Tomorrow's Valentine's, and I originally wanted to post on that. But time's not on my side, so I'll do a quickie post instead.
I was reading my homicide cases when I came across this story of a maid who was charged with the murder of her employer. In a splendid example of how my mind went off tangent, I came across the word 'ang pow' in the judgment, and ended up on this page blogging.
I was thinking, actually, about the differences in sizes of ang pows. Not the literal size of the red packet, as I'm sure you understand, but rather the quantity of the sum inside. Yes, I know CNY 2006 has just passed, so think of this as an early CNY 2007 post instead.
There are, to my mind, two kinds of ang pow givers. The first are the Symbolic Ang Pao givers (SAPs), who believe that it's the symbolic action of bestowing the ang pao that's the important bit. Then, there are the Symbolic Yet Generous Ang Pao givers (ANGELs), who believe that while symbolism's good, it's not going to hurt anyone to spread some moolah around.
This of course accounts for the grotesque difference between the ang paos people receive. When I was in Primary Four, I suffered catatonic shock after asking this smarmy classmate how much he received. I mean, I thought my humble collection was plentiful enough, but when I heard of how he collected in excess of $3000, my harvest was humble, very, very humble indeed.
I raged that day. I raged against the system, I raged against tradition, I raged against the government. Of course, as soon as I reached full maturity (Primary Five) I came to understand that the sum wasn't really that important after all. Seriously.
(If you happen to have given me an ang pao within the last six years, please do not misunderstand. I receive every ang pao with nothing less than full-hearted gratitude. However, if you were the one who gave me the ang pao seven years ago with 2 melon seeds inside, be warned, I still have that ang pao, and I will acquire a fingerprints kit one day.)
So why post about ang paos when all internal conflict has been resolved? Because, I am extremely curious as to how the two groups of people, the SAPs and the ANGELs, evolved such distinct behaviour regarding ang pao.
The first conclusion I reached, was that the two groups of people tend to perpetuate their behaviour down the generations. You simply give out ang paos in the same proportion that you used to receive them.
I mean, imagine you're a kid with ANGEL parents, with ANGEL relatives and friends, and you average $300 an ang pao come CNY. Can you really imagine yourself growing up and giving out $2 ang paos? Wouldn't you feel in the least bit like frying in a wok everytime you gave out one of those SAP-py ang paos?
The second conclusion I reached, was that your parents play an even larger role than you think, when it comes to determining whether you become a SAP or an ANGEL. Imagine reaching that stage in life when it's your turn to give ang pao. Imagine buying tons of red packets the week before, drawing lots of crisp new notes, then having no idea at all how much to put into each packet.
I mean, at least that's how it would happen for me. I've observed my parents closely enough - before CNY they move around slowly, drifting like jellyfish, completely oblivious to preparing ang paos. Then, the day before, the hour before, they suddenly turbo-charge into whirling Tasmanian devils, drawing, sorting, sealing ang paos faster than Wenzhao gets As in school.
When the dust settles, they're jellyfish again, albeit contented ones. Never, in all my 21 years, have I deciphered their method to the madness. So that means that eventually I'll have to humbly ask. Grr.
All this being said, no amount of preparation can still blanket the little tingle of shock I feel whenever I discover that someone's ang pao is equivalent to a freaking iPod. I guess I'll content myself with the thought that it's years more before I have to give ang pao myself.
Oh yes. AND. DON'T. GIVE. ME. ANYMORE. MELON. SEEDS. Whoever you are.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Black Saturday: Part Three
There was, if you must know, a third part to this most unholy of Saturdays.
In the interest of presenting a more representative, luckier cross-section of my life, however, I'll gladly skip over this part and move right on to my next normal post. =)
In the interest of presenting a more representative, luckier cross-section of my life, however, I'll gladly skip over this part and move right on to my next normal post. =)
Black Saturday: Part Two
And the saga of that horrid Saturday continues.
A little background is necessary. When I was about 12 my dad got me my first pair of roller blades, and little precocious kid that I was, unafraid of injury and death, I was soon able to perform all manner of acrobatic stunts on blades. Think Disney on Ice, on crack.
Looking back, it still amazes me just how heedless of risk I was. True, occasionally I would don protective gear, but most of the time I threw caution to the winds and sashayed my way around the neighbourhood unprotected. I remember reaching incredible speeds, zipping down slopes and racing back up, thinking only of how I could go faster.
Alas, it was not to last. I wish I could relate some fantastic tale of how my youthful blading exploits ended, like how I crushed my legs in self-sacrifice whilst saving damsels in distress, or how I sold my blades to buy a birthday present for my mother.
The truth lacks any perceivable morsel of drama - I simply outgrew my blades, and then decided to wait until I was fully grown before I bought my next pair. Lame, I know.
Imagine then, how vexed I was when I bought a pair about 3 months ago, and discovered that my skills were all gone. When before I could zip my way down CTE on a crowded day, evading any police vehicle determined to apprehend me, I could now barely make the 10m from my porch to my gate without breaking my spine.
Somehow, the magic had all gone!
Perhaps the worst part was that no one believed I was the wonder-kid I remembered myself to be. Now, when I wobble along, trying to catch up with whoever I happen to be blading with, all people see is this newbie fighting to stay upright and alive. I grit my teeth and grin when they condescendingly offer to glue extra beginner wheels to my blades, but my heart aches to soar like I once did.
It wasn't long before I realized my ego was in the way, hampering my growth. I had to let go of the past, and accept that I had to start all over again. And what was the final, devastating blow that did me in?
Just a while back, when I returned home after blading in the neighbourhood, my mother ran out with her camera, snapped a few shots of me, and cheered as I made it back safely.
Enough was enough. I would start from zero, all over again, and climb back to what I used to be.
Strangely though, I found my perspectives changed. Where before obstacles were like flies, bothersome but easily dismissed, now every ledge, rock, car, bench, uneven pavement was a death-trap. I could literally foresee how every little crack in the road would be my undoing - I would trip over one, shatter my skull and burst all my organs, and lie in bed invalid forever.
All this history, the pain, the humiliation, the suffering, rage inside my head every time I blade, and this (back to the present now!) particular Black Saturday was no different.
After the entire body-clock fiasco (see previous post), I grumpily left to meet Haoyun at ECP, where we usually go to blade. Ten minutes into blading, I deliberately slowed down, and let her speed on ahead. This was it, the little bit of personal time I'll devote each session to regaining my previous form.
(You must understand, my master plan was to train in secret while looking like a whale on wheels to the rest of my friends. Laugh at me, would they?!? Bwahaha, oh, how I would stun and flabbergast and amaze and astound them when I finally regained my form!)
So while she was safely ahead, thinking that poor Hanting was having problems catching up again (pshaw!), I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, shut out the noise of the world, conjured a single flickering candle flame in my mind's eye... and Became One With The Blades.
An imperceivable period of time passed. When I opened my eyes and reorientated myself, I was aware of a small crowd around me, most of whom were wide-eyed and clapping and cheering me on. I cricked my neck, and looked back at the skid marks on the ground.
Hmm, not bad, I thought. Judging from the marks I left behind, I had probably pulled off a Devil's Final Temptation, a Double Whammy, a Grinding Flipover-Pass, a Frenchman's Regret and my own creation, a Singapura Schwzing. Not too bad at all.
So I happily resumed my original journey, leaving a gaggle of blading-converts behind. It wouldn't be long before I caught up with Haoyun, and even if she called me a snail again, I would simply smile my secret smile and bide my time.
And then it happened.
A sudden metallic screech. The smell of rubber. A jerk in motion, a sudden tilt, a sense of panic. Imbalance, confusion, chaos. The Fear of Pain.
(EDIT: I am rereading this and I want to clarify, a jerk in motion was not meant to refer to mee!!!)
It took every ounce of skill I had to keep from falling, and when I landed on my blades I heard faint applause. Distractedly, I noted that I had inadvertantly performed a Lover's Duet out of reflex, but my mind wasn't on that at the moment. What had happened to my blades?
Slowing down, I did a systems check, and Realised. That. One. Wheel. Was. Missing.
So it was when Haoyun eventually backtracked that she found me whimpering along that little stretch of road, holding one nut in my hand and frantically trying to find the accompanying screw and wheel. And she did what any loving, caring and thoughtful girlfriend would have done - she laughed her butt off for a whole 5 min, then asked me if I was ok.
But our efforts came to naught. We searched for half an hour, and recovered the screw, but the wheel had simply disappeared. We left eventually... but I think I'll never forget that spot in ECP where my spirit and dreams died a second time.
Oh, how strewn the path to glory is with the caprice of Fate.
A little background is necessary. When I was about 12 my dad got me my first pair of roller blades, and little precocious kid that I was, unafraid of injury and death, I was soon able to perform all manner of acrobatic stunts on blades. Think Disney on Ice, on crack.
Looking back, it still amazes me just how heedless of risk I was. True, occasionally I would don protective gear, but most of the time I threw caution to the winds and sashayed my way around the neighbourhood unprotected. I remember reaching incredible speeds, zipping down slopes and racing back up, thinking only of how I could go faster.
Alas, it was not to last. I wish I could relate some fantastic tale of how my youthful blading exploits ended, like how I crushed my legs in self-sacrifice whilst saving damsels in distress, or how I sold my blades to buy a birthday present for my mother.
The truth lacks any perceivable morsel of drama - I simply outgrew my blades, and then decided to wait until I was fully grown before I bought my next pair. Lame, I know.
Imagine then, how vexed I was when I bought a pair about 3 months ago, and discovered that my skills were all gone. When before I could zip my way down CTE on a crowded day, evading any police vehicle determined to apprehend me, I could now barely make the 10m from my porch to my gate without breaking my spine.
Somehow, the magic had all gone!
Perhaps the worst part was that no one believed I was the wonder-kid I remembered myself to be. Now, when I wobble along, trying to catch up with whoever I happen to be blading with, all people see is this newbie fighting to stay upright and alive. I grit my teeth and grin when they condescendingly offer to glue extra beginner wheels to my blades, but my heart aches to soar like I once did.
It wasn't long before I realized my ego was in the way, hampering my growth. I had to let go of the past, and accept that I had to start all over again. And what was the final, devastating blow that did me in?
Just a while back, when I returned home after blading in the neighbourhood, my mother ran out with her camera, snapped a few shots of me, and cheered as I made it back safely.
Enough was enough. I would start from zero, all over again, and climb back to what I used to be.
Strangely though, I found my perspectives changed. Where before obstacles were like flies, bothersome but easily dismissed, now every ledge, rock, car, bench, uneven pavement was a death-trap. I could literally foresee how every little crack in the road would be my undoing - I would trip over one, shatter my skull and burst all my organs, and lie in bed invalid forever.
All this history, the pain, the humiliation, the suffering, rage inside my head every time I blade, and this (back to the present now!) particular Black Saturday was no different.
After the entire body-clock fiasco (see previous post), I grumpily left to meet Haoyun at ECP, where we usually go to blade. Ten minutes into blading, I deliberately slowed down, and let her speed on ahead. This was it, the little bit of personal time I'll devote each session to regaining my previous form.
(You must understand, my master plan was to train in secret while looking like a whale on wheels to the rest of my friends. Laugh at me, would they?!? Bwahaha, oh, how I would stun and flabbergast and amaze and astound them when I finally regained my form!)
So while she was safely ahead, thinking that poor Hanting was having problems catching up again (pshaw!), I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, shut out the noise of the world, conjured a single flickering candle flame in my mind's eye... and Became One With The Blades.
An imperceivable period of time passed. When I opened my eyes and reorientated myself, I was aware of a small crowd around me, most of whom were wide-eyed and clapping and cheering me on. I cricked my neck, and looked back at the skid marks on the ground.
Hmm, not bad, I thought. Judging from the marks I left behind, I had probably pulled off a Devil's Final Temptation, a Double Whammy, a Grinding Flipover-Pass, a Frenchman's Regret and my own creation, a Singapura Schwzing. Not too bad at all.
So I happily resumed my original journey, leaving a gaggle of blading-converts behind. It wouldn't be long before I caught up with Haoyun, and even if she called me a snail again, I would simply smile my secret smile and bide my time.
And then it happened.
A sudden metallic screech. The smell of rubber. A jerk in motion, a sudden tilt, a sense of panic. Imbalance, confusion, chaos. The Fear of Pain.
(EDIT: I am rereading this and I want to clarify, a jerk in motion was not meant to refer to mee!!!)
It took every ounce of skill I had to keep from falling, and when I landed on my blades I heard faint applause. Distractedly, I noted that I had inadvertantly performed a Lover's Duet out of reflex, but my mind wasn't on that at the moment. What had happened to my blades?
Slowing down, I did a systems check, and Realised. That. One. Wheel. Was. Missing.
So it was when Haoyun eventually backtracked that she found me whimpering along that little stretch of road, holding one nut in my hand and frantically trying to find the accompanying screw and wheel. And she did what any loving, caring and thoughtful girlfriend would have done - she laughed her butt off for a whole 5 min, then asked me if I was ok.
But our efforts came to naught. We searched for half an hour, and recovered the screw, but the wheel had simply disappeared. We left eventually... but I think I'll never forget that spot in ECP where my spirit and dreams died a second time.
Oh, how strewn the path to glory is with the caprice of Fate.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Black Saturday: Part One
This particular Saturday a while back was the worst day I've had this year.
You see, Mother Nature's creations usually come with inbuilt clocks. Little squirrels busy with making homes and even littler squirrels suddenly know when to stockpile nuts. You never see traffic jams in the sky from migratory birds who rush at the last minute. Flowers bloom so precisely, people actually use floral clocks to tell time.
It therefore stands to reason that human beings have body clocks too, and that I, as a human being, should also be the proud owner of a body clock. Assuming I do have one, however, its present condition is extremely suspect.
The common belief is that our body clocks are like lions, harm to tame, unpredictable and dangerous if we place too much confidence in them. I've battled my body clock for years now, trying to achieve Body Clock Heaven, where you jerk awake in the morning at a certain time, on the dot. Suffice to say that for every time I wake up automatically at 7 am (the best time to wake up to prepare for school), I wake up 9 times at 9:42 am, 11:54 am, 10:26 am, 1:15 pm, 12:33pm, etc.
(I am also very familiar with research done into sleep, specifically how to awaken from it. The theory goes that your brain categorizes certain noises as 'Emergency' noises, or noises that indicate a danger to your safety. For ancient man these noises included the growling of predators, or hostile footsteps, whilst for me it's a certain whoosh sound, otherwise known to my brother and I as The-Sound-Mum-Makes-When-She-Inhales-To-Scream-At-Us-To-Wake-Up.
In any case, the worst feature you can find on any alarm clock is the snooze button - you'll be amazed at how quickly you're conditioned to sleep through an alarm after you abuse the snooze button repeatedly. I once glued little staples to snooze button to improve the chances of waking up on time, but woke up eventually to find my clock in little pieces on the floor. It's scary what being awoken rudely does to your memory and temper.)
In any case, it became clear to me in the past few months that my sleep cycle was completely out of whack. It happened gradually, insidiously - 1 am was the initial cut-off point for all work on weekdays, then after a particularly hectic week I breached 2 am, then after I started collapsing and sleeping in the late afternoon, 3 am. 4 am followed soon after.
I thought my young robust body could handle the strain of living three different timezones per week, but I thought wrong. Soon came the eyebags, the wrinkles and the crooked back, but what really caused me panic was when I started shedding clumps of hair for no apparant reason at all. I needed a huge swing back to a normal sleep cycle, and fast.
And this was where the first unfortunate event unfolded.
The night before I forced myself into bed at 10 pm sharp, determined to wrench my body clock back into shape. Haoyun was clued in to my plan, and would call me in the morning to ensure my plan worked. Sleep came fitfully, painfully, but when I awoke I felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
My progress report as per the wall clock in my room:
10:00 pm: Into bed!
11:00 pm: Still tossing, but getting sleepy!
06:50 am: Got my wake-up call! But it's too early for a Saturday, a bit more sleep please!
08:00 am: Woke up myself, automatically! Hooray!
08:30 am: Showered, breakfasted, off to mug!
11:00 am: Mum calling me for lunch, but it's way too early! Mug mug!
11:10 am: Mum still calling, sounding a bit pissed! But we usually eat after 1 pm! What's wrong with her?
11:25 am: WHAT THE ^@&#@* IS WRONG WITH MY CLOCK?!?!? Why is the second hand ticking but not moving?!?
It was quite hypnotic, really. I sat there for a full minute, staring at the second hand weakly attempt to climb from 6 to 12, feebly falling back a second for every two forward. Then the ugly horrible truth dawned upon me: sometime in the middle of the night, the wall clock started losing time, to the point when it was a full 2.5 hours behind the rest of the world.
I’m not the superstitious sort, but when your trusty wall clock runs out of batteries the very same night you resolve to reset your body clock, it’s a sign to desist. My sense of victory, of achievement, left me. I was a shell of a human being.
And yes, there was more to this particularly unfortunate Saturday.
You see, Mother Nature's creations usually come with inbuilt clocks. Little squirrels busy with making homes and even littler squirrels suddenly know when to stockpile nuts. You never see traffic jams in the sky from migratory birds who rush at the last minute. Flowers bloom so precisely, people actually use floral clocks to tell time.
It therefore stands to reason that human beings have body clocks too, and that I, as a human being, should also be the proud owner of a body clock. Assuming I do have one, however, its present condition is extremely suspect.
The common belief is that our body clocks are like lions, harm to tame, unpredictable and dangerous if we place too much confidence in them. I've battled my body clock for years now, trying to achieve Body Clock Heaven, where you jerk awake in the morning at a certain time, on the dot. Suffice to say that for every time I wake up automatically at 7 am (the best time to wake up to prepare for school), I wake up 9 times at 9:42 am, 11:54 am, 10:26 am, 1:15 pm, 12:33pm, etc.
(I am also very familiar with research done into sleep, specifically how to awaken from it. The theory goes that your brain categorizes certain noises as 'Emergency' noises, or noises that indicate a danger to your safety. For ancient man these noises included the growling of predators, or hostile footsteps, whilst for me it's a certain whoosh sound, otherwise known to my brother and I as The-Sound-Mum-Makes-When-She-Inhales-To-Scream-At-Us-To-Wake-Up.
In any case, the worst feature you can find on any alarm clock is the snooze button - you'll be amazed at how quickly you're conditioned to sleep through an alarm after you abuse the snooze button repeatedly. I once glued little staples to snooze button to improve the chances of waking up on time, but woke up eventually to find my clock in little pieces on the floor. It's scary what being awoken rudely does to your memory and temper.)
In any case, it became clear to me in the past few months that my sleep cycle was completely out of whack. It happened gradually, insidiously - 1 am was the initial cut-off point for all work on weekdays, then after a particularly hectic week I breached 2 am, then after I started collapsing and sleeping in the late afternoon, 3 am. 4 am followed soon after.
I thought my young robust body could handle the strain of living three different timezones per week, but I thought wrong. Soon came the eyebags, the wrinkles and the crooked back, but what really caused me panic was when I started shedding clumps of hair for no apparant reason at all. I needed a huge swing back to a normal sleep cycle, and fast.
And this was where the first unfortunate event unfolded.
The night before I forced myself into bed at 10 pm sharp, determined to wrench my body clock back into shape. Haoyun was clued in to my plan, and would call me in the morning to ensure my plan worked. Sleep came fitfully, painfully, but when I awoke I felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
My progress report as per the wall clock in my room:
10:00 pm: Into bed!
11:00 pm: Still tossing, but getting sleepy!
06:50 am: Got my wake-up call! But it's too early for a Saturday, a bit more sleep please!
08:00 am: Woke up myself, automatically! Hooray!
08:30 am: Showered, breakfasted, off to mug!
11:00 am: Mum calling me for lunch, but it's way too early! Mug mug!
11:10 am: Mum still calling, sounding a bit pissed! But we usually eat after 1 pm! What's wrong with her?
11:25 am: WHAT THE ^@&#@* IS WRONG WITH MY CLOCK?!?!? Why is the second hand ticking but not moving?!?
It was quite hypnotic, really. I sat there for a full minute, staring at the second hand weakly attempt to climb from 6 to 12, feebly falling back a second for every two forward. Then the ugly horrible truth dawned upon me: sometime in the middle of the night, the wall clock started losing time, to the point when it was a full 2.5 hours behind the rest of the world.
I’m not the superstitious sort, but when your trusty wall clock runs out of batteries the very same night you resolve to reset your body clock, it’s a sign to desist. My sense of victory, of achievement, left me. I was a shell of a human being.
And yes, there was more to this particularly unfortunate Saturday.
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