest remedy I'm trying - digitally photographing mementoes before I reluctantly relinquish them. With this new method, I managed to bash a clear path from my bedroom door to my bed. I hope to excavate my table and chair before term starts, and eventually correct the way my house tilts to one side.
Heck, I think I'm going to print this post out and stick it on my wall, as a memento of my re-affirmed determination to kick my hoarding habit.
Unfortunately, it dawned upon me today that I may have also inherited a particular neurosis of hers.
In my case, the snowflake that precipitated the avanlanche, may well have been a rubber seed.
When I was a boy scout, 13 years ago, I found a rubber seed during an expedition to Pulau Ubin. My patrol leader had commended me for recognizing it for what it was, and, glowing with pride, I stashed that rubber seed away in my drawer - a little medal of the day.
It was to become the oldest item in my entire hoard of 'treasures'.
Soon, I began to attach emotional significance to the strangest items. A little telescope birthday gift, a candle that saved the day during a black out, a scented eraser from a crush... let's just say that by the time I was in JC, I had one drawer labelled 'Stationery', one drawer marked 'Books' and 45234 drawers of 'Miscellaneous'.
According to psychologists, people who hoard things compulsively, or packrats, have manifold reasons for doing so. Mostly, these packrats attach to the items a physical, potential or emotional value that others don't see.
Armed with the above insight, I finally understood why I just can't seem to make space in my room for new things. Just before I empty a cabinet, I will swear to discard 80% of the items inside, but once I start sifting through my collection, what I end up throwing away barely fills up the pockets on a bikini.
Yes, I effectively merely take everything out and put them back in a different order.
When I moved into a new bunk with Desmond in the army, I thought I had left my troubles behind. Here was a brand new room, one unfettered with years of accrued sentimental keepsakes, finally I would have a fresh start.
Today, if you meet Desmond and mention 'Hanting' and 'room organization' in the same sentence, you can still see his face twitch and spasm as he recollects the trauma.
The latest remedy I'm trying - digitally photographing mementoes before I reluctantly relinquish them. With this new method, I managed to bash a clear path from my bedroom door to my bed. I hope to excavate my table and chair before term starts, and eventually correct the way my house tilts to one side.
Heck, I think I'm going to print this post out and stick it on my wall, as a memento of my re-affirmed determination to kick my hoarding habit.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Post Army Health Report
I was watching TV the other day when I was reminded of the way a friend of mine keeps In Shape. Do push-ups while you watch TV, he said. So I thought, ok, why not.
But the moment the command 'Do push-ups now' was issued from my brain, my legs gave way, my bowels clenched, my arms spasmed, my heart murmured, my lungs deflated, my kidney shut down.
When I regained my consciousness a while later, I was still propped in the same chair, but with my mouth full of potato chips and my arm on automatic-self-feeding mode. My body, ironically, knows fully how to take care of itself.
The results of my decadent life are apparant enough. When I was being measured for my Presentations costume (because colourful attire distracts from my bad dancing), I was aghast to discover my waist line had ballooned. From a svelte 28 inches in the army, I am now a relative Marshmallow Man at XXX inches.
So I grit my teeth and went out for a run this evening. In fact, I was so pleased with my progress that at one point I whipped off my shirt and literally saw the fat melting away, revealing a systematic arrangement of gleaming abs.
Fate stepped in at this point to check my ego - I noticed this beef cake running in the opposite direction, and my delusions were thus dispelled. When he brushed past me, I swear I saw his abs sneering at mine. My abs were so intimidated they are now under the Witness Protection Program.
The upside to all this is that I started occupying completely new social niches. In fact, for a period of time there were girls who would have chosen me as a partner over Jared... though I didn't need to know that the main impetus was so they could bounce off me if they fell.
I guess things could have been much worse, so I am grateful for all the blessings I have. I may be plump, but at least I'm gorgeous to boot.
But the moment the command 'Do push-ups now' was issued from my brain, my legs gave way, my bowels clenched, my arms spasmed, my heart murmured, my lungs deflated, my kidney shut down.
When I regained my consciousness a while later, I was still propped in the same chair, but with my mouth full of potato chips and my arm on automatic-self-feeding mode. My body, ironically, knows fully how to take care of itself.
The results of my decadent life are apparant enough. When I was being measured for my Presentations costume (because colourful attire distracts from my bad dancing), I was aghast to discover my waist line had ballooned. From a svelte 28 inches in the army, I am now a relative Marshmallow Man at XXX inches.
So I grit my teeth and went out for a run this evening. In fact, I was so pleased with my progress that at one point I whipped off my shirt and literally saw the fat melting away, revealing a systematic arrangement of gleaming abs.
Fate stepped in at this point to check my ego - I noticed this beef cake running in the opposite direction, and my delusions were thus dispelled. When he brushed past me, I swear I saw his abs sneering at mine. My abs were so intimidated they are now under the Witness Protection Program.
The upside to all this is that I started occupying completely new social niches. In fact, for a period of time there were girls who would have chosen me as a partner over Jared... though I didn't need to know that the main impetus was so they could bounce off me if they fell.
I guess things could have been much worse, so I am grateful for all the blessings I have. I may be plump, but at least I'm gorgeous to boot.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Notebook
Pulling my cap harder down over my head, I walked into the Notebook Fair.
The reserved susurrous of a thousand notebooks humming filled the air, punctuated by the seemingly spontaneous exchanges between eager students and harried salesmen. Discarded flyers floated to the ground like uninterrupted snowflakes, their purposes fulfilled.
I walked the length of the hall, and finally reached a booth where three laptops, all hailing from competing brands, caught my eye. Oh, what things of beauty they were.
Their LCD screens shone like the faces of innocent youths besotted with love, their glistening keyboards tantalizing to the touch. Their mice, oh their mice, radiant like trailing comets in a midnight sky. Which human heart could bear to resist their temptation, even for a second?
A gruff salesman materialized next to me. "Do you have the money?" His eyes, though impatient, still betrayed an intrinsic kindness worn thin only by the proceedings of this long day.
I laid out the entire contents of my pockets on the counter. Scruffed up dollar notes recently rescued from greedy piggy banks, a few sweets, a yo-yo, a ball of twine.
"This all I have, mister."
As the salesman cautiously prodded my worldly belongings on the counter, a ghost of a grin escaped his serious mask of a face. "Son, which of these notebooks do you have in mind?"
I didn't even need to think. The salesman followed the direction of my pointed finger, and his gaze settled upon an IBM, quietly purring away in a dusty corner.
The surprise draped every word in his reply.
"Son, no, you don't want that one. No, that notebook is ugly. If you'll notice he's got a poor exterior design, and hardly looks as good as the others. He'll never be able to indulge in the world's beauty with you."
I smiled, and removed my cap from my head, revealing the lines of stitches across my face where the plastic surgeons fought valiantly in vain.
Where the hand of man could not interfere, to make my features less prone to frighten little children, stainless steel plates had been grafted onto my skin.
"Trust me, mister. I want that notebook in the corner."
The reserved susurrous of a thousand notebooks humming filled the air, punctuated by the seemingly spontaneous exchanges between eager students and harried salesmen. Discarded flyers floated to the ground like uninterrupted snowflakes, their purposes fulfilled.
I walked the length of the hall, and finally reached a booth where three laptops, all hailing from competing brands, caught my eye. Oh, what things of beauty they were.
Their LCD screens shone like the faces of innocent youths besotted with love, their glistening keyboards tantalizing to the touch. Their mice, oh their mice, radiant like trailing comets in a midnight sky. Which human heart could bear to resist their temptation, even for a second?
A gruff salesman materialized next to me. "Do you have the money?" His eyes, though impatient, still betrayed an intrinsic kindness worn thin only by the proceedings of this long day.
I laid out the entire contents of my pockets on the counter. Scruffed up dollar notes recently rescued from greedy piggy banks, a few sweets, a yo-yo, a ball of twine.
"This all I have, mister."
As the salesman cautiously prodded my worldly belongings on the counter, a ghost of a grin escaped his serious mask of a face. "Son, which of these notebooks do you have in mind?"
I didn't even need to think. The salesman followed the direction of my pointed finger, and his gaze settled upon an IBM, quietly purring away in a dusty corner.
The surprise draped every word in his reply.
"Son, no, you don't want that one. No, that notebook is ugly. If you'll notice he's got a poor exterior design, and hardly looks as good as the others. He'll never be able to indulge in the world's beauty with you."
I smiled, and removed my cap from my head, revealing the lines of stitches across my face where the plastic surgeons fought valiantly in vain.
Where the hand of man could not interfere, to make my features less prone to frighten little children, stainless steel plates had been grafted onto my skin.
"Trust me, mister. I want that notebook in the corner."
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Like Father...
My dad, upon his return from a recent business trip, asked me what I was up to in school these days.
"Presentations, dad. It's a dance competition of sorts, and I'm dancing!"
His left eyebrow shot up in an uncanny impersonation of The Rock.
"You? YOU? Dance? Sure lose one."
Ah. Now I have completed collecting a set of parents who value honesty over tact.
Before my shoulders could fully droop and spirit completely shatter, my dad leapt to justify his stand. You'll lose, he said, because there are simply too many dancers out there with more experience and greater talent. What you need to win, and he said this in his most conspirational tone, is to have a unique dance.
"A dance just like the one in the Kung Fu Hustle intro. Find a few friends, wield a few axes, swing to a corny song, and the trophy's yours!" His enthusiastic, sincere, beaming face made it hard for me to balk at his idea. But then again, only by so much.
This, of course, is the same parent who was giving me ideas on how to make my wedding dinner special.
"Dispense with all the boring baby photo presentations! Reject all your friends who want to make you play embarrassing games! Hire 2 horses and a sedan!"
According to him, my wife should make her grand entrance seated in a red Chinese sedan pulled by horses. Every table would have a centrepiece made of firecrackers, the firing of which would coincide with the sedan's entry. In his opinion, it would be far more memorable than the usual fare you get these days at weddings.
Let's just say I am going to make my wedding plans in secret, and very, very far away from my dad.
I just wish one day I would be able to assimilate his other characteristics, in particular his professional work ethics, the way he shoulders responsibility, how he goes about being a dad so confidently. There's so much to learn, especially now that adulthood beckons.
Though it's quite a relief to realize that I inherited my sense of humor and quirky outlook from my dad. It so totally quashes his claim that I was retrieved from the zoo.
"Presentations, dad. It's a dance competition of sorts, and I'm dancing!"
His left eyebrow shot up in an uncanny impersonation of The Rock.
"You? YOU? Dance? Sure lose one."
Ah. Now I have completed collecting a set of parents who value honesty over tact.
Before my shoulders could fully droop and spirit completely shatter, my dad leapt to justify his stand. You'll lose, he said, because there are simply too many dancers out there with more experience and greater talent. What you need to win, and he said this in his most conspirational tone, is to have a unique dance.
"A dance just like the one in the Kung Fu Hustle intro. Find a few friends, wield a few axes, swing to a corny song, and the trophy's yours!" His enthusiastic, sincere, beaming face made it hard for me to balk at his idea. But then again, only by so much.
This, of course, is the same parent who was giving me ideas on how to make my wedding dinner special.
"Dispense with all the boring baby photo presentations! Reject all your friends who want to make you play embarrassing games! Hire 2 horses and a sedan!"
According to him, my wife should make her grand entrance seated in a red Chinese sedan pulled by horses. Every table would have a centrepiece made of firecrackers, the firing of which would coincide with the sedan's entry. In his opinion, it would be far more memorable than the usual fare you get these days at weddings.
Let's just say I am going to make my wedding plans in secret, and very, very far away from my dad.
I just wish one day I would be able to assimilate his other characteristics, in particular his professional work ethics, the way he shoulders responsibility, how he goes about being a dad so confidently. There's so much to learn, especially now that adulthood beckons.
Though it's quite a relief to realize that I inherited my sense of humor and quirky outlook from my dad. It so totally quashes his claim that I was retrieved from the zoo.
Poems
I admit that in this wide world of ours
More forms of art abound than
My collection of U2 shirts
Yet one thing escapes me
And that is the way some poems are
Written, formed, divined, printed
The ones that strain your
Eyes
To read
By amalgamating, blending, coalescing
Word from some huge Thesaurus
Enmeshed together by painful analogies and Uhu Glue
The ones with quirky
Wording and sentence structure
And grammar fit to stupefy any language teacher
Perhaps it is just
Myself, me and I
The only one who think such poems obtuse and abstract
Thank god then
More forms of art abound than
My collection of U2 shirts
Yet one thing escapes me
And that is the way some poems are
Written, formed, divined, printed
The ones that strain your
Eyes
To read
By amalgamating, blending, coalescing
Word from some huge Thesaurus
Enmeshed together by painful analogies and Uhu Glue
The ones with quirky
Wording and sentence structure
And grammar fit to stupefy any language teacher
Perhaps it is just
Myself, me and I
The only one who think such poems obtuse and abstract
Thank god then
Saturday, July 23, 2005
A Quiet Afternoon
Saturday afternoons get to me. Especially the wintry, gloomy kinds.
You glance at the clock, wondering however can time pass so slowly, yet the next you look, you are taken aback at how time has just flitted past, like the ethereal shadows we sometime glimpse out of the corners of our eyes.
Words spoken in haste, spoken under the pressure of unsound judgement, resonate in your ears long after the phone has been replaced in its cradle. You wonder how things change so fast, evolving to previously unimagined proportions in the space of an hour.
You open boxes long stashed away, and the memories burst out like dusty butterflies eager for sunlight again. You sift through the pieces of a broken heart, and the lessons once taught are relearnt. Your spine tingles at the overpowering sense of deja vu.
Seated on your bed, the skies slowly clearing outside, you are stock still, yet thoughts churn round and round, one thought chasing another in an endless circuit. You wonder how many other human beings on this dismal day are going through the same thing as you.
Just one more would be nice.
You glance at the clock, wondering however can time pass so slowly, yet the next you look, you are taken aback at how time has just flitted past, like the ethereal shadows we sometime glimpse out of the corners of our eyes.
Words spoken in haste, spoken under the pressure of unsound judgement, resonate in your ears long after the phone has been replaced in its cradle. You wonder how things change so fast, evolving to previously unimagined proportions in the space of an hour.
You open boxes long stashed away, and the memories burst out like dusty butterflies eager for sunlight again. You sift through the pieces of a broken heart, and the lessons once taught are relearnt. Your spine tingles at the overpowering sense of deja vu.
Seated on your bed, the skies slowly clearing outside, you are stock still, yet thoughts churn round and round, one thought chasing another in an endless circuit. You wonder how many other human beings on this dismal day are going through the same thing as you.
Just one more would be nice.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Evolution
In primary school, I once came back from school in tears. My mum, on seeing a little eight year-old me sniffling away broken hearted, scooped me up in her arms protectively. Only after much consoling did I blurt out my miseries.
"Mum, the girls in school today said I was ugly..."
"Nonsense! You read the story of the ugly duckling, right? You're like that, you'll grow up to be, err... to be... a most fine duck!" Honesty has always ranked above tact in my mum's list of virtues.
In fact, when you think about it, being physically imperfect is a most important evolutionary stimulus. As an insightful friend pointed out, the less you can rely on your looks, the more you have to develop other social traits to, well, remain in the human gene pool.
Think of it this way. Let's say everyone is a swimmer in the human gene pool, and success is determined by how many people of the opposite sex want to swim near you. Then of course the good lookers are advantaged, because physical attraction is nothing to be scoffed at.
But other swimmers soon learn how to play the game their own way. In order to survive in the pool, they are forced to develop attractive skills like, to extend the metaphor, being able to perform synchronized swimming, or being able to hold their breath underwater for hours.
In short, you start relying on your personality to make yourself heard. And when that happens, you stop doing stupid things like peeing in the metaphorical pool.
It is no coincidence, mind you, that the most charming or colourful people you know are also not exactly the Brads or Daphnes of the world. I'll stick my neck out to slaughter another stereotype, and say that most of the angelic lookers might not necessarily have the depth of a Pringles can. Think Paris Hilton.
Of course, a theory can always be carried too far. I think if I tried going to school with a paper bag over my head, and tried to make friends on the strength of my personality, I'll soon make the acquaintance of the NUS security staff.
If a fine duck I must be, then a bubbly-funny-caring-sociable-trusting duck I will be.
No wait, that sounded wrong.
"Mum, the girls in school today said I was ugly..."
"Nonsense! You read the story of the ugly duckling, right? You're like that, you'll grow up to be, err... to be... a most fine duck!" Honesty has always ranked above tact in my mum's list of virtues.
In fact, when you think about it, being physically imperfect is a most important evolutionary stimulus. As an insightful friend pointed out, the less you can rely on your looks, the more you have to develop other social traits to, well, remain in the human gene pool.
Think of it this way. Let's say everyone is a swimmer in the human gene pool, and success is determined by how many people of the opposite sex want to swim near you. Then of course the good lookers are advantaged, because physical attraction is nothing to be scoffed at.
But other swimmers soon learn how to play the game their own way. In order to survive in the pool, they are forced to develop attractive skills like, to extend the metaphor, being able to perform synchronized swimming, or being able to hold their breath underwater for hours.
In short, you start relying on your personality to make yourself heard. And when that happens, you stop doing stupid things like peeing in the metaphorical pool.
It is no coincidence, mind you, that the most charming or colourful people you know are also not exactly the Brads or Daphnes of the world. I'll stick my neck out to slaughter another stereotype, and say that most of the angelic lookers might not necessarily have the depth of a Pringles can. Think Paris Hilton.
Of course, a theory can always be carried too far. I think if I tried going to school with a paper bag over my head, and tried to make friends on the strength of my personality, I'll soon make the acquaintance of the NUS security staff.
If a fine duck I must be, then a bubbly-funny-caring-sociable-trusting duck I will be.
No wait, that sounded wrong.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
GEP 2: Myths
In defence of all GEPs I pen these words
Lest insults directed at us grow more absurd
For many are too quick to stereotype and judge
Without first empathizing with us much
So to promote understanding and dissolve enmity
You'll have to read the rest with a mind quite free
The First Myth is that all GEPs are smart
With an unequal balance of head and heart
But that's simply not true - just look around
You'll find many a GEP who's also a clown
Though undeniable that some GEPs are brilliant
Oh, the masses of non-GEPs who're just as radiant
The Second Myth is that all GEPs are snobbishly proud
Of their talents and have their noses up in the clouds
Yet we're just as aware of our own shortcomings
And know there's not much to be openly trumpeting
In fact it's hard to find a GEP openly boasting
(Or at least one who isn't also already dead or roasting)
The Third Myth is that all GEPs are weird
Almost like we're raving lunatics to be feared
Oh come on, eccentricities are found in everyone
So if you spot a GEP please don't run
We're nice and fun and sexy too
In effect we're hardly any different from you
The Fourth Myth is that all GEPs are beautiful
Graceful creatures with blemishes too few
In truth good looks bless only the favoured one or two
And just to reaffirm what you already knew
When it comes to looking good there's only me
And yes, sometimes at the top it really does get lonely
There's probably a lot more that I could explain
But nothing beats you just taking the pain
To open your mind and question steoreotypes
You'll find little substance in all the GEP hype
It might sound condescending but I'll even venture to say
Go out and adopt a GEP friend today
Lest insults directed at us grow more absurd
For many are too quick to stereotype and judge
Without first empathizing with us much
So to promote understanding and dissolve enmity
You'll have to read the rest with a mind quite free
The First Myth is that all GEPs are smart
With an unequal balance of head and heart
But that's simply not true - just look around
You'll find many a GEP who's also a clown
Though undeniable that some GEPs are brilliant
Oh, the masses of non-GEPs who're just as radiant
The Second Myth is that all GEPs are snobbishly proud
Of their talents and have their noses up in the clouds
Yet we're just as aware of our own shortcomings
And know there's not much to be openly trumpeting
In fact it's hard to find a GEP openly boasting
(Or at least one who isn't also already dead or roasting)
The Third Myth is that all GEPs are weird
Almost like we're raving lunatics to be feared
Oh come on, eccentricities are found in everyone
So if you spot a GEP please don't run
We're nice and fun and sexy too
In effect we're hardly any different from you
The Fourth Myth is that all GEPs are beautiful
Graceful creatures with blemishes too few
In truth good looks bless only the favoured one or two
And just to reaffirm what you already knew
When it comes to looking good there's only me
And yes, sometimes at the top it really does get lonely
There's probably a lot more that I could explain
But nothing beats you just taking the pain
To open your mind and question steoreotypes
You'll find little substance in all the GEP hype
It might sound condescending but I'll even venture to say
Go out and adopt a GEP friend today
GEP 1: Prelude
I could see her face screwing up in that all-too familiar rictus of disbelief, and her brain juices (I'm no longer a biology student) sloshing around varied pathways to arrive at the very same reaction a thousand others shared.
"You're a GEP?!?!?!"
Yes, the extra exclamation and question marks were apparant in her tone. Ah, and since human beings are more alike than you think, I steeled myself for the inevitable follow-up remark.
"I always thought GEPs were like bookish and smart. You hardly look like one!"
Ouch.
"But wait, actually I can believe you are one. You behave like a GEP sometimes"
Ouch again.
A short history lesson is needed here. MOE launched the Gifted Education Programme in 1984, the year I was born, hoping to cater to quicker learners. One great miscalculation though, was the divide it would create between the GEPs and the rest of the world.
I've heard people detail GEP stereotypes, crack GEP jokes, spew anti-GEP sentiments. At the best of times, it's quite amusing, how people have enshrined the GEP as a short, thickly-spectacled nerd who uses bombastic words when elementary and inelaborate ones suffice, and possesses the social grace of a duck.
At the worst of times, it's baffling how people leap so quickly to judge.
"You're a GEP?!?!?!"
Yes, the extra exclamation and question marks were apparant in her tone. Ah, and since human beings are more alike than you think, I steeled myself for the inevitable follow-up remark.
"I always thought GEPs were like bookish and smart. You hardly look like one!"
Ouch.
"But wait, actually I can believe you are one. You behave like a GEP sometimes"
Ouch again.
A short history lesson is needed here. MOE launched the Gifted Education Programme in 1984, the year I was born, hoping to cater to quicker learners. One great miscalculation though, was the divide it would create between the GEPs and the rest of the world.
I've heard people detail GEP stereotypes, crack GEP jokes, spew anti-GEP sentiments. At the best of times, it's quite amusing, how people have enshrined the GEP as a short, thickly-spectacled nerd who uses bombastic words when elementary and inelaborate ones suffice, and possesses the social grace of a duck.
At the worst of times, it's baffling how people leap so quickly to judge.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Things Happen
A kite I tried to fly didn't fly well today
Exactly what went wrong I couldn't say
It's not like I've never flown a kite before
Though I admit I need to practise more
I wonder how long it would be
Before my kite flies high and free
When I tried to get it off the ground
It refused to go anywhere but down
I tugged and pulled with all my might
Yet nothing could lift my little kite...
... finally I gave in to my own frustration
And paid the kite no further attention
Lo and behold! a sudden wind came
A fearsome wind, hardly tame
That lifted my kite up so high
That no one could hope to catch it, not even I
And the string just slipped out of my hands
Oh where would my pretty kite land?
How you tease me sometimes my little kite
With your unpredictable little flights
Refusing to budge every time I tried
And escaping the moment I set you aside!
Fly then, if you must, fly high fly free
Just remember to come back to me
Exactly what went wrong I couldn't say
It's not like I've never flown a kite before
Though I admit I need to practise more
I wonder how long it would be
Before my kite flies high and free
When I tried to get it off the ground
It refused to go anywhere but down
I tugged and pulled with all my might
Yet nothing could lift my little kite...
... finally I gave in to my own frustration
And paid the kite no further attention
Lo and behold! a sudden wind came
A fearsome wind, hardly tame
That lifted my kite up so high
That no one could hope to catch it, not even I
And the string just slipped out of my hands
Oh where would my pretty kite land?
How you tease me sometimes my little kite
With your unpredictable little flights
Refusing to budge every time I tried
And escaping the moment I set you aside!
Fly then, if you must, fly high fly free
Just remember to come back to me
Sunday, July 17, 2005
The Dark Side
It is imperative that you understand I am completing the rest of this post with a most oppressive burden of guilt upon my shoulders, lest I lose whatever moral authority I may possess.
My little tale of caution opens with an attempt to purchase the latest Harry Potter with a pre-order coupon, a gift from a friend. Imagine my consternation when I was denied a sucessful transaction - the coupon was invalid without its accompanying receipt.
I tried my best to negotiate, of course. The coupon was a gift, I argued, and it was mere oversight which led the exclusion of the receipt along with the gift. No, my friend is uncontactable at the moment... no exceptions? No way at all? Well, ok, I will come back another day with the receipt, thanks.
After treading a dismayed 100m from the bookstore, I was seized by a sudden anger.
My intial disappointment vanished, shoved over with an inexplicable frustration. Who were they to oppose my will with their red-tape and confused lower-level management decisions? Had I come this far only to be turned away? Was I really expected to come back another day, at my expense, cowering like a little boy?
And it was then that this little switch deep inside me, marked 'CAUTION - Dark Side', flipped.
My mind worked furiously as I retraced my steps to the counter. I waited patiently for the particular cashier I had gone to earlier to be done, then approached her. By this time, there was a certain arrogance, a certain audacity to my demeanour.
For the first time in years, I deliberately told a bald-faced lie - I've managed to call my friend, and she has lost her receipt. Could I please use the coupon now? No? But that doesn't make sense! Look, I've got the coupon, is that not proof enough of purchase? You need my name? I'm Simon. Do you need to make another call to your manager?
I fairly understood the predicament she was in. I was perhaps the only customer so far to present such a situation to her, and being inexperienced, she was unable to reconcile both the explicit yet inflexible rules with a determined patron.
Furthermore, with her manager absent, there was simply no precedent or orders for her to act upon. She was thus stranded in unchartered waters, unable to decide whether or not to process the sale.
She hesitated. I took one look at her face, recognized the indecision that lay within, and pounced.
Hey, I said, there might be a way out of this. Just accept the coupon, and I'll give you my particulars in addition to my friend's name and contact details. I'll return first thing tomorrow with my friend, and then we'll sort out the whole thing. Your manager doesn't need to know anything about this too, just scan in the coupon as if you have seen the receipt yourself.
A few more minutes of gentle prodding, and I was outside the store with my Potter in a carrier.
I was sweating, but I was also sure I had maintained a cool, calm and collected tone of voice throughout. My face had also betrayed nothing beyond earnest, honest cooperation, judging from the way she had acquiesced and even thanked me for shopping at their store. I had gotten away with my demands undetected.
Of course, the guilt settled in soon after. At first I resorted to reason - there were other ways of getting my book tonight, including arranging a troublesome exchange between my friend and the store, kicking up a big ugly fuss and demanding to see the manager, or simply not using the coupon. I had merely chosen a course of least resistance and maximum effect.
Still, I'll probably drift off to sleep tonight worrying about the resultant effect of my lying on my karma. Irregardless of any defence I may conjure, the fact remains that I had used my strengths of persuasion and composure to manipulate another human being.
I wonder whether another adult in my position would have done better.
My little tale of caution opens with an attempt to purchase the latest Harry Potter with a pre-order coupon, a gift from a friend. Imagine my consternation when I was denied a sucessful transaction - the coupon was invalid without its accompanying receipt.
I tried my best to negotiate, of course. The coupon was a gift, I argued, and it was mere oversight which led the exclusion of the receipt along with the gift. No, my friend is uncontactable at the moment... no exceptions? No way at all? Well, ok, I will come back another day with the receipt, thanks.
After treading a dismayed 100m from the bookstore, I was seized by a sudden anger.
My intial disappointment vanished, shoved over with an inexplicable frustration. Who were they to oppose my will with their red-tape and confused lower-level management decisions? Had I come this far only to be turned away? Was I really expected to come back another day, at my expense, cowering like a little boy?
And it was then that this little switch deep inside me, marked 'CAUTION - Dark Side', flipped.
My mind worked furiously as I retraced my steps to the counter. I waited patiently for the particular cashier I had gone to earlier to be done, then approached her. By this time, there was a certain arrogance, a certain audacity to my demeanour.
For the first time in years, I deliberately told a bald-faced lie - I've managed to call my friend, and she has lost her receipt. Could I please use the coupon now? No? But that doesn't make sense! Look, I've got the coupon, is that not proof enough of purchase? You need my name? I'm Simon. Do you need to make another call to your manager?
I fairly understood the predicament she was in. I was perhaps the only customer so far to present such a situation to her, and being inexperienced, she was unable to reconcile both the explicit yet inflexible rules with a determined patron.
Furthermore, with her manager absent, there was simply no precedent or orders for her to act upon. She was thus stranded in unchartered waters, unable to decide whether or not to process the sale.
She hesitated. I took one look at her face, recognized the indecision that lay within, and pounced.
Hey, I said, there might be a way out of this. Just accept the coupon, and I'll give you my particulars in addition to my friend's name and contact details. I'll return first thing tomorrow with my friend, and then we'll sort out the whole thing. Your manager doesn't need to know anything about this too, just scan in the coupon as if you have seen the receipt yourself.
A few more minutes of gentle prodding, and I was outside the store with my Potter in a carrier.
I was sweating, but I was also sure I had maintained a cool, calm and collected tone of voice throughout. My face had also betrayed nothing beyond earnest, honest cooperation, judging from the way she had acquiesced and even thanked me for shopping at their store. I had gotten away with my demands undetected.
Of course, the guilt settled in soon after. At first I resorted to reason - there were other ways of getting my book tonight, including arranging a troublesome exchange between my friend and the store, kicking up a big ugly fuss and demanding to see the manager, or simply not using the coupon. I had merely chosen a course of least resistance and maximum effect.
Still, I'll probably drift off to sleep tonight worrying about the resultant effect of my lying on my karma. Irregardless of any defence I may conjure, the fact remains that I had used my strengths of persuasion and composure to manipulate another human being.
I wonder whether another adult in my position would have done better.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Image
"Hanting Hanting! We've studied your face carefully, and we want to tell you what we think!"
Involuntarily, my curiosity piqued. Face-reading, not unlike its sister science palm-reading, is a detailed study that hails from centuries ago. Man has long since recognized that, as preposterous as it may seem, there is some correlation between our outward appeareance and our destinies/personalities.
Didn't the Chinese even derive a comprehensive reference chart that could highlight the significance of the placement of moles on the face? Or the cosmic meaning of a squarish jaw, a button nose, or high-foreheads?
For all I knew, my new friends from the Presentations group could have had unparalled schooling in the mystic arts of reading faces. Eager curiousity soon betrayed itself on my face.
"We think you look like an uncle sort, who would push a pram and carry diapers in about 10 years!"
They went on. Daddy-looking, guai (or Mandarin for obedient), crappily corny, so on and so forth.
*Phish*. My pricked ears could barely make out the sound of an ego deflating and then spontaneously combusting.
But all in all, it wasn't anything new. It seems that my entire life I've had to receive remarks of the same ilk. People have told me I look honest, that I would grow up to work in the government, that they would trust their daughters with me.
On the flip side, they vehemently refuse to believe that I'm not in the Library Society, that I actually have seen the inside of Zouk, that I actually relish performing the blasted Frog Dance. Oh, the extrapolations people arrive at from the way you present yourself.
I've always wistfully hungered after the detached, self-assured coolness of the reticent biker dude. You know, perpetually balled-up angst, sauveness, everything that Wolverine is in the comics. Nothing I do helps, of course.
My pierced ear revolted anyone above the age of 12 (my 10 year old cousin being the sole supporter) while my plans for dyed hair have been shelved, after my dad promised me I wouldn't look cool, and instead just look like a human carrot. Let's not even discuss the hip-hop classes I took.
The silver lining presented itself just a few days ago.
A friend told me that she really enjoyed talking to me, that she was comfortable enough around me to speak her mind. Something about the, in her own words, 'crappiness that you have', disarmed safeguards that would have prevented her from opening up. It was something, she reminded me, that not everyone could do.
Everything happens for a reason then, I suppose.
Involuntarily, my curiosity piqued. Face-reading, not unlike its sister science palm-reading, is a detailed study that hails from centuries ago. Man has long since recognized that, as preposterous as it may seem, there is some correlation between our outward appeareance and our destinies/personalities.
Didn't the Chinese even derive a comprehensive reference chart that could highlight the significance of the placement of moles on the face? Or the cosmic meaning of a squarish jaw, a button nose, or high-foreheads?
For all I knew, my new friends from the Presentations group could have had unparalled schooling in the mystic arts of reading faces. Eager curiousity soon betrayed itself on my face.
"We think you look like an uncle sort, who would push a pram and carry diapers in about 10 years!"
They went on. Daddy-looking, guai (or Mandarin for obedient), crappily corny, so on and so forth.
*Phish*. My pricked ears could barely make out the sound of an ego deflating and then spontaneously combusting.
But all in all, it wasn't anything new. It seems that my entire life I've had to receive remarks of the same ilk. People have told me I look honest, that I would grow up to work in the government, that they would trust their daughters with me.
On the flip side, they vehemently refuse to believe that I'm not in the Library Society, that I actually have seen the inside of Zouk, that I actually relish performing the blasted Frog Dance. Oh, the extrapolations people arrive at from the way you present yourself.
I've always wistfully hungered after the detached, self-assured coolness of the reticent biker dude. You know, perpetually balled-up angst, sauveness, everything that Wolverine is in the comics. Nothing I do helps, of course.
My pierced ear revolted anyone above the age of 12 (my 10 year old cousin being the sole supporter) while my plans for dyed hair have been shelved, after my dad promised me I wouldn't look cool, and instead just look like a human carrot. Let's not even discuss the hip-hop classes I took.
The silver lining presented itself just a few days ago.
A friend told me that she really enjoyed talking to me, that she was comfortable enough around me to speak her mind. Something about the, in her own words, 'crappiness that you have', disarmed safeguards that would have prevented her from opening up. It was something, she reminded me, that not everyone could do.
Everything happens for a reason then, I suppose.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Law Camp 3: Photos Galore
In response to a very important visitor to this blog, here is the very first time I'm posting a photo update!
Well, this one is of my Law OG... it's still a very fun group! Haha, if you want an intro to any of the guys or girls, just let me know.
A parody of a very high-visibility ad put up by another University... Alex, if you can't guess this one...
My Secret Pal and I! Haha, Wendy, I'm glad we managed to hit it off! =)
The guys before our Formal Dinner. For every girl's information, the guy 3rd from the left is available, I'll send you his number for only 50 cents. As the current mantra in all financial matters is transparancy, all of the 50 cents will be going to the HT Pocket Money fund.
More photos soon!
Well, this one is of my Law OG... it's still a very fun group! Haha, if you want an intro to any of the guys or girls, just let me know.
A parody of a very high-visibility ad put up by another University... Alex, if you can't guess this one...
My Secret Pal and I! Haha, Wendy, I'm glad we managed to hit it off! =)
The guys before our Formal Dinner. For every girl's information, the guy 3rd from the left is available, I'll send you his number for only 50 cents. As the current mantra in all financial matters is transparancy, all of the 50 cents will be going to the HT Pocket Money fund.
More photos soon!
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Anger Management 1: The Two Types
Very broadly speaking, you have the Explosives, and the Implosives.
In a nutshell, the Explosives are the people who are quick to display their anger. It's not that they have particularly bad tempers, it's just that when they do, they'll have you know about it in a jiffy. Their demeanour visibly darkens, they start to rant or cry or cuss, WWIII breaks out.
The Explosives are the ones you see overreacting when people cut queues, or when lousy drivers hog the road, or when security guards deny you access to escalators. The large majority of crimes committed on the spur of the moment have their genesis in Explosive people.
But hey, sociologists aren't worrying too much about the Explosives.
In fact, it's the Implosives who are worrisome.
The reasoning's very simple. People mistake Implosives for being easy-going and good-natured, but in truth everything is just getting bottled up. And since every bottle has its limit, when Implosives erupt, no one is prepared for it, and more importantly, no one is prepared for what Implosives can do.
What's worse, Implosives tend to remember things. An Explosive lets it all out and forgets, but Implosives bear it, grin, and add you to their To Kill list. If you think I'm being flippant about it, let me assure you, I'm not. Just remember Columbine High School.
Cue my impromptu quack Anger Mangement course.
What To Do In The Event of....
1. Standing Next To An Explosive Flaring Up
Don't, I emphasize, don't even attempt to take the side of whichever poor fellow is the focus of the tantrum. It's like trying to protect someone being threatened by a gun, by standing in front of the gun. Give in to the Explosive, and seek a better time to give your view on how you would have handled things.
In short, shut up.
2. Standing Next To An Implosive Flaring Up
Run.
In a nutshell, the Explosives are the people who are quick to display their anger. It's not that they have particularly bad tempers, it's just that when they do, they'll have you know about it in a jiffy. Their demeanour visibly darkens, they start to rant or cry or cuss, WWIII breaks out.
The Explosives are the ones you see overreacting when people cut queues, or when lousy drivers hog the road, or when security guards deny you access to escalators. The large majority of crimes committed on the spur of the moment have their genesis in Explosive people.
But hey, sociologists aren't worrying too much about the Explosives.
In fact, it's the Implosives who are worrisome.
The reasoning's very simple. People mistake Implosives for being easy-going and good-natured, but in truth everything is just getting bottled up. And since every bottle has its limit, when Implosives erupt, no one is prepared for it, and more importantly, no one is prepared for what Implosives can do.
What's worse, Implosives tend to remember things. An Explosive lets it all out and forgets, but Implosives bear it, grin, and add you to their To Kill list. If you think I'm being flippant about it, let me assure you, I'm not. Just remember Columbine High School.
Cue my impromptu quack Anger Mangement course.
What To Do In The Event of....
1. Standing Next To An Explosive Flaring Up
Don't, I emphasize, don't even attempt to take the side of whichever poor fellow is the focus of the tantrum. It's like trying to protect someone being threatened by a gun, by standing in front of the gun. Give in to the Explosive, and seek a better time to give your view on how you would have handled things.
In short, shut up.
2. Standing Next To An Implosive Flaring Up
Run.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
What Marraige Does To You 2: Air-Con
(After this post I hope I still have a room to live in tomorrow. Sorry in advance, parents, for any breach of confidentiality)
At the risk of having the rest of the world mistake me for being an insincere, calculative worm, I will detail a conversation I had with my brother not too long ago.
'Loong, if you should find yourself on a movie date with a girl you like, what is the most important item you could bring along?'
'Err... err... tissue paper?'
I frowned. There was much work for me ahead.
'No. The most important thing... is this.' With a flourish, I pulled out a sweater I had earlier prepared.
The reasoning is very simple, I explained. By social convention, girls have a carrying capacity of about 1.2 kg for any outing. That's enough for a small water bottle, a handphone, a mirror, and a book or makeup (depending on the girl). There's definitely no space for a sweater.
And because the major cinema chains in Singapore understand that the colder you are, the more you want to eat popcorn or nachos or whatever else they sell at the counter, every cinema hall is capable of storing a freshly slaughtered pig for up to a week. Therefore, it is a given that your date would be cold during the movie.
And if you really like her, I said, you would have already considered her welfare long before the movie. By bringing her a little sweater, you show her that you have paid especial attention to her well-being. In effect, she would be warmed by both your sweater and your thoughtful little action.
'So, the warmer the sweater, the better?'
I frowned again.
'No. You might as well stuff a sheep in your bag and give it to her when she says she's cold.'
Of course, the conversation went on further than that, as I continued my spiel on how to tell when she needed it, and how to pass it to her. But that's not the point of this post.
Fast forward some 20 years of wedded bliss. During a particularly long car ride the other day, my mum had nodded off in the front passenger seat. After a brief spell of rain, she awoke shivering, and softly voiced her discomfort to my dad.
'Dear, it's so cold in here.'
Without skipping a single beat, my dad turned the aircon up to full blast.
Yes, it was mean. Yes, it was also damn funny, the way my mum screamed. But yes, that's also what marraige does to you.
At the risk of having the rest of the world mistake me for being an insincere, calculative worm, I will detail a conversation I had with my brother not too long ago.
'Loong, if you should find yourself on a movie date with a girl you like, what is the most important item you could bring along?'
'Err... err... tissue paper?'
I frowned. There was much work for me ahead.
'No. The most important thing... is this.' With a flourish, I pulled out a sweater I had earlier prepared.
The reasoning is very simple, I explained. By social convention, girls have a carrying capacity of about 1.2 kg for any outing. That's enough for a small water bottle, a handphone, a mirror, and a book or makeup (depending on the girl). There's definitely no space for a sweater.
And because the major cinema chains in Singapore understand that the colder you are, the more you want to eat popcorn or nachos or whatever else they sell at the counter, every cinema hall is capable of storing a freshly slaughtered pig for up to a week. Therefore, it is a given that your date would be cold during the movie.
And if you really like her, I said, you would have already considered her welfare long before the movie. By bringing her a little sweater, you show her that you have paid especial attention to her well-being. In effect, she would be warmed by both your sweater and your thoughtful little action.
'So, the warmer the sweater, the better?'
I frowned again.
'No. You might as well stuff a sheep in your bag and give it to her when she says she's cold.'
Of course, the conversation went on further than that, as I continued my spiel on how to tell when she needed it, and how to pass it to her. But that's not the point of this post.
Fast forward some 20 years of wedded bliss. During a particularly long car ride the other day, my mum had nodded off in the front passenger seat. After a brief spell of rain, she awoke shivering, and softly voiced her discomfort to my dad.
'Dear, it's so cold in here.'
Without skipping a single beat, my dad turned the aircon up to full blast.
Yes, it was mean. Yes, it was also damn funny, the way my mum screamed. But yes, that's also what marraige does to you.
Monday, July 11, 2005
The Terry Pratchett Test
For the longest time, I've had to suffer the greatest indignation and discrimination, simply over what I read.
The story begins, actually, quite long ago. Way back in secondary school, my classmates already began expressing disbelief at the supposed junk I was feeding my brain. 'Terry Pratchett?!?' they would exclaim. 'Why on earth do you insist on reading that garbage?'
My protests fell on deaf ears. I would shake one of his books in what came to be known as a Righteous Support For Pratchett Rage, and decry the sublime genius of his writing. Yet, every time, I would only see sad eyes looking back at me, as if somehow pitying the way madness had seized my mind.
JC wasn't much better. Hardly anyone heard of Pratchett, and of those who did, rare was the brave soul who would cast away the shackles of peer pressure and acknowledge The Truth. And so onwards I plod, in my lonely search for those who thought like me.
And oh, how the greatest despair descended upon me. Everywhere I went, not a single brother or sister could I find, who could think the way I did, feel the way I felt. As the hope I harboured dwindled and grew feeble, the more I resigned myself to belonging where I truly did not belong.
The final straw came not too long ago, when dear dear Haoyun described to me, to my face, what she thought of him. 'Complete utter rubbish. A wizard with no powers? A Luggage with a hundred little feet? What nonsense!'
Aye. The snow slowly settled on the desolate landscape of my world.
Things changed at a recent Law orientation group outing. I found myself reading a Pratchett book whilst waiting for my friends to arrive. When they did, and caught me in the act of enjoying a Pratchett, I instinctively hid the book behind me in a desperate act of defense, and unbidden, a wild crazed look leapt into my eyes.
'Stopsss! Goes away, youss who hurtsss me and my Preciouss...'
And with the gentlest, warmest hands, my friends reached out and drew me into their fold. Their understanding and concern, like the unimaginable radiance of the Sun, flowed forth and stripped away the darkness that penetrated the furthest corners of my life.
'But why? We read Pratchett too! And we think he's brilliant.'
As Haoyun noted later on, I have finally found a faculty where I belong. My search has come to an end.
The story begins, actually, quite long ago. Way back in secondary school, my classmates already began expressing disbelief at the supposed junk I was feeding my brain. 'Terry Pratchett?!?' they would exclaim. 'Why on earth do you insist on reading that garbage?'
My protests fell on deaf ears. I would shake one of his books in what came to be known as a Righteous Support For Pratchett Rage, and decry the sublime genius of his writing. Yet, every time, I would only see sad eyes looking back at me, as if somehow pitying the way madness had seized my mind.
JC wasn't much better. Hardly anyone heard of Pratchett, and of those who did, rare was the brave soul who would cast away the shackles of peer pressure and acknowledge The Truth. And so onwards I plod, in my lonely search for those who thought like me.
And oh, how the greatest despair descended upon me. Everywhere I went, not a single brother or sister could I find, who could think the way I did, feel the way I felt. As the hope I harboured dwindled and grew feeble, the more I resigned myself to belonging where I truly did not belong.
The final straw came not too long ago, when dear dear Haoyun described to me, to my face, what she thought of him. 'Complete utter rubbish. A wizard with no powers? A Luggage with a hundred little feet? What nonsense!'
Aye. The snow slowly settled on the desolate landscape of my world.
Things changed at a recent Law orientation group outing. I found myself reading a Pratchett book whilst waiting for my friends to arrive. When they did, and caught me in the act of enjoying a Pratchett, I instinctively hid the book behind me in a desperate act of defense, and unbidden, a wild crazed look leapt into my eyes.
'Stopsss! Goes away, youss who hurtsss me and my Preciouss...'
And with the gentlest, warmest hands, my friends reached out and drew me into their fold. Their understanding and concern, like the unimaginable radiance of the Sun, flowed forth and stripped away the darkness that penetrated the furthest corners of my life.
'But why? We read Pratchett too! And we think he's brilliant.'
As Haoyun noted later on, I have finally found a faculty where I belong. My search has come to an end.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Lateral Thinking
In anticipation of the upcoming Law Presentations, where the guys have to go topless, the Emergency Response Panel (made up only of all the guys, strangely enough) deliberated long and hard, and eventually derived two detailed possible courses of action.
Option One - Eat Right, Train Hard
Under this scheme, the guys would immediately go on strict, carefully monitored diets. For this purpose we would secretly observe what the girls normally eat, and then go on to eat only half of that. Rough estimates indicate we would spend about S$0.20 or Twenty Singaporean Cents on each meal.
We would then supplement our diet with a dash of Creatine or other related body-building products, just to ensure our bodies gets the small amounts of vitamins and protein it needs. Budget allocated for this: S$500.
Our training program would then closely mirror that of Jared's, since he has by far the most well-sculpted body among us. The training regime, too long and painful to detail here, will be strictly adhered to. Eventually, the idea is to end up feeling that 500 push-ups is fun and is hardly challenging for a warm-up.
The reward will be that come Presentations Day, every single guy will look like a Jared duplicate, with gleaming pectorals, wings, abs, biceps, the whole deal.
Option Two - Force Feed Jared
This comparatively easier scheme only involves tying Jared to a chair and force feeding him. The reward will be that come Presentations Day, Jared will look like the rest of us, with gleaming bellies, flabby arms, one-pack of abs, the whole deal.
Plus, all of us would probably be much happier.
Ooo, thank you MOE, for teaching us to think outside the box.
Option One - Eat Right, Train Hard
Under this scheme, the guys would immediately go on strict, carefully monitored diets. For this purpose we would secretly observe what the girls normally eat, and then go on to eat only half of that. Rough estimates indicate we would spend about S$0.20 or Twenty Singaporean Cents on each meal.
We would then supplement our diet with a dash of Creatine or other related body-building products, just to ensure our bodies gets the small amounts of vitamins and protein it needs. Budget allocated for this: S$500.
Our training program would then closely mirror that of Jared's, since he has by far the most well-sculpted body among us. The training regime, too long and painful to detail here, will be strictly adhered to. Eventually, the idea is to end up feeling that 500 push-ups is fun and is hardly challenging for a warm-up.
The reward will be that come Presentations Day, every single guy will look like a Jared duplicate, with gleaming pectorals, wings, abs, biceps, the whole deal.
Option Two - Force Feed Jared
This comparatively easier scheme only involves tying Jared to a chair and force feeding him. The reward will be that come Presentations Day, Jared will look like the rest of us, with gleaming bellies, flabby arms, one-pack of abs, the whole deal.
Plus, all of us would probably be much happier.
Ooo, thank you MOE, for teaching us to think outside the box.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Karaoke 2: Pain
Follow this little line of reasoning.
Songwriters don't just sit down and pen lyrics. Often, they write the very best songs when they are in the midst of an emotional maelstrom - the sorrow, the joy, the anger, the frustration, the elation in them seethes and bubbles over, finding eventual release in the birth of a song.
Now, if you sat in a KBox suite and bombarded yourself with the most stirring songs for hours on end, can you imagine just how intense an experience it can be? To be subject to all the raw emotions embedded in every song, feeling almost as if the stories and memories in the songs weren't second-hand, but your own?
The worst part? Feeling your own memories stir up from forgotten depths, resonating to some unstoppable Siren's Call. For when we encounter the woes of others, we cannot help but identify, and think of our own similar problems.
Yes, ironic as it may sound, every karaoke sessions hurts.
How can they possibly not?
Songwriters don't just sit down and pen lyrics. Often, they write the very best songs when they are in the midst of an emotional maelstrom - the sorrow, the joy, the anger, the frustration, the elation in them seethes and bubbles over, finding eventual release in the birth of a song.
Now, if you sat in a KBox suite and bombarded yourself with the most stirring songs for hours on end, can you imagine just how intense an experience it can be? To be subject to all the raw emotions embedded in every song, feeling almost as if the stories and memories in the songs weren't second-hand, but your own?
The worst part? Feeling your own memories stir up from forgotten depths, resonating to some unstoppable Siren's Call. For when we encounter the woes of others, we cannot help but identify, and think of our own similar problems.
Yes, ironic as it may sound, every karaoke sessions hurts.
How can they possibly not?
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Presentations
I thought, hey, it's time to do something different. So I joined Law Presentations 05, the one and only Orientation dance competition.
Trust me, it wasn't easy at all to bear all the criticism my well-meaning friends rained upon me. "Don't be stupid", they said, "with a body like yours how are you ever going to succeed in dance? Just stick to bodybuilding or modelling, for Heaven's sake. You'll never succeed past the Frog Dance, Hanting."
But foolhardy me went ahead, and after two unforgettable rehearsals, I'm glad I did it.
First off, the Year Ones who joined are so full of good-natured energy and enthusiasm you can't help but come away infected. Come to think of it, that's not very surprising, after all only the most dance-loving or unbalanced people from all the OGs volunteered. I've made friends and built rapport so fast sometimes I felt like I was in a Carebear cartoon, seriously.
Secondly, I've come to realize that I'll never do something as mad as this again. Simply, my body can't keep up. For all the stretching we've been doing, I'm still as inflexible as government policy. Frankly, it's also pretty amazing that up till now I have yet to butcher my dance partner accidentally, considering how gifted I am in the dance department. As they say, once in a lifetime.
Lastly, I've never had so much fun learning a new skill. Everybody's been so encouraging, even if you make a mistake they stop laughing after ten minutes so that you get to pick yourself up and try again. True, there are real pros among us (ahem *cough*Hui*cough*Ling) but by and large everyone's been learning together.
The only bad thing to come out of all this, is the dire need to diet. Guys have to go topless during the real thing, so I'm adhering to a strict diet of figs and carrot sticks from now on. Sheesh, I feel like a bride before her wedding.
Oh yes. Thank you dance partner for not bursting out in tears when we got paired! =)
Trust me, it wasn't easy at all to bear all the criticism my well-meaning friends rained upon me. "Don't be stupid", they said, "with a body like yours how are you ever going to succeed in dance? Just stick to bodybuilding or modelling, for Heaven's sake. You'll never succeed past the Frog Dance, Hanting."
But foolhardy me went ahead, and after two unforgettable rehearsals, I'm glad I did it.
First off, the Year Ones who joined are so full of good-natured energy and enthusiasm you can't help but come away infected. Come to think of it, that's not very surprising, after all only the most dance-loving or unbalanced people from all the OGs volunteered. I've made friends and built rapport so fast sometimes I felt like I was in a Carebear cartoon, seriously.
Secondly, I've come to realize that I'll never do something as mad as this again. Simply, my body can't keep up. For all the stretching we've been doing, I'm still as inflexible as government policy. Frankly, it's also pretty amazing that up till now I have yet to butcher my dance partner accidentally, considering how gifted I am in the dance department. As they say, once in a lifetime.
Lastly, I've never had so much fun learning a new skill. Everybody's been so encouraging, even if you make a mistake they stop laughing after ten minutes so that you get to pick yourself up and try again. True, there are real pros among us (ahem *cough*Hui*cough*Ling) but by and large everyone's been learning together.
The only bad thing to come out of all this, is the dire need to diet. Guys have to go topless during the real thing, so I'm adhering to a strict diet of figs and carrot sticks from now on. Sheesh, I feel like a bride before her wedding.
Oh yes. Thank you dance partner for not bursting out in tears when we got paired! =)
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Birds
It was the Critical Moment. As I slipped into my outing clothing, I counted the seconds going by. Research shows that in almost 90% of all instances of children being enslaved to do household chores, the event which triggers a Call To Duty by parents is when the children are getting dressed to go out. Uncanny, yet true. Hence, the term Critical Moment.
Familiar? You bet.
"Hanting! Quick! Come here!" yelled my mother from upstairs. Some things don't change.
This time, it wasn't maggots (click to see previous post). In fact, it was a bit higher up the food chain. Hanting, Dish Washing Overlord, Sweeper of Worlds, Destroyer of Maggots, was on the verge of accumulating yet another title. Hanting, Rescuer of Little Birdies.
Because there it was, the poor little bird, feebly flapping for life in the toilet bowl. I kid you not. Somehow, the bird had plummuted out of the air, hoping like hell to land somewhere soft, and ended up in my mum's loo. I strained my ears - yes, the other birds outside were laughing like mad.
This was no time for squeamishness, no time for dilly-dallying. I plunged my hand right in, and lifted it up gently. It gripped my fingers as hard as it could, shivering all the while, eyes closing, opening, closing. How much time did it have left?
(If it was my brother's loo, I would have flushed it down straightaway. It wouldn't have had much chance of survival, anyway)
Bed! It needed a bed! So I emptied my mum's jewellery box, lined it with cotton and tissue, and tipped the bird it. Done.
Food! It needed food! What did birds eat, besides worms? After 14 years of Science education failed me for a few more minutes, I peeled a few grapes and crushed a few bits of Kueh Bangkit into the box. Done.
Heat! It needed heat! I wanted to leave the bird under a solar lamp, but didn't want to return a while later to find it on fire, so I tried out my brother's new hair dryer. But it was far too strong, it kept blowing the poor thing off the table, so in the end I settled for leaving it under the afternoon sun. Done.
I paced the study room like a dad awaiting the birth of his first child. 10 minutes later, believe it or not, I heard a chorus of chirping from outside, and upon rushing outside I found the bird I saved (I christened her Daphne) perched in the shrubs together with her family!
Sheesh. I've never felt like a Hao Gong Ming before.
Familiar? You bet.
"Hanting! Quick! Come here!" yelled my mother from upstairs. Some things don't change.
This time, it wasn't maggots (click to see previous post). In fact, it was a bit higher up the food chain. Hanting, Dish Washing Overlord, Sweeper of Worlds, Destroyer of Maggots, was on the verge of accumulating yet another title. Hanting, Rescuer of Little Birdies.
Because there it was, the poor little bird, feebly flapping for life in the toilet bowl. I kid you not. Somehow, the bird had plummuted out of the air, hoping like hell to land somewhere soft, and ended up in my mum's loo. I strained my ears - yes, the other birds outside were laughing like mad.
This was no time for squeamishness, no time for dilly-dallying. I plunged my hand right in, and lifted it up gently. It gripped my fingers as hard as it could, shivering all the while, eyes closing, opening, closing. How much time did it have left?
(If it was my brother's loo, I would have flushed it down straightaway. It wouldn't have had much chance of survival, anyway)
Bed! It needed a bed! So I emptied my mum's jewellery box, lined it with cotton and tissue, and tipped the bird it. Done.
Food! It needed food! What did birds eat, besides worms? After 14 years of Science education failed me for a few more minutes, I peeled a few grapes and crushed a few bits of Kueh Bangkit into the box. Done.
Heat! It needed heat! I wanted to leave the bird under a solar lamp, but didn't want to return a while later to find it on fire, so I tried out my brother's new hair dryer. But it was far too strong, it kept blowing the poor thing off the table, so in the end I settled for leaving it under the afternoon sun. Done.
I paced the study room like a dad awaiting the birth of his first child. 10 minutes later, believe it or not, I heard a chorus of chirping from outside, and upon rushing outside I found the bird I saved (I christened her Daphne) perched in the shrubs together with her family!
Sheesh. I've never felt like a Hao Gong Ming before.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Eagerness
Some time back, I made a little resolution to firmly yet politely refuse any and all flyers pushed to me. The thing is, I don't like the way people invade your personal space in such an abrupt manner, most of the time when you least expect it.
But when I saw the middle-aged lady, obviously weary from a full day's worth of handing flyers out to complete strangers, my big heart softened. This time, I told myself, I would gladly accept a flyer from her, no, no, I would enthusiastically take the initiative and ask her for a flyer.
Heck, I would even throw in a big smile and wish her well.
So I strode up to her, and asked in a cheery voice if I could have one. She looked taken aback for a second, gave me a queer look, recovered and handed me a flyer. I flashed her a happy smile, then walked off, taking a little comfort in the knowledge that I had made her job that little bit easier.
Then I glanced down at the flyer.
"2005 Wedding Fair! Hundreds of styles and cuts! Dresses galore! Sale on NOW!"
No more Mr. Nice Guy.
But when I saw the middle-aged lady, obviously weary from a full day's worth of handing flyers out to complete strangers, my big heart softened. This time, I told myself, I would gladly accept a flyer from her, no, no, I would enthusiastically take the initiative and ask her for a flyer.
Heck, I would even throw in a big smile and wish her well.
So I strode up to her, and asked in a cheery voice if I could have one. She looked taken aback for a second, gave me a queer look, recovered and handed me a flyer. I flashed her a happy smile, then walked off, taking a little comfort in the knowledge that I had made her job that little bit easier.
Then I glanced down at the flyer.
"2005 Wedding Fair! Hundreds of styles and cuts! Dresses galore! Sale on NOW!"
No more Mr. Nice Guy.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Law Camp 2: Bodies
I casually pointed over to the mass of tanned and well-toned bodies in the pool, slugging it out in the inter-year water-polo match, and asked the girls sitting around me a deceptively simple question.
"So, which part of a guy's body is the most important to you?"
The girls chittered among themselves for a while, then one voice replied for all.
"Definitely the chest or shoulders. The bigger the better."
"What?!? Not the abs? I thought every girl wanted a washboard ab on her man?"
"Na. Whoever told you that?"
I immediately let go of the breath I had been holding since the start of camp, and my belly sagged back into place.
Suddenly obsessed with a sociological quest of epic proportions, I went on to query the rest of my group mates. At the end of the day, I found out quite a few interesting things about the way guys and girls perceive each other. If you are someone who has always been harboured Narcissistic tendancies, pay heed.
Myth One: Oh no! I just gained 2 kg! I am soooo hideously fat!!!
The Truth: You are either Very Thin, Very Fat or Normal. If you in neither extreme to begin with, and you gain or lose a couple of kgs, NO ONE NOTICES, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE.
Myth Two: It is a must for guys to have hot bods or be cute, to be a hit with the girls.
The Truth: Hot bods or cutie faces might have some weight, but charm always rules the day.
Myth Three: Guys are mindless beasts, attracted only to females with svelte figures.
The Truth: We are human beings, not beasts.
No, seriously, the world is a lot less shallow than you think it is. People ogle movie stars the entire day, wishing they too could insure their bodies for millions of dollars, but still return to loving their normal, down-to-earth partners all the same.
You should too, if you haven't.
"So, which part of a guy's body is the most important to you?"
The girls chittered among themselves for a while, then one voice replied for all.
"Definitely the chest or shoulders. The bigger the better."
"What?!? Not the abs? I thought every girl wanted a washboard ab on her man?"
"Na. Whoever told you that?"
I immediately let go of the breath I had been holding since the start of camp, and my belly sagged back into place.
Suddenly obsessed with a sociological quest of epic proportions, I went on to query the rest of my group mates. At the end of the day, I found out quite a few interesting things about the way guys and girls perceive each other. If you are someone who has always been harboured Narcissistic tendancies, pay heed.
Myth One: Oh no! I just gained 2 kg! I am soooo hideously fat!!!
The Truth: You are either Very Thin, Very Fat or Normal. If you in neither extreme to begin with, and you gain or lose a couple of kgs, NO ONE NOTICES, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE.
Myth Two: It is a must for guys to have hot bods or be cute, to be a hit with the girls.
The Truth: Hot bods or cutie faces might have some weight, but charm always rules the day.
Myth Three: Guys are mindless beasts, attracted only to females with svelte figures.
The Truth: We are human beings, not beasts.
No, seriously, the world is a lot less shallow than you think it is. People ogle movie stars the entire day, wishing they too could insure their bodies for millions of dollars, but still return to loving their normal, down-to-earth partners all the same.
You should too, if you haven't.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Law Camp 1: In Totality
I tell you, nothing saps your enthusiasm for a camp faster than a short 2.5-year stint in the army. Sidle up to any ORD guy, whisper "... it's time to go to camp..." in his ear, and just watch the cold sweat flood out of his pores. It's almost a Pavlovian reflex already.
But now, with the awkward icebreakers all said and done, with the myriad forfeits all furtively completed, with the war games all over along with the blood lust... with the many budding friendships that promise so much, I've willing to say that yeah, Law Camp was mostly fun.
And so another chapter begins...
But now, with the awkward icebreakers all said and done, with the myriad forfeits all furtively completed, with the war games all over along with the blood lust... with the many budding friendships that promise so much, I've willing to say that yeah, Law Camp was mostly fun.
And so another chapter begins...
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