Perfect Timing

I thought my streak of terrible misfortune with electronics ended a few weeks ago.

My laptop fan was fixed at no charge, camera was restored, iPod battery swapped out successfully, earphones exchanged for a working pair. All seemed well.

You can probably see where this is going.

Last night, at the Tribeca Film Festival, my camera started acting up again. Without warning, my camera lost its ability to focus properly, much like a hyperactive kid swimming in a chocolate lake trying to concentrate on trigonometric equations.

Hey, I thought, what's the big deal, I must learn to chill, it's just a camera, life's too short, I can't be blogging about dying electronics all the time. After all, I'd already taken a few shots of the crowd for keepsakes. Peace out.

In the theatre though, as we were getting seated, I overheard two girls near me chatter in high-pitched squeals:

Girl 1: Oh did you see! They're here!
Girl 2: Who?
Girl 1: The director and the lead actress! They're here! They're outside right now having drinks with the press!
Girl 2: Seriously!?
Girl 1: Yes yes! And she's wearing a white dress, it's so pretty on her! I heard they will be answering our questions after the movie!

I couldn't help but start to sweat a little. You see, we were catching Three Kingdoms, some recent Asian flick starring Andy Lau and Maggie Q, and last I checked, Andy Lau was still male.

Let me try to convey the excitement I felt at that moment. If Maggie Q really were in the house, it would be as if a PS3 suddenly sprouted legs, snuggled up to me and said hey let's make a PS4. With lifetime warranty.

Disturbing imagery aside, YES, that was when my camera died. I turned it on to check if the focusing error had resolved itself, which indeed it had. Why, there was only the minor problem of the camera extending its lens, then shutting down automatically without retracting the lens.

My brain was working feverishly. Was it the battery? No, I just charged it, battery bar says full. Did I drop it? No, I've been cradling it as gingerly as I would a baby jellyfish. Did dust get in and jam the motors? Ridiculous! I'd even bought a new camera case for it!

There were only two possibilities left. Either it was pure undiluted bad luck, or the girlfriend-bought shirt I was wearing had the latest Anti-Straying technologies built in (which would include a sound emitter that intones 'Full price full price no further discounts', audible only to females, creating a vague sense of discomfort and thus keeping them away).

After the movie, I sat by the sidelines as fans went up to Maggie and put their filthy soiled arms around her waist or shoulders for the pictures they took. My friend told me I could still go and have my picture taken with my camera phone, but Maggie deserves better treatment than that.

In those few frustrating minutes when hope seemed to be running on its last legs, I kept pressing various buttons on my camera as I tried to fix it, but my magical touch didn't seem to transfer well from girls to cameras at all. Little motors within just kept whirring, which I guess when translated would mean "HAHA take that. Lick my batteries!"

To be honest I did think of just going up to pose with Maggie, while my friend pretended to take pictures of us with a defective camera. But somehow that seemed slimy, and desperate, and dang if I were going to sink to such levels.

Here's the only proof I have that I was really there that night:

Today, I sent off my camera for (further) repairs. From now on, it's only going to be known as 'my Fuji camera'.

Yes, I have disowned and un-named her.

Doing It Gracefully

It was one of those quiet Friday nights in my room. You know, the kind of night where you know you're supposed to be out hitting the hottest clubs, chatting up the sexiest girls... but for some reason you're home alone with no plans.

But there were curtains. And there was a locked door ensuring privacy. So I simply did what any other guy would have done in my position.

I took photographs of the top of my head, since it was one of the few parts of my body I'm not that familiar with. It never hurts to learn more about yourself.

And to my utmost shock, I discovered that I have a bald spot.

I know because I uploaded pictures of my scalp to my laptop and zoomed in, then went online to figure out that the circular bit at the top of your scalp is known as the crown or the root of the parietal whorl. 

And then I compared my pictures against other people's, and I discovered that my scalp was relatively very much more exposed. No matter what angle I took my pictures from, I couldn't change the ugly truth that stared back at me from the laptop screen.

Now, if you purchased a product and you discovered it was faulty, you'll call up the shop to complain. Hence, I called up my mother. I didn't care if it was only 8am in Singapore and my mother was most likely not in the mood to entertain panic-stricken first-borns.

Me: Hi mum! Look, there's something I need to talk to you about! It's quite serious!

Mum: Teng! Oh no! What happened!

(A short explanation is necessary. In all the months I've been overseas, no emergency has ever necessitated my calling home to seek counsel from my parents. Not when there was a stabbing outside my building, not even when my hot flatmate upgraded from a scanty towel to a proper all-encompassing bath robe on her daily pilgrimages to the shower.)

Me: It's my head! I've got a bald spot! I can see my scalp!

Mum: ... how do you know this? 

Me: I took pictures! It's very obvious! 

Mum: Cannot be cannot be! It's just the way your parting is la, you just comb your hair differently and it should go away.

Me: Go away? Mum, I don't comb the top of my head!

Mum: But cannot be! Your dad and I aren't bald, and no one in our extended families is bald!

I hung up then. The shock was too much. Either I was developing a case of non-hereditary baldness (which Google says is quite rare), or I was balding hereditarily, and hence, ADOPTED.

A melancholic reflective mood set upon me. I sat at my desk, reading up about male balding, wondering if my long hair was getting too heavy for my scalp to support, and hence, falling out. 

I also went through old albums of my youth (pre-2008, it seems), and reminisced about the 

times when the days were carefree and hair was thick, lustrous and in abundant supply. Memories were suddenly shrouded in sepia-tones. 

My iTunes was playing then, and then I suddenly realized that the last three songs were by pop stars younger than I. Namely, Jordin Sparks (19 years old), Leona Lewis (23 years old), and Miley Cyrus, star of Hannah Montana, who's all of 15 years old at this time of blogging.

The avalanche of evidence pouring in was staggering. A lot of things suddenly made sense. Why I simply could not get up before 10am anymore, why I had suddenly taken a shine to Frank Sinatra and forsaken Mr. Timberlake, why I was always falling asleep in the toilet.

Seriously, it occurred to me that despite my best efforts I had already turned 24 this year. 

Wow.

I guess for me it's that time of year again, where I sit down and contemplate what I've achieved in the past year, and how much more I want to do in the following one. It's funny how I always get so zen and contemplative about life when exams loom around the corner.

Funny, isn't it, how time is like the greedy fat kid in a candy store - when you've got your eye trained on him, he's shuffling slowly between the aisles, but the moment you blink, all the candy samplers are suddenly gone.

Hehe, I even remember that time when

OH MY LORD I'M RAMBLINGGG. 

If My Mind Had No Lid

It's funny how I blogged more when my laptop was away for her face lift, than now when she's perched on my desk acting all pouty because she fished around in my email and found evidence that I was considering a Mac.

Maybe it's because after you walk 15 minutes in the cold clutching tightly onto the fistful of dollars in your pocket, and after you fight with a dozen other insomniac students who are similarly deprived of laptops for a space in the com lab, you better bloody squeeze out something onto your blog.

Note to Self: when looking for a seat in a public, frequently-crowded com lab, do not pick the solitary computer at the very corner. It's empty for a reason. And the reasons begin with sticky keyboards. And chairs which are disturbingly moist.

Feeling a little light-headed now - I received my eviction notice in the mail today. Come May 31, I have the choice of quietly leaving this little cramped dingy room I affectionately call my Cramped Dingy Room, or staying and letting campus security escort me out forcibly. Time passes so fast!

I remember complaining about my dorm a lot when I first moved in. I found faults with the heating, the fish in the fridge that had a sell-by date of June '05, the showerhead that automatically aimed for your eyes everytime. But now, months later, on the cusp of leaving, I feel a strange emotional bond to this place.

So, lots of griping, dissatisfaction about how the pictures lied, then tolerance, then sadness when it is all over. Guess that's what marriage will be like.

Heading to DC again in 2 hours, taking the 3:45am bus. Daniel, Zhixiang and I are going to catch the NUS team in the Jessups - it strikes me how like other peeps in Europe are heading to all sorts of exotic places to experience great things (like fights with robbers), whilst we are headed to see people moot.

Don't get me wrong, I'm quite keen. It'll be a very rare and precious learning opportunity. Just saying. Er. So, if you're travelling around in Europe and seeing this, then, er, eat your heart out. Yeaaaa.

I've noticed the prevalent pet culture here in NYC for a long while. People tell me it's because the city is a lonesome place sometimes (oh the irony) and pets are faithful loving companions who don't demand a lot. Made me wonder if there are people who picked a pet, and then saw others and felt like they didn't love their first pet anymore.

You almost never hear of it happening, which makes it all the more strange given our collective track record when it comes to loving other people. I'll try shedding indiscriminately, cleaning unspeakable parts in public, and peeing excitedly at every tree, and then report if I've managed to isolate what separates pets from ex-girlfriends / ex-boyfriends.

Come to think of it, dogs must be pretty flummoxed whenever they go on walks. I mean, they don't know how long their owners plan to traipse around, and they've only got so much pee, and any self-respecting dog would want to mark as many trees as possible.

So when they come to a tree, do they simply just mark it with abandon, or do they think, waaiitt a minute, if I do this tree, I can't do that hydrant another 10 m down, but what if we take a different route, then I might miss out entirely, but what if...

No wonder why some dogs are highstrung all the time. There's a lot more going on in their heads than we give them credit for I guess.

Wow that was cathartic, being random on a blog. Got to go, bus to catch, moots to see!

"We Care For You"

Out of all the online retailers I've used so far, Asos seems to be the one that's most concerned about its customers' welfare.

Apparently, they have a very high-tech system that keeps close tabs on its customers, generating health tips and sending reminders free of charge.

I got this in my inbox just a few days back:

They sure can work on their tact, but yea, it's time to lose some weight.

Oh, To Be Amish

I've not had a good run-in with electronics recently.

First, my camera developed dust specks on the sensor. I tried to save the camera myself, thinking, how difficult can it be to open it up and clean the dust specks away, I'm not going to pay the shop $70 USD for that, they have to find other ways to cheat me of my hard-earned er pocket money.

30 agonizing minutes later, after I electrocuted myself on the circuit board and saw sparks fly (not in the usual good way I'm used to), I beat a hasty retreat. Twas a bitter defeat, for I had already removed Screws 01 through 11, but was unable to locate Screw No. Haha-You-Can't-Find-Me-Cause-You're-Not-Scientifically-Inclined.

I thought of my electrical-engineering friends, who would have easily flipped out the circuit board in a jiffy and avoided that nasty shock too. Then I thought of law and how it was so terribly helpful a degree in everyday life.

My streak continued. Last week, my laptop's fan started spinning louder than ever, and it wasn't even normal loud - I could hear it from outside my room with the door closed. I consulted another friend in law, and she told me to shut it down, let it rest for a while, and it would be fine by the next morning. Hmm. Law. I sense a trend.

Now I'm no electronics whiz, but I know enough about hardware to realize that if something fails once, it's going to fail again sooner or later. No amount of rest or TLC is going to restore it. Simply wishing that the problem would go away was not going to do a fig - I needed to get it fixed. Properly.

This time though, with the recent lessons from the Camera Incident fresh in my head, and a vow not to repeat the same costly mistakes, I was going to do things differently. I was going to open up my laptop... with rubber slippers on.

30 excruciating minutes later, after I broke a hinge and was left with only 12 out of the 14 screws I should have had (not in the usual sense too), I called it a day. Actually, I called it other unprintable names. I put it back together, switched it on and the fan was louder than ever.

I tried to look at the bright side of things, like how a friggin madman hadn't just rushed through my door during the entire sordid operation and stabbed me whilst I was deep in concetration. It made me feel a little better.

(An interesting thought occurred to me at this time - if I opened up a Macbook, what would its insides look like? Simpler and more intuitive than a PC's? Or would I find a smaller PC inside, running the whole system? What an understandable sham it would be. Shock shock, horror horror.)

Left with no alternative, I sent it in for repairs. During this trying period, a friend who's surely a devious Apple Witch in disguise attempted to induce me to the Dark Side and buy a Macbook. Why not, she said, when your PC laptop has failed you over and over again?

Her spell lasted long enough for me to find myself standing in the Den of Evil, the Apple fortress at 34th, bewildered and shaking with naked terror. Begone, I chanted, begone ye foul temptress! For shame! To ask me to consider nubile young pretty Macbooks while my sagging aging fugly Rei is fighting for her life this very instant!

(... I did caress a few Macbook Airs though, and briefly lost myself in fantasies of a different world, one where Rei and I never met, and I could have a Macbook without a hundred friends RUBBING IT IN that I should have got one from the start.)

Then, to cap it all off, the earphones I bought just days ago started malfunctioning too, and all this despite me taking the very best care of it. I rushed back to the store first this time, but only because I lacked the tools to take it apart - the masochist in me definitely would have tried.

At this rate I'm going to have to stop personifying my electronics by giving them names, for then it would affect me a lot less when they do actually fail. But oh, what a joyless alternative that would be.

It's Too Late

You lift the covers gently as you climb out of bed, but the cold air which rushes in to usurp your place doesn't wake me. Because I'm not really asleep.

I tilt my head ever so slightly, if only to have my eyes confirm the unthinkable. You tiptoe to the wardrobe, where you begin to dress as quietly as you can.

Swish-swish go your shirt sleeves as you slide your arms through them - it makes me wonder, that shirt you're wearing now, did I buy it or was it a present from her? I can't see well, but I can defnitely imagine.

Clik-clik as your fingernails tap against the buttons - do you know that I've read her letter to you, and know all about tonight being the night you leave me for her? You must. I didn't have the strength to say anything directly to you, so I left a photo of us inside that envelope in your drawer. You must have known I left it there. I'm still hoping it made you change your mind.

Thwip-ip as your belt closes its loop around you. My love, I can hardly breathe. Somehow I'm still praying that this is all just a dream, an ephmeral nightmare from which I can awake. My fists are in balls by my side, and I'm clenching them as hard as I can to keep from shaking. If every move of yours now is a step away from me, I wonder, from when did it begin?

Boof-foo as you sit back down on the bed, facing away from me. I try to shout to you not to go, to cherish and honor me as you said you would, but the words are stillborn in my throat. There is nothing I wouldn't do to keep us together, as long as you would talk to me and tell me why I am no longer enough for you.

Pwoof-foo as your laces intertwine. Really? You would go? Without even giving us a second thought? You can't really mean to go, for you would take with you all that I am now - I wouldn't die without you, but I wouldn't live either. I would be different, changed, no longer as able to trust or to love or to

... and you are gone.

And I realize, that the tears which have been marking your silent departure, are no longer flowing.

As The Dice Rolls

I watched the new movie 21 in theatres today, and it was... electrifying to observe how real professionals gamble.

21's a movie about a maths genius who gets roped into a card-counting team by his professor, and the whole lot sets out to break the casinos in Vegas. They played Blackjack, which, as it turns out, is also the game I set out to conquer during my jaunt there.

The movie made my jaw drop. It made me realize just how arrogant and ignorant I was to think that my simple plans and sub-JC maths could ever be enough to defeat the casinos. Let me illustrate the differences between him and I.

First off, the hero in 21 (let's just call him Giftedboy for short) had grand plans and noble intentions - he was trying to raise $300k to support himself through Med School. I was trying to raise $11 to pay my share of a parking ticket. And maybe score a $30 buffet dinner.

Secondly, Giftedboy was so good at maths that he corrected his MIT maths prof frequently, programmed for a robotics competition and knew all sorts of complex formula gibberish. At the table I had problems adding numbers up to see if I broke 21, and often made thoughtful "hmm" sounds just so that the other players would think I was strategizing.

Thirdly, they had a complete system of secret signals meant to tell each other which table was good to play at. We had our own system too, of course. If we said "@#*&$(" we meant that we were not very happy, whilst "Oh my lordy lord I'm getting probed from behind" meant that we were losing money.

I can't speak for my Spring Break Buddies, but the first sign that I should have stopped gambling came when the dealer, an Asian lady herself, started giving me impromptu lessons at the table. Our conversation went something like this:

She: So you want to hit? Or stay?
Me: Oh, of course. I want to stay.
She: Stay? You sure?
Me: Definitely.
She: Stay? Even when I've got a face card? You should hit!
Me: Oh, really? When you have a face card I should hit?
She: ... You are fake Asian boy.

It didn't help that upon following her advice I hit 21. Still, curses to the stereotype that Asians are good at maths and therefore by extension probability games like Blackjack.

But seriously, gambling was far more addictive than I imagined it to be. Sure, you read about the dangers in the papers and all, but when you're seated at the table, and it's your money on the line, everything changes.

Chances are that once you savor the sweet taste of victory, no matter how small, you'll be lured back in to play for more. The longer you play, the more alcohol you consume, the worse your game gets too.

It took an incredible amount of willpower to pull myself away from the table - there was this niggling voice at the back of my head that kept telling me my luck would have to change, all I needed was one big win to make it all back.

(In this case though, the niggling voice(s) belonged to my Spring Break Buddies. We aren't very good when it comes to supporting each other in the pursuit of respectable goals.)

Perhaps it's a good thing that my parents don't gamble, beyond the yearly tradition of the $100 Bonfire, where they plop down that princely sum in a bid to win the $5 million Toto.

(My brother and I always tell them they're better off giving us that $100 since we would be that much more inclined to take care of them when they are old, but my parents apparently place a lot of stock in being independent. Time will tell.)

I guess I'll never have the kind of luck or brains to ever make a living by gambling, but I acknowledge that the lure of easy money is going to be a temptation I'll spend years staving off. It never helps when you hear of other people getting rich quick, because everyone thinks, what if it were me?

Hopefully there'll always be nice Asian dealers to remind me of the shame I'm bringing to my race - that'll keep me away for sure.

Piece Of Mind

Normal people become more socially adept as they age. Experience teaches them to better express themselves, how to connect with others and integrate into society.

It seems I’ve got it all backwards. I was most socially adept in my kindergarten years, and from there on it all went downhill.

The precipitating event that led to the retardation of my social skills lies in a conversation my mother had with another parent, at a kindergarten concert we put up. It went something like this:

Parent: Oh, so which class is your son in? Sparkle Daisy, Fluffy Puppy or Unstoppable Murderous Executioner?
Mum: That last one, that’s the one.
Parent: What a coincidence! I’ve a son there too! Does your kid tell you about school? Is he happy there?
Mum: Why, yes he is! Is there cause for concern?
Parent: Well… my son says there’s a huge bully in class, and I was wondering if my son was being singled out or something.
Mum: Gasp! A bully? At so young an age? That’s terrible!
Parent: Wait! There he is! That’s the bully!

Of course, that was the moment I appeared on stage. And that was also the first of many instances to come when my mum would look away and pretend not to know her first-born son, otherwise known simply to her as the 8-Hour-Labour-Clot (I've peeked into her diary before).

And I wasn't even a classic bully in the sense that I resorted to strong-arm tactics to gain an overwhelming advantage over the weak! If memory serves me right, he had been the first to be rude and boorish, and I had simply demonstrated my equally robust vocabulary of bad words.

Of course, Mr. Left Fist and Mr. Right Fist had something to add in too. For emphasis. I think that's why the boy thought I was a bully. Pansy.

Most mothers refuse to believe their kids are anything short of angels, but my mother evidently went to a different parenting school. You little rascal, she told me that night, your dad and I are going to reform you. We’re going to teach you proper manners, and how to relate properly to people.

And those lessons were what screwed everything up for me.

You see, now I’m incapable of effectively communicating with anyone. I can’t bring myself to say directly what’s on my mind, and I take pains to be sensitive. I even have a personalized bush I bring around to flog during long conversations. Ok that sounds wrong.

It’s not that I lie, mind you. I'm still frank, and honest, but by the time I properly justify and qualify my statements everyone assumes I'm lying. But I maintain that it makes all the difference, as the following example shows:

Friend: Does this dress make me look fat?
What I Think: Yes it does.
Right Answer: It’s not a flattering dress for you. The way it’s cut, it doesn’t accentuate your body shape at all. You look plumper than you really are. Try others?
Wrong Answer: I don’t think it’s possible for you to drown.

I’m not exactly the confrontational sort (I rarely lose my temper, but when I do…), and prefer to find diplomatic ways to solve things. Unfortunately, this lack of blunt candidness hampers me most when something irritates, even infuriates me.

For if I am unable to think of a good way to approach the issue, I’d toddle off and bottle it all up. More than once, this has resulted in my having to put up with things I’m not comfortable with, when all it would have taken was a frank word or two, to spare myself all the unnecessary angst.

But I’m learning, or should I say, unlearning many of the niceties my parents bade me learn.

Recently, on a few occasions when people went too far, I directly called out their bad behavior and made it clear I wasn't happy with them. I'm still hampered by concerns that I would destroy friendships if I said all that is on my mind, but I'm making hearty progress.

Hopefully, if all goes well, I'll be able to better communicate with my friends, feel less angsty, and also come across as more honest!

That has to be good, with so many birds with one stone, and without even resorting to the Fist Brothers.

Vegas: No Sleep For Poor Men

So, there were three of us. And at all of the hotels we were staying, two beds.

Even before we embarked, my two friends were already playing Rock Paper Scissors to see who had to share a bed with me. For some reason I can’t fathom, I was the designated whore by default. It was a nice feeling though, to know that even if I were thousand of miles away from Singapore, in wholly new social circles, I still had my familiar rung of the social ladder to count on.

Yet, for all the noise they made about have to share a bed with me, it was ironic that I was the one who suffered the most.

You see, I take some time to get to sleep, a good 15 to 20 minutes to doze off completely. Secondly, I do my best to be as courteous as possible, so I try to minimize tossing and turning when someone else is in bed with me.

This means that for those minutes in bed when I’m still fully alert, I force myself to keep completely silent and immobile. Seriously, I’d feel more relaxed if I were in a lift filled to the brim with all the teachers who hate me. And with my girlfriend’s parents. And my exes. And the electricity suddenly cut off. And I needed to fart.

Although my mother warned me years ago never to publicize what I do in bed, I see no reason to keep tight-lipped now. The first night I retreated to my side as much as I could, to give my friend more space.

I also kept deathly still, and squeezed my eyes shut hoping that sleep would rescue me from this ordeal. The result was that I felt completely trapped, a tense balled-up lovemachine this close to falling, not to sleep, but off the bed.

This is the part of the story where words simply do not do justice – the follow pictures represent my sleeping arrangements for the first night.

11.00 P.M. – Lights out. All is well.
11.05 P.M. – Friend starts shifting closer to me. I exhale as much air as I can, hoping to take up less space. I begin to hate him.
11.30 P.M. – Friend is snoring, but I still can’t sleep in my cramped corner. I begin to lose temper, and contemplate sleeping on the floor. I start counting sheep, but end up killing them.
11.50 P.M. to 2.00 A.M. – Just. Kill. Me. I am in a ball on a bed because I dozed off and his leg was over mine. How the (!@&# did he end up sleeping diagonally someone please tell me.

On a side not, yay, I finally managed to use the markers I brought here to the US. I'm just glad I have my bed all to myself now.