I first began to hear his name about a month ago. It began as a whisper of sorts, the kind of slithery ambiguous background noise that evaporates the moment you concentrate on catching it. People heard, but failed to remember.
Then, with startling ferocity, as more of his pictures circulated, his popularity began to climb. His name was on almost every single pair of female adolescent lips. As of last week, he arguably stole the entire show.
Cedric. Diggory. Aka, Gorgeous Hunk, Handsome Cutie-Pie, Fried-By-Curse-Boy.
(For those who failed to catch Harry Potter and the Goblet-of-constitutes-magical-binding-contract-Fire, Cedric was this arguably good-looking strapping young man who had more screen time than a cupcake would have in a documentary on lions. Which is not saying a lot)
It's strange how the entire idolizing process plays out. At some point amidst all the outpouring of affection for Cedric, I had to pause and think, why exactly is Cedric becoming an idol for so many? Can there possibly be a pattern to all this madness?
Three hypotheses survive, ultimately. What I'm guessing first, is that there's something in Cedric, or idols in general, that people prize. It can be looks, or charm, or money, or atttitude, or any of a thousand other things. These idols are then the quintessential role models - people either want to gain this characteristic themselves, or are satisfied to have their idol near them.
As you can see, most people who idolize fall into this category.
People idolize Princess Diana for her beauty and heart of gold, Cedric and Brad Pitt for their looks and charm, sporting legends like Mohd Ali for their resolve, spirit, courage. Bands like Metallica or Linkin' Park are also idolized, but mainly only for their flair and streak of rebellion, because God gave man eyes to see and ears to hear with, not to shrivel and bleed from.
This is of course, understandable, and even desirable at times. After all, some idols serve as good role models. Taufik gave up smoking, and performed community service voluntarily, without any booklet to stamp or school requirement to fulfil. Everyone needs to have something to strive after.
But to merely want that idol near you? Watch how fans react whenever their idols are nearby. I remember vividly this clip of a woman fainting as she screamed Micheal Jackson's name at his concert, back when parents still let their kids play with him. It's a phenomenon very much alive, right here, right now. People scramble just to be near their idols, to glimpse them, to see and touch them.
I mean, when you come to think of it, what would happen if these fans could suddenly have their wishes fulfilled? What if your idol was to materialize right in front of your eyes? Would you even know what to say to him/her? What, you would just sit there, smile numbly and poke him/her with a stick?
You: Ooooo! Tom Cruise/Cho Chang/Hagrid!
Idol: Hi.
You: Ooooo! Tom Cruise/Cho Chang/Hagrid!
Idol: Hi.
You: Ooooo! Tom Cruise/Cho Chang/Hagrid!
Idol: Hi. Say, can you stop poking me with that stick?
Of course, I'm discounting all the rabid fans who are way deep in Stalker territory, who want to bear their idol's children etc. Let's not go there today.
The second hypothesis, is that professing idolatry is equivalent to possessing a social passport. It's a bit like beer, or the army, in that sense. Just simply profess your idol of choice, and ta-dah, you're welcome to join any social circle with the same tastes.
I discovered this for myself the hard way. When I first protested and reminded people harshly that Harry Potter's about adventure and magic and courage and friendship and not about Cedric Diggory, I was shunned. People even asked me condescendingly about my educational background.
But the moment I took the initiative to tell people that Cedric was 'hot', man, girls were welcoming me like some long-lost brother. (Although, truth be told, yes I do agree Cedric's a fine specimen of the male species. There. I've said it.)
The last hypothesis I have, is that people choose/reject idols as way of making a personal statement. Thus, a principled and feisty girl might well resist the tides of peer pressure, and refuse to get into a tizzy over Cedric - ironically, some people who succeed in doing so become mini-idols in their own right.
This would be a good point in time to refute the horrendous claim, by a friend of mine no less, that I purposely idolize the most bile-inducing repulsive females for the sake of being different. My friend, it is surely no feat to identify common beauty, and more often than not it is the hidden beauty that astounds.
Also, to the snub that Cho Chang is 'just your average girl-next-door', pray tell, why do a thousand other girls-next-door not match up??
At the very least, thank goodness Cedric's dead. Let's please have more of Voldemort.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Willy
Willy the werewolf had a special trait
Now it wasn't something he would happily relate
To other werewolves who might casually ask -
It wasn't a prideful trait in which to gloriously bask
And the uniqueness simply was this:
All the fur he sprouted wasn't really his
It all began as a receding fur-line
Something unheard of among his kind
Yet before long Willy's fur came off in clumps
And his spirits spiralled down into the dumps
For if werewolves were protective of anything
It was their fur, long, black, luxuriously flowing
Willy could no longer go out like before
For hunting was no longer a pleasure but a chore
Who can savage and claw somebody
While at the same time hold in place a toupee?
And instead of screaming his prey laughed uncontrollably
For no one can take a bald werewolf seriously
Yet since he retained his strength and agility
He tried to salvage the remainder of his dignity
By taking up new and challenging occupations
At various disparate institutions
The first of which was a bouncer at Zouk
No real surprise though at this path he took
But as they say old habits often die hard
And Willy began to bite those who let down their guard
Yet as he bit the occasional thug
Soon Willy's blood was contaminated with drugs
Thus his job ended when a police raid was staged
And he ended unceremoniously up in a cage
When Willy escaped the idea of doing sports stuck in his mind
For by nature werewolves are the competitive kind
And in the sprint trials he broke all the records
Complacency was something he could well afford
But disqualification loomed - his true nature he couldn't fake
For unlike the others Willy competed on all four legs
After further failures Willy just simply gave up
And with his senses dulled and fangs no longer sharp
Willy huddled on a lonely street and cried
(If fully self-aware he would have been horrified)
His heart was shattered his spirit torn
There never was a werewolf quite so forlorn
Then a miracle happened, and not a moment too late -
A little homeless girl passed by that very minute
This girl, though poor and scruffy and not very old
Possessed a loving heart of solid gold
And when she heard poor Willy in his sorry state
To him she found herself gravitate
Fearless, she pattered forward and hugged Willy tight
A gesture which surely caused Willy fright
And in the calmest tones she simply said
"Don't cry Mr Balding Doggy, I'll find you a bed
Though I can't give you all that other doggies possess
Your company's all I want now, I confess!"
And now sometimes out of the corner of your eye
You'll spot a little street urchin go rushing by
Side by side with her new-found companion
Laughing and playing with complete abandon
And not once will you ever observe
The "dog's" almost complete lack of fur
This poem's special for me. I had a dog once, a Dalmatian cross-breed whose spots you could only see when he shed fur. And I think along the way, I grew to take him for granted, and failed to appreciate him while he was still around.
If I had him still, I think now would be a good time to pat him, and have him curl up at my feet.
Now it wasn't something he would happily relate
To other werewolves who might casually ask -
It wasn't a prideful trait in which to gloriously bask
And the uniqueness simply was this:
All the fur he sprouted wasn't really his
It all began as a receding fur-line
Something unheard of among his kind
Yet before long Willy's fur came off in clumps
And his spirits spiralled down into the dumps
For if werewolves were protective of anything
It was their fur, long, black, luxuriously flowing
Willy could no longer go out like before
For hunting was no longer a pleasure but a chore
Who can savage and claw somebody
While at the same time hold in place a toupee?
And instead of screaming his prey laughed uncontrollably
For no one can take a bald werewolf seriously
Yet since he retained his strength and agility
He tried to salvage the remainder of his dignity
By taking up new and challenging occupations
At various disparate institutions
The first of which was a bouncer at Zouk
No real surprise though at this path he took
But as they say old habits often die hard
And Willy began to bite those who let down their guard
Yet as he bit the occasional thug
Soon Willy's blood was contaminated with drugs
Thus his job ended when a police raid was staged
And he ended unceremoniously up in a cage
When Willy escaped the idea of doing sports stuck in his mind
For by nature werewolves are the competitive kind
And in the sprint trials he broke all the records
Complacency was something he could well afford
But disqualification loomed - his true nature he couldn't fake
For unlike the others Willy competed on all four legs
After further failures Willy just simply gave up
And with his senses dulled and fangs no longer sharp
Willy huddled on a lonely street and cried
(If fully self-aware he would have been horrified)
His heart was shattered his spirit torn
There never was a werewolf quite so forlorn
Then a miracle happened, and not a moment too late -
A little homeless girl passed by that very minute
This girl, though poor and scruffy and not very old
Possessed a loving heart of solid gold
And when she heard poor Willy in his sorry state
To him she found herself gravitate
Fearless, she pattered forward and hugged Willy tight
A gesture which surely caused Willy fright
And in the calmest tones she simply said
"Don't cry Mr Balding Doggy, I'll find you a bed
Though I can't give you all that other doggies possess
Your company's all I want now, I confess!"
And now sometimes out of the corner of your eye
You'll spot a little street urchin go rushing by
Side by side with her new-found companion
Laughing and playing with complete abandon
And not once will you ever observe
The "dog's" almost complete lack of fur
This poem's special for me. I had a dog once, a Dalmatian cross-breed whose spots you could only see when he shed fur. And I think along the way, I grew to take him for granted, and failed to appreciate him while he was still around.
If I had him still, I think now would be a good time to pat him, and have him curl up at my feet.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Dialect
The moment my mum started complaining to my dad about the poor service she encountered whilst shopping the other day, my left kidney twinged.
I don't know about you, but when it comes to matters of personal safety, I have quite the well-evolved and developed gut instinct. Left kidney twinges should never be disregarded.
Logic and rational thought reigned for a moment. Why would you be anywhere in the range of fire, they said. Your mum's talking about some young punk who couldn't be bothered to do a good job - you're not even related remotely!
Ho ho ho, my left kidney sniggered, I'm never wrong.
Logic will always fail when it comes to leaps of understanding, because it demands order and a sequential flow of information. Left kidneys grab pieces from everywhere to put two and two together. As it turned out, my left kidney was right (correct, to avoid confusion). For those more inclined to logical, Science-y thinking, I've repieced together the flow of conversation.
Bad service --> Rude and insolent staff --> Inability to understand my grandma's requests for help --> Inability to understand dialect --> Abhorent trend now --> Shameful that the young can't understand simple dialect --> For that matter, Honteng (my, ironically, dialect name) also cannot speak dialect --> Why can't you pick up dialect Honteng --> Why why why why why
It makes you pause, really, when you think about how just one generation makes so much of a difference. I can understand and speak rudimentary Cantonese and Hokkien, but it hardly counts when half your vocab's, er, anatomical terms.
It's sad, no doubt. At any community service project involving the elderly now, the peers held most highly in regard are those who understand dialect and who manage actually talk to them, instead of resorting to broken Mandarin and more gestures than a mime artist.
I wonder how the elderly feel, watching their world taken over by a tribe of monkeys gibbering away in some unintelligible language. Has it ever occurred to you that the same might happen to us, that our grandchildren might be total strangers to us by virtue of language alone?
At the present moment, however, I was a little chaffed by my parent's remarks. First, my command of English must be good, "because it is my first language". Then, I have to excel in Mandarin too, "because it is my first language". Oh my, did you actually manage to guess that dialect is incidentally "my first language" too, because I am Cantonese?
Which part of "first" do they not understand?!?
It's simply not feasible for the average person to be well-versed in all of the above. I am always mindful of the astute observation my psychologist friend Siaocharn made, that the first sign of being competent in a language, is being able to compose poems in that language.
Poems in English are fun to write, even quite rewarding at times. My poems in Chinese only make my little cousins laugh, and almost always earn me a black mark from Haoyun's family. And the dialect 'poems' I know, are firstly not original, and secondly not the kind you recite over a family dinner.
Sigh, but my parents are right. It all just boils down to effort. My friends in Medicine are struggling to pick up dialect now, in order to converse with their patients more effectively, and before long they will acquire sufficient dialect to sound halfway educated.
Oh well. One more addition to my list of New Year resolutions.
I don't know about you, but when it comes to matters of personal safety, I have quite the well-evolved and developed gut instinct. Left kidney twinges should never be disregarded.
Logic and rational thought reigned for a moment. Why would you be anywhere in the range of fire, they said. Your mum's talking about some young punk who couldn't be bothered to do a good job - you're not even related remotely!
Ho ho ho, my left kidney sniggered, I'm never wrong.
Logic will always fail when it comes to leaps of understanding, because it demands order and a sequential flow of information. Left kidneys grab pieces from everywhere to put two and two together. As it turned out, my left kidney was right (correct, to avoid confusion). For those more inclined to logical, Science-y thinking, I've repieced together the flow of conversation.
Bad service --> Rude and insolent staff --> Inability to understand my grandma's requests for help --> Inability to understand dialect --> Abhorent trend now --> Shameful that the young can't understand simple dialect --> For that matter, Honteng (my, ironically, dialect name) also cannot speak dialect --> Why can't you pick up dialect Honteng --> Why why why why why
It makes you pause, really, when you think about how just one generation makes so much of a difference. I can understand and speak rudimentary Cantonese and Hokkien, but it hardly counts when half your vocab's, er, anatomical terms.
It's sad, no doubt. At any community service project involving the elderly now, the peers held most highly in regard are those who understand dialect and who manage actually talk to them, instead of resorting to broken Mandarin and more gestures than a mime artist.
I wonder how the elderly feel, watching their world taken over by a tribe of monkeys gibbering away in some unintelligible language. Has it ever occurred to you that the same might happen to us, that our grandchildren might be total strangers to us by virtue of language alone?
At the present moment, however, I was a little chaffed by my parent's remarks. First, my command of English must be good, "because it is my first language". Then, I have to excel in Mandarin too, "because it is my first language". Oh my, did you actually manage to guess that dialect is incidentally "my first language" too, because I am Cantonese?
Which part of "first" do they not understand?!?
It's simply not feasible for the average person to be well-versed in all of the above. I am always mindful of the astute observation my psychologist friend Siaocharn made, that the first sign of being competent in a language, is being able to compose poems in that language.
Poems in English are fun to write, even quite rewarding at times. My poems in Chinese only make my little cousins laugh, and almost always earn me a black mark from Haoyun's family. And the dialect 'poems' I know, are firstly not original, and secondly not the kind you recite over a family dinner.
Sigh, but my parents are right. It all just boils down to effort. My friends in Medicine are struggling to pick up dialect now, in order to converse with their patients more effectively, and before long they will acquire sufficient dialect to sound halfway educated.
Oh well. One more addition to my list of New Year resolutions.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Cute And Cuddly
Received the first official complaint yesterday that my posts are getting too long. Will strive to keep this one short.
Since school began this year, I have heard at least three independant proclamations from various girls that they prefer their boyfriends to be 'cute and cuddly', rather than muscle bound. According to them, meaty boyfriends are nicer to hug, and are warmer in general.
Hello. Soft toys and blankets exist for a reason.
Indeed, this revelation has greatly vexed me. Whatever happened to the over-hyped six-pack alpha male we see in the media, the one who gets all the babes? Isn't he the default embodiment of manhood?
Last night, Haoyun mentioned Panda Xiong's weight, and told me that if ever we got further in our relationship she wants me to be as 'prosperous' as he is. If you haven't read the papers, at his recent wedding Panda looked like this, up 40kg a few years ago to 100kg now.
(If you don't know who he is, you can read more about him here)
Males don't handle mixed signals well. If you want us to be walking rocks or tottering marshmellows, just tell us. Clearly, please.
Since school began this year, I have heard at least three independant proclamations from various girls that they prefer their boyfriends to be 'cute and cuddly', rather than muscle bound. According to them, meaty boyfriends are nicer to hug, and are warmer in general.
Hello. Soft toys and blankets exist for a reason.
Indeed, this revelation has greatly vexed me. Whatever happened to the over-hyped six-pack alpha male we see in the media, the one who gets all the babes? Isn't he the default embodiment of manhood?
Last night, Haoyun mentioned Panda Xiong's weight, and told me that if ever we got further in our relationship she wants me to be as 'prosperous' as he is. If you haven't read the papers, at his recent wedding Panda looked like this, up 40kg a few years ago to 100kg now.
(If you don't know who he is, you can read more about him here)Males don't handle mixed signals well. If you want us to be walking rocks or tottering marshmellows, just tell us. Clearly, please.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Life's A Tease
The earliest tease I remember, was waaay back in Primary Three or Four. There we were, a quiet, orderly bunch of students walking up four flights of stairs to our classroom. The epitome of discipline.
Suddenly, out from nowhere, someone shouted "Last guy up to the classroom loves XXX!" (XXX being, of course, one of the prettiest girls in class). Oh, how I remember that lovely stampede. Every guy's skin must have tingled with adrenalin, prickled in response to the challenge! The din we made as we scrambled and leapt and bulldozed our way to the top... sigh.
(Of course, we must have literally trampled over the girls in our class, but it was ok, back then we wouldn't have had to date them for a few more years to come.)
That first tease sparked off an unending torrent of teases. Maybe it was the novelty of the game, or just awakening hormones striving to make their presence felt, but before long everyone had caught onto the teasing craze. In one fell swoop, the entire landscape of boy-girl relationships changed.
One day you could talk to any girl you fancied, could eat with her, play with her, walk with her, and no one as much as batted an eyelid. The next you knew, there were suddenly all sorts of unseen rules in place that governed all interaction with the opposite sex - make even the slightest booboo, and the rest of the class would be up in melodious chorus about how you loved her, how you two wanted to marry, and how many kids you would have.
You know The Song as well as I do. Guy and Girl, under a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G...
For instance, no girl could officially be your 'friend' anymore. They were either an acquaintance or your Wife. You couldn't sit together alone with her in the canteen. You couldn't smile when you talked to her. You had to be mean to her, or else it meant you loved her. The list was endless.
Teasing, as it turned out, played an extremely crucial role in our social development.
Undeniably, it first helped differentiate between the people who could take jokes and the People Who Could Not Take Jokes. I am a person who can take jokes. At the very worst I would get a little miffed and irritated, but at the end of the day I would be fine. We learned to leave the Other Sort alone though, especially after their possessed fits of savage and brutal lunacy in class. You'll be surprised at how much an 11 year old can resemble a pitbull. On drugs.
Secondly, teasing was instrumental in helping us develop social verve. The first few days of the craze, the only known response available to us after getting teased was to cover our faces and run. That simply didn't cut it, and it was not long before we evolved resistence and adapted.
Typically, our development could be charted as such:
Teaser: I saw you talking to XXX! You love her right? Waaa... *cue The Song*
Victim: Aaaarrrggghhh..... *wail wail*
Teaser: You two were eating together! How sweet! How many children you want? *cue The Song*
Victim: Where got? Where got I ask you? I never sat with her! Girls are evil! I hate them all!
Teaser: I saw you looking at her in class! You love her right? Right? *cue The Damn Song*
Victim: You talk about her everyday! In fact, you are the one who secretly loves her right? Don't worry ok, I'll help the two of you get married! *cue The Censored Version Of The Song*
The funniest thing is, boys and girls learnt to act more maturely somewhere around 13-18, when they realized that there was, indeed, much to love about the other sex. Guys stopped pulling girls' hair, and started stroking them instead. Even without couples officially announcing their relationship, there was practically no teasing at all.
I'm in no position to talk about the girls, but I believe there to have been a reciprocal understanding. All in all, there was a truce...
... which ended when University came around. This, you understand, puts a severe dent in the 'maturity comes with age' theory.
I can't deny it. The evidence is before my eyes. In University, the teasing has been resurrected. And, oh boy, it's a entirely new ball game. Where there was frankness before, there is subtlety now. Where there was inane blanket one-size-fits-all teases before, there are Target-Acquiring-High-Destruction-Homing-Smart-Bomb teases now.
And in this new season, you'll be surprised to find out how relevant the old defences are. It's a bit like war, where the core principles never change, only the exterior facades. As a battle-scarred veteran, may I humbly offer some simple tips for the more oppressed among my friends.
Principle One: Always act innocent. Most of the shots fired at you are test rounds, designed to test your reaction rather than score a hit. Any unusual response on your part would give your weak spot away, confirming any suspicions immediately. Remember, he doesn't know what you know.
A short case in point is reproduced below, taken from real life over MSN.
Me: Wow, today's his birthday. He must be really happy.
Victim: Yar lor. Haha.
Me: Wonder whether he has gotten any presents or not.
Victim: Think so la. Dunno what to get him leh.
Me: I know what's free! A birthday kisssssssss....
Victim: Probably go down to town lat
Victim: IDIOT hanting
(Note the uncommon, unusual and sudden interjection, laced with fire and brimstone. Score.)
Principle Two: Don't encourage them by reacting. Drop your jaw, freeze, stare blankly ahead and go into Suspend Mode. Refuse to react until your tormentors get bored and leave. Not advisable for the ticklish.
Principle Three: Always... wait a minute! Why am I sharing all this?!?
Seriously though, part of the fun is knowing where to draw the lines. People are akin to arable land in this respect. Farm the same piece of land too intensively and too often, and the returns decrease.
There might well be some fundamental anthropological explanation for the existence of the social phenomenon of teasing. Maybe in Univerisities overseas, teasing at this age is extinct, and that it is peculiar to our society. Maybe the effects of teasing upon budding adults has far greater consequences than we imagine.
But surely, life would be so much duller without it.
Suddenly, out from nowhere, someone shouted "Last guy up to the classroom loves XXX!" (XXX being, of course, one of the prettiest girls in class). Oh, how I remember that lovely stampede. Every guy's skin must have tingled with adrenalin, prickled in response to the challenge! The din we made as we scrambled and leapt and bulldozed our way to the top... sigh.
(Of course, we must have literally trampled over the girls in our class, but it was ok, back then we wouldn't have had to date them for a few more years to come.)
That first tease sparked off an unending torrent of teases. Maybe it was the novelty of the game, or just awakening hormones striving to make their presence felt, but before long everyone had caught onto the teasing craze. In one fell swoop, the entire landscape of boy-girl relationships changed.
One day you could talk to any girl you fancied, could eat with her, play with her, walk with her, and no one as much as batted an eyelid. The next you knew, there were suddenly all sorts of unseen rules in place that governed all interaction with the opposite sex - make even the slightest booboo, and the rest of the class would be up in melodious chorus about how you loved her, how you two wanted to marry, and how many kids you would have.
You know The Song as well as I do. Guy and Girl, under a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G...
For instance, no girl could officially be your 'friend' anymore. They were either an acquaintance or your Wife. You couldn't sit together alone with her in the canteen. You couldn't smile when you talked to her. You had to be mean to her, or else it meant you loved her. The list was endless.
Teasing, as it turned out, played an extremely crucial role in our social development.
Undeniably, it first helped differentiate between the people who could take jokes and the People Who Could Not Take Jokes. I am a person who can take jokes. At the very worst I would get a little miffed and irritated, but at the end of the day I would be fine. We learned to leave the Other Sort alone though, especially after their possessed fits of savage and brutal lunacy in class. You'll be surprised at how much an 11 year old can resemble a pitbull. On drugs.
Secondly, teasing was instrumental in helping us develop social verve. The first few days of the craze, the only known response available to us after getting teased was to cover our faces and run. That simply didn't cut it, and it was not long before we evolved resistence and adapted.
Typically, our development could be charted as such:
Stage One
Teaser: I saw you talking to XXX! You love her right? Waaa... *cue The Song*
Victim: Aaaarrrggghhh..... *wail wail*
Stage Two - The Denial
Teaser: You two were eating together! How sweet! How many children you want? *cue The Song*
Victim: Where got? Where got I ask you? I never sat with her! Girls are evil! I hate them all!
Stage Three - The Counter-Attack
Teaser: I saw you looking at her in class! You love her right? Right? *cue The Damn Song*
Victim: You talk about her everyday! In fact, you are the one who secretly loves her right? Don't worry ok, I'll help the two of you get married! *cue The Censored Version Of The Song*
The funniest thing is, boys and girls learnt to act more maturely somewhere around 13-18, when they realized that there was, indeed, much to love about the other sex. Guys stopped pulling girls' hair, and started stroking them instead. Even without couples officially announcing their relationship, there was practically no teasing at all.
I'm in no position to talk about the girls, but I believe there to have been a reciprocal understanding. All in all, there was a truce...
... which ended when University came around. This, you understand, puts a severe dent in the 'maturity comes with age' theory.
I can't deny it. The evidence is before my eyes. In University, the teasing has been resurrected. And, oh boy, it's a entirely new ball game. Where there was frankness before, there is subtlety now. Where there was inane blanket one-size-fits-all teases before, there are Target-Acquiring-High-Destruction-Homing-Smart-Bomb teases now.
And in this new season, you'll be surprised to find out how relevant the old defences are. It's a bit like war, where the core principles never change, only the exterior facades. As a battle-scarred veteran, may I humbly offer some simple tips for the more oppressed among my friends.
Principle One: Always act innocent. Most of the shots fired at you are test rounds, designed to test your reaction rather than score a hit. Any unusual response on your part would give your weak spot away, confirming any suspicions immediately. Remember, he doesn't know what you know.
A short case in point is reproduced below, taken from real life over MSN.
Me: Wow, today's his birthday. He must be really happy.
Victim: Yar lor. Haha.
Me: Wonder whether he has gotten any presents or not.
Victim: Think so la. Dunno what to get him leh.
Me: I know what's free! A birthday kisssssssss....
Victim: Probably go down to town lat
Victim: IDIOT hanting
(Note the uncommon, unusual and sudden interjection, laced with fire and brimstone. Score.)
Principle Two: Don't encourage them by reacting. Drop your jaw, freeze, stare blankly ahead and go into Suspend Mode. Refuse to react until your tormentors get bored and leave. Not advisable for the ticklish.
Principle Three: Always... wait a minute! Why am I sharing all this?!?
Seriously though, part of the fun is knowing where to draw the lines. People are akin to arable land in this respect. Farm the same piece of land too intensively and too often, and the returns decrease.
There might well be some fundamental anthropological explanation for the existence of the social phenomenon of teasing. Maybe in Univerisities overseas, teasing at this age is extinct, and that it is peculiar to our society. Maybe the effects of teasing upon budding adults has far greater consequences than we imagine.
But surely, life would be so much duller without it.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Movie
I like my movies, but it's really puzzling the way people view the activity of watching movies.
Just think about it. Everyone knows it's one of the more anti-social group activities out there. You hardly get to interact much as a group, and especially when time's tight and there aren't many opportunities to go out, it's a waste to spend a couple of hours glued to a mega idiot-box.
Yet, and test this yourself if you don't believe me, tell anyone you're going to watch a movie alone, and watch them gasp in shock. "Oh no, you're going to watch a movie by yourself? How very pathetic!". It's a mysterious contradiction, I know.
In fact, sometimes you just get the worst of both worlds. When I was out with a group of friends the other day, just bumming around town, I mooted the idea of watching a movie and promptly got crucified. Then, after a night of crying myself to sleep, I decided to watch a movie myself. The first two friends I told made me feel so gooood about it, I stayed home to study instead.
I can't understand it. Ruishan, and probably ten million other people, are right. Maybe it's just me. Sadly enough, the injustice doesn't stop there.
Another curiosity I've observed, is that you are what you watch. Watch too much fantasy and you start running into old houses and gleefully throwing open decrepit wardrobes hoping to find more than mothballs and ancient clothes. Watch too much horror or suspense, and everytime someone makes a loud noise you have to change pants.
For that reason, people keep an eye out for what you watch. In different pockets of society, saying without thinking that you watched a certain movie can be the last faux pas you make.
I remember one particular Monday morning in army. There we were, four officers in the same lift, on our way to work. My OC started off by saying he had a great time watching some gory horror flick with his girlfriend, and began describing the juiciest bits from the movie. We were impressed, after all, this was the movie that had reviewers leaving in repulsed disgust.
The other two officers happened to catch some cool action movie together with friends, and heartily recommended it for the brilliant cinematography and innovative fight sequences. We just had to catch it, they said. Then, the dreaded 8-month-pregnant pause came.
"So, Hanting, did you watch any movie over the weekend?"
"mmmmfff Yes mmmffphffmmmff."
"Huh? What type of show was it? What was it about?"
"Oh, it was quite good, you know, some super violent horror-action-science-fiction thing. Lots of blood, sex and gore. Foreign shows are like that, you know."
"What was it called? You watched with your girlfriend right? Come on, spit it out."
"mmfff Princess Diaries mmmfff."
You see what I mean? I can't watch Doom without being an insensitive tree-residing neanderthal, neither can I watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and escape jibes of being a soppy hopeless romantic. It's a lose-lose situation.
And when you finally do find someone to watch a movie like Nightwatch with, and you start making plans for it, he goes off and watches it with a girl instead. Confronting him later in righteous anger doesn't soothe any wounds either.
Me: Infidel! Father of Lies! Friendship-Breaker!
Mr. J: Sorry la. I lupchu, don't angry la.
Me: You tell me, you tell me, what does she have that I don't? Huh??
(Some questions... just shouldn't be asked)
But I've since learnt to handle quiffling problems such as these. It's very simple, actually - the One Rule To Rule Them All is basically to have an endless supply of imaginary company of the right sort.
Want to watch Sky High? Concoct an imaginary younger cousin. Want to watch Exorcism of Emily Rose? Dream up a bunch of havoc army friends. Want to watch Just Like Heaven? Fabricate a willing girlfriend (I will die for this, haha).
Die-hard movie kakis with similar schedules are just too few and far between. *sigh*
Just think about it. Everyone knows it's one of the more anti-social group activities out there. You hardly get to interact much as a group, and especially when time's tight and there aren't many opportunities to go out, it's a waste to spend a couple of hours glued to a mega idiot-box.
Yet, and test this yourself if you don't believe me, tell anyone you're going to watch a movie alone, and watch them gasp in shock. "Oh no, you're going to watch a movie by yourself? How very pathetic!". It's a mysterious contradiction, I know.
In fact, sometimes you just get the worst of both worlds. When I was out with a group of friends the other day, just bumming around town, I mooted the idea of watching a movie and promptly got crucified. Then, after a night of crying myself to sleep, I decided to watch a movie myself. The first two friends I told made me feel so gooood about it, I stayed home to study instead.
I can't understand it. Ruishan, and probably ten million other people, are right. Maybe it's just me. Sadly enough, the injustice doesn't stop there.
Another curiosity I've observed, is that you are what you watch. Watch too much fantasy and you start running into old houses and gleefully throwing open decrepit wardrobes hoping to find more than mothballs and ancient clothes. Watch too much horror or suspense, and everytime someone makes a loud noise you have to change pants.
For that reason, people keep an eye out for what you watch. In different pockets of society, saying without thinking that you watched a certain movie can be the last faux pas you make.
I remember one particular Monday morning in army. There we were, four officers in the same lift, on our way to work. My OC started off by saying he had a great time watching some gory horror flick with his girlfriend, and began describing the juiciest bits from the movie. We were impressed, after all, this was the movie that had reviewers leaving in repulsed disgust.
The other two officers happened to catch some cool action movie together with friends, and heartily recommended it for the brilliant cinematography and innovative fight sequences. We just had to catch it, they said. Then, the dreaded 8-month-pregnant pause came.
"So, Hanting, did you watch any movie over the weekend?"
"mmmmfff Yes mmmffphffmmmff."
"Huh? What type of show was it? What was it about?"
"Oh, it was quite good, you know, some super violent horror-action-science-fiction thing. Lots of blood, sex and gore. Foreign shows are like that, you know."
"What was it called? You watched with your girlfriend right? Come on, spit it out."
"mmfff Princess Diaries mmmfff."
You see what I mean? I can't watch Doom without being an insensitive tree-residing neanderthal, neither can I watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and escape jibes of being a soppy hopeless romantic. It's a lose-lose situation.
And when you finally do find someone to watch a movie like Nightwatch with, and you start making plans for it, he goes off and watches it with a girl instead. Confronting him later in righteous anger doesn't soothe any wounds either.
Me: Infidel! Father of Lies! Friendship-Breaker!
Mr. J: Sorry la. I lupchu, don't angry la.
Me: You tell me, you tell me, what does she have that I don't? Huh??
(Some questions... just shouldn't be asked)
But I've since learnt to handle quiffling problems such as these. It's very simple, actually - the One Rule To Rule Them All is basically to have an endless supply of imaginary company of the right sort.
Want to watch Sky High? Concoct an imaginary younger cousin. Want to watch Exorcism of Emily Rose? Dream up a bunch of havoc army friends. Want to watch Just Like Heaven? Fabricate a willing girlfriend (I will die for this, haha).
Die-hard movie kakis with similar schedules are just too few and far between. *sigh*
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Ms Binder
I've always been soft-hearted. Not completely soft-hearted, mind you. A particularly poignant book will elicit a tear or two, but I won't gush everytime the sun sets beautifully, or weep for evey abandoned hamster out there. Think... The Rock being sensitive.
Strangely enough, I cannot bear to be harsh or cruel even in computer games. Of course, if my task is to fry every ugly alien there is invading Earth, natural animalistic instincts take over. I hardly blink. But conjure a sufficiently believable real-life situation, and I'm putty.
The last time that happened was in Star Wars KOTOR. As a Jedi Knight, I was faced with a deceptively simple choice: either take pity on a desitute mother I rescued and give her money, or kill her and loot the treasure she was hiding. Simple, no?
No. Although I began the game resolving to be a full-fledged evil Sith Lord, swearing to take every opportunity I could to swing to the Dark Side, I just couldn't do it. 5 minutes after killing that electronic character, my Sith Lord deflated. There was pride in ruthlessly taking over the world, but endless shame in killing the helpless. The Force left me. My lightsaber flickered, and went out.
Eventually, I had to load the game, and take the alternative choice of helping that poor mother. It's silly, I know, but I just had to. I would just have to take pains to keep this dity secret from the other Sith Lords.
(Incidentally, I think computer games are a brilliant way to diagnose how much of a risk to society your child is. For example, make him play Sim City. If every city he touches reaches its zenith, good. If every five minutes he triggers an earthquake, typhoon, tsunami, asteroid storm, Godzilla attack, and laughs maniacally, consider an exorcism.)
However, I've also always enjoyed mischief. There is this obscene thrill at delivering a jest so subtle it leaves your victim spluttering in shock, or in pulling off the most nefarious gag on a completely unsuspecting victim. The problem comes when, every once in a while, conscience pricks, just like in Star Wars.
Once at dinner, I discreetly spat out this particular bit of meat that tasted funny. Something was wrong with it, but I didn't know what and I didn't want to find out. Towards the end of dinner my brother spotted the rejected bit of meat on my plate, speared it with his fork, and asked if I still wanted it.
My face went blank, and I said no in the most casual and off-hand manner I could muster. There was no time to think. You can have it if you want, I said. Heaven was only a few steps away.
Ah... the good old days. I laughed sooo freaking hard afterwards even my dad was forced to take a stand and chastise me. A while later however, the thrill faded. My brother's face upon learning the truth, orignally etched in my mind under the heading 'Priceless', troubled my conscience to no end.
O, what had I done? What ancient brotherly conventions had I breached? The trust, the betrayal! The shame!
I marched straight up to him later, and muttered a heart-felt apology, which he graciously accepted. The incident scarred me so deeply, I remained nice to him for a full two days.
More recently, however, there was Miss Binder. For the fortunate few among you who don't know, the Research Binder was this mammoth assignment/project where we had to assemble a case for our 'client'. The Binder was such a huge strain on time and energy, I couldn't even summon the mood to write for weeks.
Near the end, I christened the project my Betrothed, and joked to friends that I felt like I was married to the damn thing. To make things more bearable, you understand. Then, I made the fatal mistake of signing off, in an email to my Tutor, as "Hanting, newly-wed to Ms. Binder".
(NO, I was not acting cute. Erase that thought from your mind, I know who you are.)
Lo and Behold the power of Cause and Effect. The next week, I arrived a bit late for class to find my Tutor looking cheated and forlorn, as she stood over this heart-shaped platter of cookies on the table. My jaw dropped.
The more I heard, the tighter the vice around my heart wound. My beloved Tutor, thinking that I had truly gotten married 'to a Caucasian girl called Ms. Beender', had gushed to her husband and colleagues about her lucky student who found time to get married despite the heavy work schedule.
She admired the courage I possessed to settle down, and had her faith in romance re-affirmed. She even selected a special heart-shaped platter to bring her cookies on, to mark the twin joyous events of school term ending and my marraige.
O, what have I done? What ancient teacher-student conventions have I breached? The trust, the betrayal! The shame!
It's a sign. I just know it is. It's high time to revert to the sweet, wholly innocent boy I was 15 years ago. Because if I don't, at this rate, I'm going to get guano from Santa.
Strangely enough, I cannot bear to be harsh or cruel even in computer games. Of course, if my task is to fry every ugly alien there is invading Earth, natural animalistic instincts take over. I hardly blink. But conjure a sufficiently believable real-life situation, and I'm putty.
The last time that happened was in Star Wars KOTOR. As a Jedi Knight, I was faced with a deceptively simple choice: either take pity on a desitute mother I rescued and give her money, or kill her and loot the treasure she was hiding. Simple, no?
No. Although I began the game resolving to be a full-fledged evil Sith Lord, swearing to take every opportunity I could to swing to the Dark Side, I just couldn't do it. 5 minutes after killing that electronic character, my Sith Lord deflated. There was pride in ruthlessly taking over the world, but endless shame in killing the helpless. The Force left me. My lightsaber flickered, and went out.
Eventually, I had to load the game, and take the alternative choice of helping that poor mother. It's silly, I know, but I just had to. I would just have to take pains to keep this dity secret from the other Sith Lords.
(Incidentally, I think computer games are a brilliant way to diagnose how much of a risk to society your child is. For example, make him play Sim City. If every city he touches reaches its zenith, good. If every five minutes he triggers an earthquake, typhoon, tsunami, asteroid storm, Godzilla attack, and laughs maniacally, consider an exorcism.)
However, I've also always enjoyed mischief. There is this obscene thrill at delivering a jest so subtle it leaves your victim spluttering in shock, or in pulling off the most nefarious gag on a completely unsuspecting victim. The problem comes when, every once in a while, conscience pricks, just like in Star Wars.
Once at dinner, I discreetly spat out this particular bit of meat that tasted funny. Something was wrong with it, but I didn't know what and I didn't want to find out. Towards the end of dinner my brother spotted the rejected bit of meat on my plate, speared it with his fork, and asked if I still wanted it.
My face went blank, and I said no in the most casual and off-hand manner I could muster. There was no time to think. You can have it if you want, I said. Heaven was only a few steps away.
Ah... the good old days. I laughed sooo freaking hard afterwards even my dad was forced to take a stand and chastise me. A while later however, the thrill faded. My brother's face upon learning the truth, orignally etched in my mind under the heading 'Priceless', troubled my conscience to no end.
O, what had I done? What ancient brotherly conventions had I breached? The trust, the betrayal! The shame!
I marched straight up to him later, and muttered a heart-felt apology, which he graciously accepted. The incident scarred me so deeply, I remained nice to him for a full two days.
More recently, however, there was Miss Binder. For the fortunate few among you who don't know, the Research Binder was this mammoth assignment/project where we had to assemble a case for our 'client'. The Binder was such a huge strain on time and energy, I couldn't even summon the mood to write for weeks.
Near the end, I christened the project my Betrothed, and joked to friends that I felt like I was married to the damn thing. To make things more bearable, you understand. Then, I made the fatal mistake of signing off, in an email to my Tutor, as "Hanting, newly-wed to Ms. Binder".
(NO, I was not acting cute. Erase that thought from your mind, I know who you are.)
Lo and Behold the power of Cause and Effect. The next week, I arrived a bit late for class to find my Tutor looking cheated and forlorn, as she stood over this heart-shaped platter of cookies on the table. My jaw dropped.
The more I heard, the tighter the vice around my heart wound. My beloved Tutor, thinking that I had truly gotten married 'to a Caucasian girl called Ms. Beender', had gushed to her husband and colleagues about her lucky student who found time to get married despite the heavy work schedule.
She admired the courage I possessed to settle down, and had her faith in romance re-affirmed. She even selected a special heart-shaped platter to bring her cookies on, to mark the twin joyous events of school term ending and my marraige.
O, what have I done? What ancient teacher-student conventions have I breached? The trust, the betrayal! The shame!
It's a sign. I just know it is. It's high time to revert to the sweet, wholly innocent boy I was 15 years ago. Because if I don't, at this rate, I'm going to get guano from Santa.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Tender Loving Care
Sometimes, I pity Primary school English teachers. I believe that given a chance they would burn all past year essay topics, and start the slate clean with new topics. Topics which invirogate the mind and stimulate the soul.
I cannot imagine the tedium of wading through a million essays on the same topic, year after year. Can you imagine how depressed a teacher is when she tells her class of 30 Primary school kids to write about why their mother is special to them?
She's depressed, because she knows, to her very bones, that come the deadline, she's gonna read 30 essays about how their mothers showed exceptional love and care when they were ill. 30 varying accounts of illness so severe they were confined to their beds, 30 identical accounts of slavish, caring, loving, doting mothers.
In fact, just to differentiate the essays enough for grading purposes, she'll probably give marks for how many different ways they manage to say "loving" or "caring", or for the vividness of description of illness. Or, she might just throw the papers into the air, ranking the papers by the order in which they float to the ground first.
It all either means that this country is producing entire crops of mothers with all the right values, or our young are watching too much TV.
In any case, an interesting thing is that if you were to task older children the same essay, you start seeing very diverse variations. The older the target group, the smaller the probability of encountering the same TLC-effusing scenarios.
There is only one valid hypothesis. The older you get, the less TLC you get from parents. And, as I found out, from friends and loved ones as well.
Take today for instance. I caught a flu bug that's been going round, and crawled home feeling completely washed out. When I spotted my mum coming home, I jumped onto the couch, curled up in a foetal position, and started making little whimpering noises. For effect, I tried to spasm once in a while.
"Wa. Tough day at school is it? Must sleep more." Then, she was gone.
More drastic action was necessary. I lurched to her room, and sprawled across the floor, tongue hanging out for effect.
"Mum, I think I'm sick. I feel feverish......"
"Take Panadol. Have your dinner. Then sleep!" She then stepped over me, and left the room.
Feeling completely foolish and hurt and unwanted and unloved by now, I retreated to my room and tore up all my Primary school essays on family life. I larked the night away, and when Haoyun came online, I rejoiced. Finally, some sympathy and compassion.
HT: Feeling sick, had running nose for damn long today. Sianz. Now got headache. =(
HY: Erm. Take Panadol.
HT: Wa, only prescribe medication, no TLC?!?!?!??!?!?!
HY: Panadol is good. Dun take too many though... paracetamol overdose can give u acute liver failure.
HT: ..... does that count as TLC.
HY: Yes.
HT: =(
(On the subject of MSN conversations, the one funny thing that did happen today was the following.
HT: Wa, I think I know what I am down with.
Jared: What.
HT: I think it is goodlookingnitis.
J: That's bad. I got it long time ago too. Even worse, mine's terminal.
Oh, poor delusional friend of mine.)
Again, you might ask, what's the point of telling me all this? Of course we know that the TLC you get decreases as you get older! Why, you don't see people coddling adults like they children do you? Whatever happened to resiliance and independance?
The point is this - if people are so accustomed to not receiving TLC, that they have learnt to live without it, imagine how they would melt if you suddenly showered them with a full blast of sustained TLC!
After you manage to convince them that you are not trying to borrow money or get them to change their wills, just watch the glow spread from inside as they bask in your undivided attention and concern.
Seriously, though, do spare some time today to reach out to a friend or loved one, and give them a hug and tell them you appreciate them. We humans tend to take things for granted once in a while, and remember, it's always nice to be appreciated, even when there's no reason for it.
Me? I'm off.
I'm going to write an essay about Panadol and the impact it has made on my life.
I cannot imagine the tedium of wading through a million essays on the same topic, year after year. Can you imagine how depressed a teacher is when she tells her class of 30 Primary school kids to write about why their mother is special to them?
She's depressed, because she knows, to her very bones, that come the deadline, she's gonna read 30 essays about how their mothers showed exceptional love and care when they were ill. 30 varying accounts of illness so severe they were confined to their beds, 30 identical accounts of slavish, caring, loving, doting mothers.
In fact, just to differentiate the essays enough for grading purposes, she'll probably give marks for how many different ways they manage to say "loving" or "caring", or for the vividness of description of illness. Or, she might just throw the papers into the air, ranking the papers by the order in which they float to the ground first.
It all either means that this country is producing entire crops of mothers with all the right values, or our young are watching too much TV.
In any case, an interesting thing is that if you were to task older children the same essay, you start seeing very diverse variations. The older the target group, the smaller the probability of encountering the same TLC-effusing scenarios.
There is only one valid hypothesis. The older you get, the less TLC you get from parents. And, as I found out, from friends and loved ones as well.
Take today for instance. I caught a flu bug that's been going round, and crawled home feeling completely washed out. When I spotted my mum coming home, I jumped onto the couch, curled up in a foetal position, and started making little whimpering noises. For effect, I tried to spasm once in a while.
"Wa. Tough day at school is it? Must sleep more." Then, she was gone.
More drastic action was necessary. I lurched to her room, and sprawled across the floor, tongue hanging out for effect.
"Mum, I think I'm sick. I feel feverish......"
"Take Panadol. Have your dinner. Then sleep!" She then stepped over me, and left the room.
Feeling completely foolish and hurt and unwanted and unloved by now, I retreated to my room and tore up all my Primary school essays on family life. I larked the night away, and when Haoyun came online, I rejoiced. Finally, some sympathy and compassion.
HT: Feeling sick, had running nose for damn long today. Sianz. Now got headache. =(
HY: Erm. Take Panadol.
HT: Wa, only prescribe medication, no TLC?!?!?!??!?!?!
HY: Panadol is good. Dun take too many though... paracetamol overdose can give u acute liver failure.
HT: ..... does that count as TLC.
HY: Yes.
HT: =(
(On the subject of MSN conversations, the one funny thing that did happen today was the following.
HT: Wa, I think I know what I am down with.
Jared: What.
HT: I think it is goodlookingnitis.
J: That's bad. I got it long time ago too. Even worse, mine's terminal.
Oh, poor delusional friend of mine.)
Again, you might ask, what's the point of telling me all this? Of course we know that the TLC you get decreases as you get older! Why, you don't see people coddling adults like they children do you? Whatever happened to resiliance and independance?
The point is this - if people are so accustomed to not receiving TLC, that they have learnt to live without it, imagine how they would melt if you suddenly showered them with a full blast of sustained TLC!
After you manage to convince them that you are not trying to borrow money or get them to change their wills, just watch the glow spread from inside as they bask in your undivided attention and concern.
Seriously, though, do spare some time today to reach out to a friend or loved one, and give them a hug and tell them you appreciate them. We humans tend to take things for granted once in a while, and remember, it's always nice to be appreciated, even when there's no reason for it.
Me? I'm off.
I'm going to write an essay about Panadol and the impact it has made on my life.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Friendship Test
I've got enough time for a quick post!
Need a quick and convenient way to figure out who your friends are, and what they think of you? Look no further!
Step 1: Approach your subject. Engage in light, easy-going conversation to get him off his guard. Limit to about 3~5 minutes.
Note: Create as natural an environment as possible. Ensure that there is no gleam in your eyes. You could wait around a corner until you hear your friend approach, walk out and bump into him, then say, "Oh my goodness it's so good to see you after so long! What are you doing here?"
(Above model subject-engagement method does not work as well with classmates or close friends. Exercise common sense)
Step 2: Begin the test by saying, "Well, I hope I manage to do well in my present course, I don't have many alternative career paths open to me." Tailor this Opening to your individual style.
Note: Do not abruptly insert this opening. If your friend is heatedly attacking the tenets of the abortionist movement, for example, do not suddenly interject with the Opening. Similarly, if your friend is crying over a lost love, keep the Test for another day.
If you need to ask why, this test is not meant for you.
Step 3: Hopefully, your friend will take the bait and ask you whether you have ever considered doing anything other than law/medicine/engineering/living off your parents' hard earned money. If your subject does ask this, you're on the right track. Well done.
Note: If your subject is the submissive or blur kind, and says 'Oh, ok' to everything you say, you've got to try harder to make him ask the question. The Test would fail otherwise. Consider a Paris Hilton approach, ie "Oh I wonder what other careers I would have tried out, and I wish my friends would ask me so that we can talk about it!"
Caution - a Paris Hilton approach with any subject above 5 years old runs an approximately 85% chance that the game would be given away.
Step 4: Say, "Oh, I was thinking maybe medicine, or engineering, or teaching, or modelling." Watch for response. If your subject splutters and sprays his drink halfway across the room in shocked condescension, aghast at how unrealistically you view yourself, the bright side is, you get to save money on one birthday present for that year.
Note: This final step allows for much flexibility. If you wanted to figure out if your subject thought you were a psychomotor-moron, for example, you could substitute Step 4 with "... maybe teaching, or writing, or professional juggling." The possibilities are endless.
Step 5: Analysis of results is next. The question is, what would a true friend say? When someone tells you an untruth to make you feel better, is he doing you a favor or an injustice? Is it true that people merely want to hear what is good for the ego, instead of what is truly good for them?
I don't know about you, but after the test yielded suspiciously similar results from 5 different friends, I chose to happily pull the wool back over my eyes.
Life is a bit easier like this.
Need a quick and convenient way to figure out who your friends are, and what they think of you? Look no further!
Step 1: Approach your subject. Engage in light, easy-going conversation to get him off his guard. Limit to about 3~5 minutes.
Note: Create as natural an environment as possible. Ensure that there is no gleam in your eyes. You could wait around a corner until you hear your friend approach, walk out and bump into him, then say, "Oh my goodness it's so good to see you after so long! What are you doing here?"
(Above model subject-engagement method does not work as well with classmates or close friends. Exercise common sense)
Step 2: Begin the test by saying, "Well, I hope I manage to do well in my present course, I don't have many alternative career paths open to me." Tailor this Opening to your individual style.
Note: Do not abruptly insert this opening. If your friend is heatedly attacking the tenets of the abortionist movement, for example, do not suddenly interject with the Opening. Similarly, if your friend is crying over a lost love, keep the Test for another day.
If you need to ask why, this test is not meant for you.
Step 3: Hopefully, your friend will take the bait and ask you whether you have ever considered doing anything other than law/medicine/engineering/living off your parents' hard earned money. If your subject does ask this, you're on the right track. Well done.
Note: If your subject is the submissive or blur kind, and says 'Oh, ok' to everything you say, you've got to try harder to make him ask the question. The Test would fail otherwise. Consider a Paris Hilton approach, ie "Oh I wonder what other careers I would have tried out, and I wish my friends would ask me so that we can talk about it!"
Caution - a Paris Hilton approach with any subject above 5 years old runs an approximately 85% chance that the game would be given away.
Step 4: Say, "Oh, I was thinking maybe medicine, or engineering, or teaching, or modelling." Watch for response. If your subject splutters and sprays his drink halfway across the room in shocked condescension, aghast at how unrealistically you view yourself, the bright side is, you get to save money on one birthday present for that year.
Note: This final step allows for much flexibility. If you wanted to figure out if your subject thought you were a psychomotor-moron, for example, you could substitute Step 4 with "... maybe teaching, or writing, or professional juggling." The possibilities are endless.
Step 5: Analysis of results is next. The question is, what would a true friend say? When someone tells you an untruth to make you feel better, is he doing you a favor or an injustice? Is it true that people merely want to hear what is good for the ego, instead of what is truly good for them?
I don't know about you, but after the test yielded suspiciously similar results from 5 different friends, I chose to happily pull the wool back over my eyes.
Life is a bit easier like this.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
To Read Or Not To Read...
Two night ago I received concrete proof that Hanting 21 has, basically, completely failed.
A little explanation is in order. Inspired by the Singapore 21 blueprint a while back, I sat down to chart my desired personal growth for the next few years.
There was probably over-ambition on my part though. Instead of aspiring to be well-rounded (of which I might literally be now boohoo) I simply listed every desirable male characteristic I could think of, thus things like "able to feel genuinely happy and concerned everytime Liver United or whatever-you-call-it-scores" and "able to enjoy rugby whole-heartedly" made the list.
Of course, things haven't changed much. I can't seem to run more than a few kilometres without feeling like I'm giving birth, I still don't congregate at smoky pubs to watch grown men kick a piece of dead cow around, and I watch cool cars zip by without having the slightest idea what engine chassis powers them.
For all I know, they're running on Floo powder.
But I digress. Two nights ago after dinner out, I chanced upon this new quaint little bookshop, and basically experienced feelings akin to a mother holding her newborn for the first time. I rushed inside and lost myself amidst the shelves, burbling with joy everytime I came across a familiar title.
And then, in a moment of extreme weakness, on impulse I bought... my very first Terry Pratchett book. Never did I think that $15 could buy you a little slice of Heaven.
30 minutes later, the shame emerged from the crevice it was hiding it, and overwhelmed me in its entirety. How could I face the world like this, in my bona-fide Geek Mode? What the heck was I doing being happy with buying a book, in an age when only gadgets, girls and sports should be the foundation of the meaning of life for men?
My personal joy quickly became my personal disgrace. I had to stand at Borders and pretend to be interested in FHM for an hour before the social pressure and shame began to subside.
Ahh... yes. Me man, no read big words, like pictures.
The National Library Board has always been in a tizzy over the reading habits of Singaporeans, and rightly so too. Over the years the majority of friends I've made might haven recognized the value and pleasure of reading, but a much smaller proportion actually do so.
In fact, I remember being completely unnerved by a friend who told me, proudly even, that he has never read more than 5 books for leisure in his (sorry) 15 year life. That's like going to Sara Lee and professing your hatred for cakes.
I guess the truth is that books are just not popular as I thought they were, for far too many reasons. Books are boring because they are slow-moving, books fail to create the same intense experience as movies, books take forever to complete. It's amazing how many reasons people will come up with to discharge their guilt.
Given the importance of reading and how you cannot leave it to chance that your kids will develop the reading habit, I delved into teaching methods designed to help your children foster the reading bug.
Although there are many different schools of thought, the general idea seems to be that you need to start them off young. Reading to children before bedtime, or setting a personal example, or encouraging instead of deriding your child everytime he or she picks up a book (aiyoh Ah Seng why read so much read will help you grow brain meh) all help too.
If all else fails I say you should just go and beat them with a chair until they see the importance of reading. Yes, it might hurt you more than it hurts them (though I doubt it), but a little discipline is good in the long run.
I personally have to read something for leisure once in a while, or else I literally feel starved and imbalanced. Reading cases in law just doesn't cut it - in less than half a page the protagonist grows up, gets hit by a car, suffers great injustice, overcomes personal hurdles and sues the butt off the driver.
Sometimes the story ends without you knowing anything more than the hero's first name, which says a lot about developing feeling for the characters involved. After every ten pages or so, I feel like I've been having a row of emotionless one-night stands.
Maybe one day society will progress to the point when avid readers need no longer hide, and can step out from the shadows. When there would be smoky pubs full of people who sit and debate Pratchett, when the rite of passage for young males would be finishing the Wheel of Time in one sitting instead of purchasing their first FHM.
Only time would tell.
A little explanation is in order. Inspired by the Singapore 21 blueprint a while back, I sat down to chart my desired personal growth for the next few years.
There was probably over-ambition on my part though. Instead of aspiring to be well-rounded (of which I might literally be now boohoo) I simply listed every desirable male characteristic I could think of, thus things like "able to feel genuinely happy and concerned everytime Liver United or whatever-you-call-it-scores" and "able to enjoy rugby whole-heartedly" made the list.
Of course, things haven't changed much. I can't seem to run more than a few kilometres without feeling like I'm giving birth, I still don't congregate at smoky pubs to watch grown men kick a piece of dead cow around, and I watch cool cars zip by without having the slightest idea what engine chassis powers them.
For all I know, they're running on Floo powder.
But I digress. Two nights ago after dinner out, I chanced upon this new quaint little bookshop, and basically experienced feelings akin to a mother holding her newborn for the first time. I rushed inside and lost myself amidst the shelves, burbling with joy everytime I came across a familiar title.
And then, in a moment of extreme weakness, on impulse I bought... my very first Terry Pratchett book. Never did I think that $15 could buy you a little slice of Heaven.
30 minutes later, the shame emerged from the crevice it was hiding it, and overwhelmed me in its entirety. How could I face the world like this, in my bona-fide Geek Mode? What the heck was I doing being happy with buying a book, in an age when only gadgets, girls and sports should be the foundation of the meaning of life for men?
My personal joy quickly became my personal disgrace. I had to stand at Borders and pretend to be interested in FHM for an hour before the social pressure and shame began to subside.
Ahh... yes. Me man, no read big words, like pictures.
The National Library Board has always been in a tizzy over the reading habits of Singaporeans, and rightly so too. Over the years the majority of friends I've made might haven recognized the value and pleasure of reading, but a much smaller proportion actually do so.
In fact, I remember being completely unnerved by a friend who told me, proudly even, that he has never read more than 5 books for leisure in his (sorry) 15 year life. That's like going to Sara Lee and professing your hatred for cakes.
I guess the truth is that books are just not popular as I thought they were, for far too many reasons. Books are boring because they are slow-moving, books fail to create the same intense experience as movies, books take forever to complete. It's amazing how many reasons people will come up with to discharge their guilt.
Given the importance of reading and how you cannot leave it to chance that your kids will develop the reading habit, I delved into teaching methods designed to help your children foster the reading bug.
Although there are many different schools of thought, the general idea seems to be that you need to start them off young. Reading to children before bedtime, or setting a personal example, or encouraging instead of deriding your child everytime he or she picks up a book (aiyoh Ah Seng why read so much read will help you grow brain meh) all help too.
If all else fails I say you should just go and beat them with a chair until they see the importance of reading. Yes, it might hurt you more than it hurts them (though I doubt it), but a little discipline is good in the long run.
I personally have to read something for leisure once in a while, or else I literally feel starved and imbalanced. Reading cases in law just doesn't cut it - in less than half a page the protagonist grows up, gets hit by a car, suffers great injustice, overcomes personal hurdles and sues the butt off the driver.
Sometimes the story ends without you knowing anything more than the hero's first name, which says a lot about developing feeling for the characters involved. After every ten pages or so, I feel like I've been having a row of emotionless one-night stands.
Maybe one day society will progress to the point when avid readers need no longer hide, and can step out from the shadows. When there would be smoky pubs full of people who sit and debate Pratchett, when the rite of passage for young males would be finishing the Wheel of Time in one sitting instead of purchasing their first FHM.
Only time would tell.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Diet II
I believe in karma. There's definitely retribution... and then there's instant retribution.
Just two days after last posting about diets and pondering why girls could never stand up to peer pressure, I found out why.
Interestingly enough, the day had begun quite well. A few hours into school, I noticed a friend of mine who kept staring at me. I tried to ignore it at first - after all, I long ago reasoned that being scrutinized in public like a zoo exhibit was a small price to pay for being criminally good-looking.
Imagine my surprise, however, when my friend suddenly quipped, "Hey, did you do anything over the weekend? For some reason you look damn good today."
Of course, even though I had condemned superficiality with conviction on a number of occasions, what was to stop my little heart from brimming with joy? Oh, but for my strict self-imposition of humility I would have sprouted wings and fluttered away!
In my opinion, the praise was no less diminished (no matter what my other friends say) by the fact that the astute friend in question was Jared. A guy, just in case you haven't had the pleasure of meeting him.
(It didn't count, my other friends maintained, if the person who praised you wasn't a girl. You want to look good to girls, not guys!
Desist in that line of reasoning, I replied. Jared is good-looking, that's been established. If you were a learner driver, would you rather be praised for your skills by your mother, or the driving instructor?)
But the happiness was not to last. Shortly after, I met a female JC classmate, who took one look at me and said, in her own words, "Sorry Hanting, but I've got to say this. You look like you've... gotten bigger."
I like to think that if I had met my female classmate before Jared, this post would never have come to pass. But in meeting Jared first, my ego had been set up for a bigger roasting at the subsequent bon-fire. Therefore, there are divine forces at work, hence instant retribution.
Sorry to all the ladies out there. It is nigh impossible to brush peer pressure off like nothing, and we all have our moments of fallibility. You are forgiven for skipping the occasional meal.
THERE I HAVE SAID IT I HAVE ABSOLVED MYSELF. NOW LET ME BE.
Just two days after last posting about diets and pondering why girls could never stand up to peer pressure, I found out why.
Interestingly enough, the day had begun quite well. A few hours into school, I noticed a friend of mine who kept staring at me. I tried to ignore it at first - after all, I long ago reasoned that being scrutinized in public like a zoo exhibit was a small price to pay for being criminally good-looking.
Imagine my surprise, however, when my friend suddenly quipped, "Hey, did you do anything over the weekend? For some reason you look damn good today."
Of course, even though I had condemned superficiality with conviction on a number of occasions, what was to stop my little heart from brimming with joy? Oh, but for my strict self-imposition of humility I would have sprouted wings and fluttered away!
In my opinion, the praise was no less diminished (no matter what my other friends say) by the fact that the astute friend in question was Jared. A guy, just in case you haven't had the pleasure of meeting him.
(It didn't count, my other friends maintained, if the person who praised you wasn't a girl. You want to look good to girls, not guys!
Desist in that line of reasoning, I replied. Jared is good-looking, that's been established. If you were a learner driver, would you rather be praised for your skills by your mother, or the driving instructor?)
But the happiness was not to last. Shortly after, I met a female JC classmate, who took one look at me and said, in her own words, "Sorry Hanting, but I've got to say this. You look like you've... gotten bigger."
I like to think that if I had met my female classmate before Jared, this post would never have come to pass. But in meeting Jared first, my ego had been set up for a bigger roasting at the subsequent bon-fire. Therefore, there are divine forces at work, hence instant retribution.
Sorry to all the ladies out there. It is nigh impossible to brush peer pressure off like nothing, and we all have our moments of fallibility. You are forgiven for skipping the occasional meal.
THERE I HAVE SAID IT I HAVE ABSOLVED MYSELF. NOW LET ME BE.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Diet (Not The Government)
Warning: the following fact may shock you.
According to my mother, in the thirty odd years it took her to mature from an infant to a mother of her own... she did not go on a single slimming diet.
In fact, when I asked my mum to air her views on girls who go on diets nowadays, I realized people would pay good money just to see the look of pure horror and disbelief on her face. I might as well have just told her that I was the father of an illegitimate brood of children.
In my time, she would say, it was practically impossible to find a girl who consciously dieted. Everyone ate as much as they could get their hands on, and never worried about how much their fats were showing. Healthy mindset, healthy lifestyle.
Of course, I rushed to the photo cabinet to check out the girls from her era. An age where no girl dieted? Amazing! Was the smallest size in the clothing market equivalent to our current XL? Was every group shot taken with wide frame lens?
To my surprise, the girls from her age looked pretty much like the girls, well, now.
Simple analysis offers a host of explanations. Nutrition was not as plentiful or affordable back then, girls (people in general) take to more sedentary lifetstyles now, there's a higher value placed on looks as compared to before, girls just worry too much, the list goes on.
Of course, knowing all that doesn't help you grasp the current reality as it is. Today, through random conversations with friends, I discovered four girls who are currently on diets. Yes, although every single one of them looked perfectly healthy to me, all four were actively dieting and missing the occasional meal.
To all the girls in the world, are you worrying that you would lose potential suitors owing to your weight? That you wouldn't look good in, say, your wedding photo? All you need is a simple change in perspective.
Starve now. Order a big bowl of mee pok, with less oil, less vege, less meat, less sauces, then just suck on the wooden chopsticks for sustenance.
Get a boyfriend. If the conviction is so strong that being fat reduces your chances of getting attached, then being thin should make the guys flock. If they still don't come, then, well, starve more. Nothing destroys self-control in a guy faster than the sight of a girl who weighs less than a PSP.
Binge. Once you're attached eat to your heart's content. Love produces a hallucinogenic effect stronger than Ecstasy cut with talcum powder. At this stage in the relationship, nothing in the world would make him think you're anything less than tantalizingly desirable.
Plan. Six months before a photo shoot or The Big Day, return to The Wooden Chopsticks diet. 2 weeks before, allow for the sucking of 3 Tic Tacs a day, so that you may look svelte instead of severely malnourished. Choose a train for your wedding gown that can conceal the bag of saline for your IV drip, to give you the extra boost to say 'I Do' with conviction.
Cross the finishing line. After the last camera fires away, collapse into the arms of your beloved. He won't be able to tell exhaustion from malnourishment.
Seriously though, I agree that I shouldn't be propagating the sexist view that girls only diet to attract guys. Not every girl thinks that hitching a guy is that important after all, at the end of the day. Also, what's wrong with dieting simply to feel good and look good?
But times sure change fast.
Now, just before any girl meets her boyfriend's parents for the first time, she has to worry about how she looks, how she talks, what she talks about, how she carries herself. In fact, my mum told me some time back that she too had developed a list of criteria for any girlfriend I brought home.
Before, my great-grandmother's vetting process was far faster. She didn't care if you brought home a girlfriend who was 1.9m, or who had three arms, or who needed to shave more than you do - she just looked straight to the hips.
Big hips, pass. Small hips, fail. If you don't know why, don't ask me.
In any case I admit that it's much harder living life as a girl. Guys never have nightmares over which potential wardrobe misstep would render us social outcasts, or worry about how the rest of the guys would spit on us for putting on 0.5 kg over the holidays.
In fact, I salute any girl over the age of 18 who still has 3 approving friends - you've treaded through a minefield I never would have known to navigate. You'll go far.
Just eat more please. You wouldn't believe the physical pain we guys feel when we see you girls skip meals.
According to my mother, in the thirty odd years it took her to mature from an infant to a mother of her own... she did not go on a single slimming diet.
In fact, when I asked my mum to air her views on girls who go on diets nowadays, I realized people would pay good money just to see the look of pure horror and disbelief on her face. I might as well have just told her that I was the father of an illegitimate brood of children.
In my time, she would say, it was practically impossible to find a girl who consciously dieted. Everyone ate as much as they could get their hands on, and never worried about how much their fats were showing. Healthy mindset, healthy lifestyle.
Of course, I rushed to the photo cabinet to check out the girls from her era. An age where no girl dieted? Amazing! Was the smallest size in the clothing market equivalent to our current XL? Was every group shot taken with wide frame lens?
To my surprise, the girls from her age looked pretty much like the girls, well, now.
Simple analysis offers a host of explanations. Nutrition was not as plentiful or affordable back then, girls (people in general) take to more sedentary lifetstyles now, there's a higher value placed on looks as compared to before, girls just worry too much, the list goes on.
Of course, knowing all that doesn't help you grasp the current reality as it is. Today, through random conversations with friends, I discovered four girls who are currently on diets. Yes, although every single one of them looked perfectly healthy to me, all four were actively dieting and missing the occasional meal.
To all the girls in the world, are you worrying that you would lose potential suitors owing to your weight? That you wouldn't look good in, say, your wedding photo? All you need is a simple change in perspective.
Starve now. Order a big bowl of mee pok, with less oil, less vege, less meat, less sauces, then just suck on the wooden chopsticks for sustenance.
Get a boyfriend. If the conviction is so strong that being fat reduces your chances of getting attached, then being thin should make the guys flock. If they still don't come, then, well, starve more. Nothing destroys self-control in a guy faster than the sight of a girl who weighs less than a PSP.
Binge. Once you're attached eat to your heart's content. Love produces a hallucinogenic effect stronger than Ecstasy cut with talcum powder. At this stage in the relationship, nothing in the world would make him think you're anything less than tantalizingly desirable.
Plan. Six months before a photo shoot or The Big Day, return to The Wooden Chopsticks diet. 2 weeks before, allow for the sucking of 3 Tic Tacs a day, so that you may look svelte instead of severely malnourished. Choose a train for your wedding gown that can conceal the bag of saline for your IV drip, to give you the extra boost to say 'I Do' with conviction.
Cross the finishing line. After the last camera fires away, collapse into the arms of your beloved. He won't be able to tell exhaustion from malnourishment.
Seriously though, I agree that I shouldn't be propagating the sexist view that girls only diet to attract guys. Not every girl thinks that hitching a guy is that important after all, at the end of the day. Also, what's wrong with dieting simply to feel good and look good?
But times sure change fast.
Now, just before any girl meets her boyfriend's parents for the first time, she has to worry about how she looks, how she talks, what she talks about, how she carries herself. In fact, my mum told me some time back that she too had developed a list of criteria for any girlfriend I brought home.
Before, my great-grandmother's vetting process was far faster. She didn't care if you brought home a girlfriend who was 1.9m, or who had three arms, or who needed to shave more than you do - she just looked straight to the hips.
Big hips, pass. Small hips, fail. If you don't know why, don't ask me.
In any case I admit that it's much harder living life as a girl. Guys never have nightmares over which potential wardrobe misstep would render us social outcasts, or worry about how the rest of the guys would spit on us for putting on 0.5 kg over the holidays.
In fact, I salute any girl over the age of 18 who still has 3 approving friends - you've treaded through a minefield I never would have known to navigate. You'll go far.
Just eat more please. You wouldn't believe the physical pain we guys feel when we see you girls skip meals.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Hush
Why cry, my long-time friend
Those tear-drops of misty sorrow
There is no hurt too deep to mend
No shoulder too unwelcoming to borrow
So sprinkle away like grains of sand
Your pent up sadness, and joy will surely follow
No wait, humour me and let me guess
The nature of the woe plaguing you
From what I see it's easy to assess
It's an affliction that hounds not one but two
That the one whose composure is likewise dispossessed
Is none other than your beau
How did I know? Why don't be silly
Few things would affect all people this way
That would make one abandon hope so freely
Or cast a gloom over the brightest day
If before you doubted how heartache could hurt so dearly
Well now I'm sure you have nothing to say
... Oh I see, so that's why you're so distraught
But be strong now you silly thing
His going away to study is no one's fault
It's only patience you'll be needing
Plus he'll return even faster than you thought
You'll be surprised at how time had passed a-flying
I know, it might be hard for you to believe
But truly you're among the fortunate few
Though your heart aches now with no reprieve
It surely means your love is true
For wouldn't it be worse if when he had to leave
No longing or pain on your part was due?
You're lucky, really I do think so -
How many have yet to find the love they long for
Though the sadness and longing that you now know
May conspire to drive you up the wall
But take strength in knowing that all your woes
Are petty next to all that your love with him stands for
So hush now.
Those tear-drops of misty sorrow
There is no hurt too deep to mend
No shoulder too unwelcoming to borrow
So sprinkle away like grains of sand
Your pent up sadness, and joy will surely follow
No wait, humour me and let me guess
The nature of the woe plaguing you
From what I see it's easy to assess
It's an affliction that hounds not one but two
That the one whose composure is likewise dispossessed
Is none other than your beau
How did I know? Why don't be silly
Few things would affect all people this way
That would make one abandon hope so freely
Or cast a gloom over the brightest day
If before you doubted how heartache could hurt so dearly
Well now I'm sure you have nothing to say
... Oh I see, so that's why you're so distraught
But be strong now you silly thing
His going away to study is no one's fault
It's only patience you'll be needing
Plus he'll return even faster than you thought
You'll be surprised at how time had passed a-flying
I know, it might be hard for you to believe
But truly you're among the fortunate few
Though your heart aches now with no reprieve
It surely means your love is true
For wouldn't it be worse if when he had to leave
No longing or pain on your part was due?
You're lucky, really I do think so -
How many have yet to find the love they long for
Though the sadness and longing that you now know
May conspire to drive you up the wall
But take strength in knowing that all your woes
Are petty next to all that your love with him stands for
So hush now.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Age
This morning, I awoke to a major crisis.
For one, my phone alarm didn't wake me up. This normally gets me in a bad mood, because I like to think I've grown past needing the Multiple Alarm System (one alarm under the pillow, one by the bed, one by the dressing table, one being my Mum In A Bad Mood). In any case, being late is never a good thing (not being dead, but not being on time, that is).
The crisis well and truly began to unfold, when I checked my phone to see why it didn't go off. I turned it on, and waited for the welcome screen. Then I waited some more. And some more. And then some more.
But the welcome screen never came. My phone just lit up, displayed a very friendly blank screen, then beeped non-stop like a happy idiot.
My brain woke up in double-quick time. The entire list of potential repercussions flooded my mind as I mechanically tried to restart and save my phone. The first beads of cold sweat rolled down my brow.
How could I rescue the priceless SMSes I'd stored? What about all the contacts from my fan club? Most importantly, and by far the most worrisome, how would I ever adapt to a new phone?!?
It is well-known that when the human brain is unable to handle extreme shock, it will unfocus to allow some other more pleasant thought to occupy the owner of the brain, to prevent the owner from doing anything stupid.
In my case, a distant memory of a conversation between Enying and I was dredged up. That day, we were discussing the merits of different brands of laptops that the school made available to us. Eventually, an Apple vs. Microsoft issue arose.
In response to the query why she was reluctant to purchase a Powerbook, Enying said that she did not embrace the idea of learning to adapt to a completely different system. I concurred then, saying that the whole notion of having to relearn the basics from scratch just put me off.
Only after a further five minutes of griping about why things had to keep changing, why consumers were always being forced to adapt and update, did we stop to listen to ourselves and the things we were saying. As the awful realization sank in, we simply burst out laughing.
Yes. If you haven't figured it out by now, we were laughing at the way we sounded just like our parents griping about keeping up with technology.
Oh, the way age creeps up on you.
One moment we were the upstarts, the firebrands, the young ones brimming with the energy to change the world with our ideas and actions. Out with outmoded rules and archaic systems; the young are here to infuse flexibility and invigorating lifeblood.
And the next moment, we're sitting comfy among our established habits and practices, tsk-tsking radical ideas and hating the way iTunes and MSN Messenger keeps asking us to update.
Eventually, I managed to save my phone, and avoided the unimaginable alternative of having to learn to use a Samsung or a Sony. How did I fix my phone? Did I troubleshoot the phone systematically, slowly identifying the problem? Did I go on the Net, source for solutions from support websites and attempt electrical engineering on my own?
Nah. I just did what my mum would have done - I dropped my phone on the floor, and prayed damn hard.
I hope my mum never reads this.
For one, my phone alarm didn't wake me up. This normally gets me in a bad mood, because I like to think I've grown past needing the Multiple Alarm System (one alarm under the pillow, one by the bed, one by the dressing table, one being my Mum In A Bad Mood). In any case, being late is never a good thing (not being dead, but not being on time, that is).
The crisis well and truly began to unfold, when I checked my phone to see why it didn't go off. I turned it on, and waited for the welcome screen. Then I waited some more. And some more. And then some more.
But the welcome screen never came. My phone just lit up, displayed a very friendly blank screen, then beeped non-stop like a happy idiot.
My brain woke up in double-quick time. The entire list of potential repercussions flooded my mind as I mechanically tried to restart and save my phone. The first beads of cold sweat rolled down my brow.
How could I rescue the priceless SMSes I'd stored? What about all the contacts from my fan club? Most importantly, and by far the most worrisome, how would I ever adapt to a new phone?!?
It is well-known that when the human brain is unable to handle extreme shock, it will unfocus to allow some other more pleasant thought to occupy the owner of the brain, to prevent the owner from doing anything stupid.
In my case, a distant memory of a conversation between Enying and I was dredged up. That day, we were discussing the merits of different brands of laptops that the school made available to us. Eventually, an Apple vs. Microsoft issue arose.
In response to the query why she was reluctant to purchase a Powerbook, Enying said that she did not embrace the idea of learning to adapt to a completely different system. I concurred then, saying that the whole notion of having to relearn the basics from scratch just put me off.
Only after a further five minutes of griping about why things had to keep changing, why consumers were always being forced to adapt and update, did we stop to listen to ourselves and the things we were saying. As the awful realization sank in, we simply burst out laughing.
Yes. If you haven't figured it out by now, we were laughing at the way we sounded just like our parents griping about keeping up with technology.
Oh, the way age creeps up on you.
One moment we were the upstarts, the firebrands, the young ones brimming with the energy to change the world with our ideas and actions. Out with outmoded rules and archaic systems; the young are here to infuse flexibility and invigorating lifeblood.
And the next moment, we're sitting comfy among our established habits and practices, tsk-tsking radical ideas and hating the way iTunes and MSN Messenger keeps asking us to update.
Eventually, I managed to save my phone, and avoided the unimaginable alternative of having to learn to use a Samsung or a Sony. How did I fix my phone? Did I troubleshoot the phone systematically, slowly identifying the problem? Did I go on the Net, source for solutions from support websites and attempt electrical engineering on my own?
Nah. I just did what my mum would have done - I dropped my phone on the floor, and prayed damn hard.
I hope my mum never reads this.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
SMS
I used to laugh whenever I read articles that cautioned against sending emails or SMSes to unintended parties. I thought, that could never happen to me, I'm young and nimble and quick-minded, it's only the elderly who can ever do something like that.
And the horror stories that abound really do chill you. You've probably heard of the disgruntled worker who sent a vulgarity-laden tirade against the boss, to the boss. Or the daredevil Casonova who's called the right lass by the wrong name.
Yes, I've had the distinct pleasure of finding out myself, just how much your skin can crawl, how much your spheres can shrink, when you really do make a mistake like that.
The first time it happened was when I was at a group outing with a girl I once loved. The thing was, another girl (whom I was on good terms with) she particularly disliked was there as well. In a moment of extreme folly, I sent a semi-flirtatious SMS to the friend, thinking to tease her on her dressing that day.
And as I sent it, I told myself, 'Na, Hanting, don't be stupid and send it to the wrong person ah. Just think of what she would do to you. Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid.'
Was it my fault that their names were just two letters away from each other in my phonebook?
The moment I saw the SMS going to the wrong number I freaked. I know, I should have kept cool, then fenced off the resultant outpouring of fury with a sauve and debonair attitude. 'Aiya, just to see whether you will get jealous la' could probably have saved the day.
Oh, but I was so young and inexperienced then. When I freaked, I did a mad little dance around, clutching and squeezing and contorting my phone, in the vain hope that the outgoing electronic signals would somehow jam. My face went into Botox mode. I began to gurgle.
The best part was, when the beep on her phone came through, she looked at me and asked what was wrong. She then said, and I remember thinking then then that on the bright side we'll get to see how strong our relationship was,
"Why are you so excited? Ok ok, I know you've sent me an SMS already, I'll read it now."
Sometimes, nowadays, when my thumb wavers over a keypad, about to press the Send button, the scars still tingle. Honest.
A favourite story I like to relate about my BMT days, in fact, bears a close resemblance to my own personal tragedy. There was this guy who was on the phone every single night for hours on end, but he just simply refused to come clean with us and tell us about his girlfriend. According to him, he was just updating his mum on his day.
We thought hard about it. If he was lying to his army brothers, he deserved what was coming to him. If he wasn't lying, and really was talking to his mum while smiling like an idiot and giggling like a schoolgirl, then, well, by general standards of morality, he deserved it all the more.
One night, we waited until he left the bunk, then sped to his phone. We checked to see who he was calling every night, and promptly switched the number under that name with his mum's number. The dastardly deed done, we replaced his phone as we found it, and sat back to watch.
A nauseatingly cloying goodnight SMS and the relevant reply later, we watched a Jekyll/Hyde transformation unfold. It's memories like that which make Army worthwhile.
(On hindsight, we tarnished a good friendship, with only a barrel of laughs in return for it. On the balance of things however, seeing that our world is sullen and gloomy enough as it is... it was probably worth it.)
I've since learnt a lot. For instance, that there are situations in which you purposely make a mistake like that... but that's another post, another day. Suffice to say that while the uninitiated make mistakes, and the experienced avoid making them, only masters turn mistakes into opportunities.
Lastly, if you're in a relationship and you think both of you can't get any stronger, test it with a little boo-boo as described above.
If she doesn't stop hitting you after ten minutes, be warned, there's still room for improvement.
And the horror stories that abound really do chill you. You've probably heard of the disgruntled worker who sent a vulgarity-laden tirade against the boss, to the boss. Or the daredevil Casonova who's called the right lass by the wrong name.
Yes, I've had the distinct pleasure of finding out myself, just how much your skin can crawl, how much your spheres can shrink, when you really do make a mistake like that.
The first time it happened was when I was at a group outing with a girl I once loved. The thing was, another girl (whom I was on good terms with) she particularly disliked was there as well. In a moment of extreme folly, I sent a semi-flirtatious SMS to the friend, thinking to tease her on her dressing that day.
And as I sent it, I told myself, 'Na, Hanting, don't be stupid and send it to the wrong person ah. Just think of what she would do to you. Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid.'
Was it my fault that their names were just two letters away from each other in my phonebook?
The moment I saw the SMS going to the wrong number I freaked. I know, I should have kept cool, then fenced off the resultant outpouring of fury with a sauve and debonair attitude. 'Aiya, just to see whether you will get jealous la' could probably have saved the day.
Oh, but I was so young and inexperienced then. When I freaked, I did a mad little dance around, clutching and squeezing and contorting my phone, in the vain hope that the outgoing electronic signals would somehow jam. My face went into Botox mode. I began to gurgle.
The best part was, when the beep on her phone came through, she looked at me and asked what was wrong. She then said, and I remember thinking then then that on the bright side we'll get to see how strong our relationship was,
"Why are you so excited? Ok ok, I know you've sent me an SMS already, I'll read it now."
Sometimes, nowadays, when my thumb wavers over a keypad, about to press the Send button, the scars still tingle. Honest.
A favourite story I like to relate about my BMT days, in fact, bears a close resemblance to my own personal tragedy. There was this guy who was on the phone every single night for hours on end, but he just simply refused to come clean with us and tell us about his girlfriend. According to him, he was just updating his mum on his day.
We thought hard about it. If he was lying to his army brothers, he deserved what was coming to him. If he wasn't lying, and really was talking to his mum while smiling like an idiot and giggling like a schoolgirl, then, well, by general standards of morality, he deserved it all the more.
One night, we waited until he left the bunk, then sped to his phone. We checked to see who he was calling every night, and promptly switched the number under that name with his mum's number. The dastardly deed done, we replaced his phone as we found it, and sat back to watch.
A nauseatingly cloying goodnight SMS and the relevant reply later, we watched a Jekyll/Hyde transformation unfold. It's memories like that which make Army worthwhile.
(On hindsight, we tarnished a good friendship, with only a barrel of laughs in return for it. On the balance of things however, seeing that our world is sullen and gloomy enough as it is... it was probably worth it.)
I've since learnt a lot. For instance, that there are situations in which you purposely make a mistake like that... but that's another post, another day. Suffice to say that while the uninitiated make mistakes, and the experienced avoid making them, only masters turn mistakes into opportunities.
Lastly, if you're in a relationship and you think both of you can't get any stronger, test it with a little boo-boo as described above.
If she doesn't stop hitting you after ten minutes, be warned, there's still room for improvement.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Head v. Heart
It was a Monday morning, not a particularly good time to face down yet another glaring bias most people in our fair society unwittingly have.
A friend's blog started it all - after Shu Hyphen Wen had posted a picture of a good-looking guy on her blog (not me this time... overexposure's never good), her tag board came alive with comments regarding the "cuteness" and "hunkiness" of the guy in question.
"This cannot be right," I told my Germaine (names changed to protect the truly innocent) before lecture began. "How can one afford to be so superficial, and work up so much attraction to someone you don't even know, based s0lely on how he looks?"
My tirade continued - one must be fully aware of the natural bias to accord good-looking people more good-feelings compared to the rest, to ensure full impartiality in social dealings. What about people who look less good? Do you immediately distrust them?
Furthermore, looks are but a single facet of a person, and society shouldn't harp on it so much in lieu of all the other qualities a model citizen should possess, right? For a moment, I felt like a walking GP essay.
My friend rousingly agreed. And when I looked into her eyes I knew she had seen the light - there was a clarity of vision, a certain fiery edge to her concentrated gaze. I saw a woman awaken from years of slumbering under false perceptions, and my jaded little heart beat anew. Hear, hear, how quickly does man's folly undo through careful reflection!
Just then, the aforementioned good-looking guy strode into the LT.
The broken spell was cast anew. Resolve was quickly thrown out the window, followed closely behind by logic and reasoning. My female friend's eyes glazed over once again, as she did a little jig of merriment, hands clapping on their own accord.
"Oooooooooh Hanting look at him today! He looks so good!"
15 mins of hard persuasion to set her mind free from bias. 3 seconds to bring it all back. Oh yes, the world is fair.
A friend's blog started it all - after Shu Hyphen Wen had posted a picture of a good-looking guy on her blog (not me this time... overexposure's never good), her tag board came alive with comments regarding the "cuteness" and "hunkiness" of the guy in question.
"This cannot be right," I told my Germaine (names changed to protect the truly innocent) before lecture began. "How can one afford to be so superficial, and work up so much attraction to someone you don't even know, based s0lely on how he looks?"
My tirade continued - one must be fully aware of the natural bias to accord good-looking people more good-feelings compared to the rest, to ensure full impartiality in social dealings. What about people who look less good? Do you immediately distrust them?
Furthermore, looks are but a single facet of a person, and society shouldn't harp on it so much in lieu of all the other qualities a model citizen should possess, right? For a moment, I felt like a walking GP essay.
My friend rousingly agreed. And when I looked into her eyes I knew she had seen the light - there was a clarity of vision, a certain fiery edge to her concentrated gaze. I saw a woman awaken from years of slumbering under false perceptions, and my jaded little heart beat anew. Hear, hear, how quickly does man's folly undo through careful reflection!
Just then, the aforementioned good-looking guy strode into the LT.
The broken spell was cast anew. Resolve was quickly thrown out the window, followed closely behind by logic and reasoning. My female friend's eyes glazed over once again, as she did a little jig of merriment, hands clapping on their own accord.
"Oooooooooh Hanting look at him today! He looks so good!"
15 mins of hard persuasion to set her mind free from bias. 3 seconds to bring it all back. Oh yes, the world is fair.
Friday, September 02, 2005
A Dying Crush
Today, when I picked up a photo of her, I realized... that the magic had finally evaporated. Whatever love, whatever care I once had, had quietly faded away.
And when the magic goes, so do all illusions previously held. There she was, in my mind's eye, warped beyond recognition. Her faults a thousand times illuminated, her virtues conversely diminished.
I turned to old memories to try to uncover some flagging vestige of tenderness, but found nothing. I have long been a staunch believer in the theory that true love never does quite leave you, and therefore, I was faced with the only explanation that maybe I never did harbour that for her.
It's strange, isn't it, the way crushes seize you?
I should know. I have seen it happen to friends, have had the fortune of experiencing some myself. Against all logic and reasoning, a crush will grip you tight and suffocate the sense out of you, stirring feelings you never thought could exist.
Ask any person experiencing a crush how did they fall prey to another so completely, and rarely will you get a coherent answer. It's a common denominator that crushes are brought upon mere mortals inexplicably, inextricably, irrevocably.
Nothing short of the passage of time can wrest someone from the embrace of a crush.
The intensity, the pulse of such feelings, so strong that even the jaded could misconstrue and see love where it does not exist... eventually fade. And when they do, you are left standed on a little island of bewilderment, wondering how you ended up here in the first place.
I wonder though, why is it that some crushes do not fade. Some persist, like little devilish parasites, feeding off your emotions for years on end. You think that as time passes old flames will extinguish, that old feelings will dwindle. Oh ho, think again.
I hope that if she ever finds out that I harbour no more affection for her, she will understand and forgive the flightiness I appear to embody. Our time was good together, while it lasted, but the sweetness of the moment will not sustain me much longer.
I seek more. Precisely what I seek I still do not know, but I do seek more.
Goodbye, then. If our paths do cross again, then let the meeting be one of close friends who share a special bond others lack. And nothing else.
Goodbye, Daphne...
And when the magic goes, so do all illusions previously held. There she was, in my mind's eye, warped beyond recognition. Her faults a thousand times illuminated, her virtues conversely diminished.
I turned to old memories to try to uncover some flagging vestige of tenderness, but found nothing. I have long been a staunch believer in the theory that true love never does quite leave you, and therefore, I was faced with the only explanation that maybe I never did harbour that for her.
It's strange, isn't it, the way crushes seize you?
I should know. I have seen it happen to friends, have had the fortune of experiencing some myself. Against all logic and reasoning, a crush will grip you tight and suffocate the sense out of you, stirring feelings you never thought could exist.
Ask any person experiencing a crush how did they fall prey to another so completely, and rarely will you get a coherent answer. It's a common denominator that crushes are brought upon mere mortals inexplicably, inextricably, irrevocably.
Nothing short of the passage of time can wrest someone from the embrace of a crush.
The intensity, the pulse of such feelings, so strong that even the jaded could misconstrue and see love where it does not exist... eventually fade. And when they do, you are left standed on a little island of bewilderment, wondering how you ended up here in the first place.
I wonder though, why is it that some crushes do not fade. Some persist, like little devilish parasites, feeding off your emotions for years on end. You think that as time passes old flames will extinguish, that old feelings will dwindle. Oh ho, think again.
I hope that if she ever finds out that I harbour no more affection for her, she will understand and forgive the flightiness I appear to embody. Our time was good together, while it lasted, but the sweetness of the moment will not sustain me much longer.
I seek more. Precisely what I seek I still do not know, but I do seek more.
Goodbye, then. If our paths do cross again, then let the meeting be one of close friends who share a special bond others lack. And nothing else.
Goodbye, Daphne...
Monday, August 29, 2005
Warcraft Fever
Everybody has their weaknesses. A lot of people try, but very few ever achieve perfection. The few who have, inevitably end up living shorter lives. Not many people can stand a perfectionist, much less a perfect person, amidst them.
I'm an ordinary man, I have my fair share of weaknesses. I procrastinate, I occasionally indulge in chocolate, I make good-looking people insecure about their looks. And, as I found out recently, I am also still very much a sucker for computer games.
Seriously, I thought I had outgrown this phase in my life. Games used to take up so much of my life that my parents often had to arrange for elaborate exorcisms every time they found the Playstation possessing me.
Then after a while, games began to lose their appeal and grip. So many other priorities came into the picture that I just couldn't seem to muster the same fervor I had for games anymore. Indeed, for a while I even found games boring and mindnumbing.
Ah, I thought, so this is what it feels like to be a man.
But the demons lurk closest just when you think you are rid of them. Enter Warcraft, the marijuana of Singapore's youth.
Everytime I told myself that there was work to do, worlds to save, I'll have some bit of media shoved into my face about Warcraft. Newspapers, magazines, posters, commercials, pop-ups... everywhere I turned I would find further temptation.
It's seriously no joke. For the girls out there, who at this point might think that guys are so childish for playing games, just remember that for a guy, Warcraft = Mango. Now tell me, if you went out, and every poster you saw from home to town carried the words "Mango Sale 70% off!", tell me with your hand over your heart that you wouldn't feel a single tinge of temptation.
I'm not alone, I know. Just look to the newspapers to see what I mean. Increasingly, countries are sounding off alarms as millions of youths get dangerously addicted to computer games.
A game fits all occasions. Games are never too revealing. While game malfunctions do happen, you don't shoot to infamy if a game fails on you. People don't judge you by the games you play.
(Well, actually they do. It's soo much cooler to play Warcraft than, say, Puzzle Bobble.)
Back to my main point. Girls, for the sake of the men in your life, do try to understand how guys go hand in hand with gaming. Share our joy. Don't say hurtful things like, "Why are you still playing games at your age you overgrown dependent baboon?"
That's the equivalent of us pointing out your new dress and saying, "Hey, my grandma wore something like that the other day too!"
Oh... Warcraft...
I'm an ordinary man, I have my fair share of weaknesses. I procrastinate, I occasionally indulge in chocolate, I make good-looking people insecure about their looks. And, as I found out recently, I am also still very much a sucker for computer games.
Seriously, I thought I had outgrown this phase in my life. Games used to take up so much of my life that my parents often had to arrange for elaborate exorcisms every time they found the Playstation possessing me.
Then after a while, games began to lose their appeal and grip. So many other priorities came into the picture that I just couldn't seem to muster the same fervor I had for games anymore. Indeed, for a while I even found games boring and mindnumbing.
Ah, I thought, so this is what it feels like to be a man.
But the demons lurk closest just when you think you are rid of them. Enter Warcraft, the marijuana of Singapore's youth.
Everytime I told myself that there was work to do, worlds to save, I'll have some bit of media shoved into my face about Warcraft. Newspapers, magazines, posters, commercials, pop-ups... everywhere I turned I would find further temptation.
It's seriously no joke. For the girls out there, who at this point might think that guys are so childish for playing games, just remember that for a guy, Warcraft = Mango. Now tell me, if you went out, and every poster you saw from home to town carried the words "Mango Sale 70% off!", tell me with your hand over your heart that you wouldn't feel a single tinge of temptation.
I'm not alone, I know. Just look to the newspapers to see what I mean. Increasingly, countries are sounding off alarms as millions of youths get dangerously addicted to computer games.
On the flip side, I think it's much cheaper to bring up boys than girls, thanks to computer games. I was stunned when a straw poll revealed that most girls spend close to $100 - $300 a month on clothes, shoes, and other accessories.
Man, that's 2 to 6 freaking games a month!
Let us make a case for games, against clothes. A game can last you for months on end. There's no worry at all about what people will say if they see you playing the same game again. Games don't get accidentally torn or ripped in the wash.A game fits all occasions. Games are never too revealing. While game malfunctions do happen, you don't shoot to infamy if a game fails on you. People don't judge you by the games you play.
(Well, actually they do. It's soo much cooler to play Warcraft than, say, Puzzle Bobble.)
Back to my main point. Girls, for the sake of the men in your life, do try to understand how guys go hand in hand with gaming. Share our joy. Don't say hurtful things like, "Why are you still playing games at your age you overgrown dependent baboon?"
That's the equivalent of us pointing out your new dress and saying, "Hey, my grandma wore something like that the other day too!"
Oh... Warcraft...
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Up In Arms
It's the special kind of lecture that everyone has been part of before. The type of lecture that would have everyone wishing education wasn't compulsory and that they had chosen to be a child labourer instead.
The kind of lecture where the material is dry, the preparation tedious, the tension palpable. The lecturer's firing questions faster than Wei Chin can say something objectionable, and all too often there's an excruciating silence as everyone wonders what the hell is going on.
Then comes the inevitable threat, the one that brings to mind Russell Peters - "If no one volunteers to answer my question, I have no choice but to start picking people. Somebody, somebody, is going to answer."
Pause. Let's talk about the mechanics of this threat.
Why should one feel intimidated by this threat? Why is there this immediate shrinking of the spirit, this cowering of the soul? Don't lie to yourself now, no matter how impervious you think you are to threats, do you not feel this sudden wild panic?
Inspired by Daryl's application of mathematics to uncover the principles of life, let's examine the numbers. If no one volunteers, and he's forced to pick someone, the chances that it will be you is probably 1 in 100. That's 1 percent.
Now, if you cave in to this threat, and volunteer, that probability of it being you shoots up, to roughly, give or take a bit, 100 percent. Not an unsubstantial increase.
At this point you're probably thinking, haha, thank goodness Hanting's not doing a course related to maths. I say, wait, let's go beyond the maths and examine the social repercussions of this revelation.
It is clear that if people volunteered, the lecturer would be happier at the end of the day. Even if he picked you, he wouldn't be so upset at the lack of response that even if you said something that would trigger off a tightening of the entry criteria next year, he wouldn't be mad.
Conversely, if no one volunteered, and he picked you, you better start praying he has children of his own and appreciates the virtues of mercy. When the lecture concludes, you can be sure a reprimand is in store for the entire cohort.
How does one apply this knowledge?
Simple. Everyone, everyone should raise their hands once a question is asked.
Just think about it! The probability of you being picked is now effectively the same as when no one volunteers! Since the chances of you being called out is the same, and there is the added advantage of the lecturer being happy at the end of the day, isn't this a whole lot better?
Never underestimate student power.
The kind of lecture where the material is dry, the preparation tedious, the tension palpable. The lecturer's firing questions faster than Wei Chin can say something objectionable, and all too often there's an excruciating silence as everyone wonders what the hell is going on.
Then comes the inevitable threat, the one that brings to mind Russell Peters - "If no one volunteers to answer my question, I have no choice but to start picking people. Somebody, somebody, is going to answer."
Pause. Let's talk about the mechanics of this threat.
Why should one feel intimidated by this threat? Why is there this immediate shrinking of the spirit, this cowering of the soul? Don't lie to yourself now, no matter how impervious you think you are to threats, do you not feel this sudden wild panic?
Inspired by Daryl's application of mathematics to uncover the principles of life, let's examine the numbers. If no one volunteers, and he's forced to pick someone, the chances that it will be you is probably 1 in 100. That's 1 percent.
Now, if you cave in to this threat, and volunteer, that probability of it being you shoots up, to roughly, give or take a bit, 100 percent. Not an unsubstantial increase.
At this point you're probably thinking, haha, thank goodness Hanting's not doing a course related to maths. I say, wait, let's go beyond the maths and examine the social repercussions of this revelation.
It is clear that if people volunteered, the lecturer would be happier at the end of the day. Even if he picked you, he wouldn't be so upset at the lack of response that even if you said something that would trigger off a tightening of the entry criteria next year, he wouldn't be mad.
Conversely, if no one volunteered, and he picked you, you better start praying he has children of his own and appreciates the virtues of mercy. When the lecture concludes, you can be sure a reprimand is in store for the entire cohort.
How does one apply this knowledge?
Simple. Everyone, everyone should raise their hands once a question is asked.
Just think about it! The probability of you being picked is now effectively the same as when no one volunteers! Since the chances of you being called out is the same, and there is the added advantage of the lecturer being happy at the end of the day, isn't this a whole lot better?
Never underestimate student power.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Do I Know You?
The lecturer began quite innocuously, citing examples in Contract Law where a contract can be deemed void. One instance, he said, was when there was a mistake as to identity of the parties involved in the contract.
"Consider a marraige where the wife discovers that the person she has married, is actually not the person she thought she had married. Would the marraige be voided by this?"
Quite quickly, a girl in the front rows quipped, "Doesn't that happen all the time?"
Everyone laughed. Then, the painful reality of it hit, and everyone sighed.
It's strange though, when you put some thought to it. Whose mother has never cautioned them before, not to rush into relationships? That one must spend time getting to know the other party before taking the plunge?
Yet, anyone can tell you that no matter how hard you try to get to know another person well, no matter how hard you try to figure out if you're compatible before you get attached, most of the discovery only takes place after.
One of the innumerable mysteries of life then, I guess.
"Consider a marraige where the wife discovers that the person she has married, is actually not the person she thought she had married. Would the marraige be voided by this?"
Quite quickly, a girl in the front rows quipped, "Doesn't that happen all the time?"
Everyone laughed. Then, the painful reality of it hit, and everyone sighed.
It's strange though, when you put some thought to it. Whose mother has never cautioned them before, not to rush into relationships? That one must spend time getting to know the other party before taking the plunge?
Yet, anyone can tell you that no matter how hard you try to get to know another person well, no matter how hard you try to figure out if you're compatible before you get attached, most of the discovery only takes place after.
One of the innumerable mysteries of life then, I guess.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Soft Spot, Revisited
Her name is Rei, which in Japanese means gratitude.
Rei's less than a year old, and so you would be forgiven if you couldn't distinguish her from the rest - all young look the same. She's less than a year old, but already she's developing a personality of her own.
Rei's as pretty as other girls of her age are. She loves to play, just as much as the rest. She's innocent, quiet, enquiring, endearing, charming... but I know, Rei will never grow up to be like the rest.
For Rei came into this world slightly different. For the rest of her natural life, Rei will lack the mental quickness her peers enjoy.
I know, because for the past few days I've been trying to troubleshoot and figure out what in blazes in wrong with her. I don't understand how a laptop with superior specs can still end up being laggy and slow, compared to the other brands my friends are using.
For two nights now, I've gone to bed all weary and drained. No matter what settings I try, I just can't seem to fix her. I hate the way I see other laptops doing so well, when I can't help Rei overcome the problems plaguing her.
Strangely, even though I've had to deal with much disappointment and frustration over her condition, I can't seem to get mad at her. At the end of the day, when she quietly powers down and hibernates next to me, I gaze at her... and magically, any anger inside melts away.
Is it a weakness, to lack the capacity to remain upset and angry at some people for a significant amount of time?
My brother and I go way back, almost 17 years now. Throughout the years we've done things to each other that would set any child psychologist on edge, persuade newlyweds to consider sterilization.
He's attacked me whilst I was recovering from an appendectomy, pushed me head-first into a glass table, bit me, lost my CDs, misplaced my handphones, mangled my favourite clothes, driven me up the wall during important exam periods.
I'm no saint though, I admit.
In return, I've guided him, patiently pointed out the error of his ways, indulged his tempers and idiosyncracies, given him as much leeway without spoiling him, and expected nothing more from him than I would of a peer of like age, intelligence and experience.
Yet, for some strange reason, even after he's done the most outrageous things, I can't help but laugh it off and attribute his follies to a temporary condition of childhood and sublime idiocy. I hate to admit it, it goes against all principles of machismo, but I guess a soft spot exists here too.
Yes, my dear... this applies to you too. In more ways then you think.
Ahh... love truly is a most impenetrable and unfathomable thing. Just like Singapore Legal System lectures.
Rei's less than a year old, and so you would be forgiven if you couldn't distinguish her from the rest - all young look the same. She's less than a year old, but already she's developing a personality of her own.
Rei's as pretty as other girls of her age are. She loves to play, just as much as the rest. She's innocent, quiet, enquiring, endearing, charming... but I know, Rei will never grow up to be like the rest.
For Rei came into this world slightly different. For the rest of her natural life, Rei will lack the mental quickness her peers enjoy.
I know, because for the past few days I've been trying to troubleshoot and figure out what in blazes in wrong with her. I don't understand how a laptop with superior specs can still end up being laggy and slow, compared to the other brands my friends are using.
For two nights now, I've gone to bed all weary and drained. No matter what settings I try, I just can't seem to fix her. I hate the way I see other laptops doing so well, when I can't help Rei overcome the problems plaguing her.
Strangely, even though I've had to deal with much disappointment and frustration over her condition, I can't seem to get mad at her. At the end of the day, when she quietly powers down and hibernates next to me, I gaze at her... and magically, any anger inside melts away.
Is it a weakness, to lack the capacity to remain upset and angry at some people for a significant amount of time?
My brother and I go way back, almost 17 years now. Throughout the years we've done things to each other that would set any child psychologist on edge, persuade newlyweds to consider sterilization.
He's attacked me whilst I was recovering from an appendectomy, pushed me head-first into a glass table, bit me, lost my CDs, misplaced my handphones, mangled my favourite clothes, driven me up the wall during important exam periods.
I'm no saint though, I admit.
In return, I've guided him, patiently pointed out the error of his ways, indulged his tempers and idiosyncracies, given him as much leeway without spoiling him, and expected nothing more from him than I would of a peer of like age, intelligence and experience.
Yet, for some strange reason, even after he's done the most outrageous things, I can't help but laugh it off and attribute his follies to a temporary condition of childhood and sublime idiocy. I hate to admit it, it goes against all principles of machismo, but I guess a soft spot exists here too.
Yes, my dear... this applies to you too. In more ways then you think.
Ahh... love truly is a most impenetrable and unfathomable thing. Just like Singapore Legal System lectures.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Fashion
I've talked about this before - it's highly regrettable that schools and parents are hardly able to teach the young even half of what they need to know, in this big, bad world of ours. What children are not formally taught, they begin to pick up on their own.
So maybe it's high time that Fashion Sense became a compulsory topic at school. Right after Maths and before P.E. If not for the girls, then please, let's have the lessons for the guys.
Because guys have it much worse than girls - society's demands and pressures somehow predispose guys to developing very strange ideas about fashion. In fact, so rare is the guy who possesses a keen sense of dressing that he is instantly celebrated as a Metrosexual, a Fashion Designer, or an Open Gay.
Perhaps it is the different way in which fashion sense penetrates the male and female worlds. Females rely on discussion groups, Think Tanks and voluminous magazines to efficiently disseminate the latest trends and styles. If a fashion revolutionary like Madonna changed her hair today, a tribal native in Africa would hear about it by next week.
Males don't do that. Fashion sense evolves slowly, within small communities of males, much like the way gene pools work. Only upon mixing with males from a different community does peer pressure set in, and a brand-new fashion equilibrium actualize.
Don't believe me? Just look at how RI boys and ACS boys match socks with black shoes. While the RI boys will happily wear white socks with black shoes (a fashion by-product of the Prefects' attire), the ACS boys would rather amputate both legs than go out in public dressed like that.
I should know how it feels to be the unwitting victim of a fashion faux pas. I've walked into a room, wearing my jeans the same way I've worn them for years, to the reception of shocked gasps and transfixed gazes of horror. Kind people would then sit me down, pat me on the head and tell me they understand how it all isn't my fault, it was the unfortunate way I had been brought up.
Jeez, I might as well have walked into a room full of vegetarians, dressed in a costume of a headless, bleeding cow.
Sometimes, all it takes is flair and charisma to make the difference between a fashion pioneer and a fashion disaster. Carry it off with enough panache and people will actually emulate you, rather than crucify. But be warned, if you're someone like me, just give up. 10 years later the memories will be less painful.
I know to give up because of a pink shirt Haoyun convinced me to buy. It's the only pink shirt I have in a wardrobe of blues and blacks, and every time I wear it I attract criticism like Law Faculty attracts pretty girls.
It doesn't matter if Metrosexuals are accepted and no longer stoned in public. It doesn't matter that I have good looks, great skin and abs to crack eggs on. Once I don the accursed shirt, I become Pin-Up poster material. For throwing darts.
One last tip for the guys for now. Wear Your Pants Low. Any girl secretly crushing you would have "all the magic sudddenly disappear", if ever they find out your wear your pants high.
Trust me, I swear.
So maybe it's high time that Fashion Sense became a compulsory topic at school. Right after Maths and before P.E. If not for the girls, then please, let's have the lessons for the guys.
Because guys have it much worse than girls - society's demands and pressures somehow predispose guys to developing very strange ideas about fashion. In fact, so rare is the guy who possesses a keen sense of dressing that he is instantly celebrated as a Metrosexual, a Fashion Designer, or an Open Gay.
Perhaps it is the different way in which fashion sense penetrates the male and female worlds. Females rely on discussion groups, Think Tanks and voluminous magazines to efficiently disseminate the latest trends and styles. If a fashion revolutionary like Madonna changed her hair today, a tribal native in Africa would hear about it by next week.
Males don't do that. Fashion sense evolves slowly, within small communities of males, much like the way gene pools work. Only upon mixing with males from a different community does peer pressure set in, and a brand-new fashion equilibrium actualize.
Don't believe me? Just look at how RI boys and ACS boys match socks with black shoes. While the RI boys will happily wear white socks with black shoes (a fashion by-product of the Prefects' attire), the ACS boys would rather amputate both legs than go out in public dressed like that.
I should know how it feels to be the unwitting victim of a fashion faux pas. I've walked into a room, wearing my jeans the same way I've worn them for years, to the reception of shocked gasps and transfixed gazes of horror. Kind people would then sit me down, pat me on the head and tell me they understand how it all isn't my fault, it was the unfortunate way I had been brought up.
Jeez, I might as well have walked into a room full of vegetarians, dressed in a costume of a headless, bleeding cow.
Sometimes, all it takes is flair and charisma to make the difference between a fashion pioneer and a fashion disaster. Carry it off with enough panache and people will actually emulate you, rather than crucify. But be warned, if you're someone like me, just give up. 10 years later the memories will be less painful.
I know to give up because of a pink shirt Haoyun convinced me to buy. It's the only pink shirt I have in a wardrobe of blues and blacks, and every time I wear it I attract criticism like Law Faculty attracts pretty girls.
It doesn't matter if Metrosexuals are accepted and no longer stoned in public. It doesn't matter that I have good looks, great skin and abs to crack eggs on. Once I don the accursed shirt, I become Pin-Up poster material. For throwing darts.
One last tip for the guys for now. Wear Your Pants Low. Any girl secretly crushing you would have "all the magic sudddenly disappear", if ever they find out your wear your pants high.
Trust me, I swear.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Time
I've never had my hours fill up so fast before!
Just about a month ago, rare was the moment when I was occupied for more than an hour at a shot. Life then was just flitting from whim to fancy like a carefree jellyfish.
Now, if I have the time to brush my teeth three times in a week, it means I've been juggling my time well already.
The funniest thing is how you peer into the future and initally determine, say, Friday's a free day. No appointments, no deadlines, just a calm, peaceful day with one lecture and one tutorial.
Come Thursday night, you'll have lessons in the morning, frantic last-min readings before noon, lunch appointments with different groups of friends at the same time, tutorial drafts before 3, more social gatherings by six, salsa at night, followed by a slumber party.
Oh yes, and saving the world before midnight.
Really, life seems so short now. It's a pity the way priorities shift too, and how you know you just can't hold on to the things you so very dearly love and treasure, just as tight anymore. It breaks my heart.
The true test begins!
Just about a month ago, rare was the moment when I was occupied for more than an hour at a shot. Life then was just flitting from whim to fancy like a carefree jellyfish.
Now, if I have the time to brush my teeth three times in a week, it means I've been juggling my time well already.
The funniest thing is how you peer into the future and initally determine, say, Friday's a free day. No appointments, no deadlines, just a calm, peaceful day with one lecture and one tutorial.
Come Thursday night, you'll have lessons in the morning, frantic last-min readings before noon, lunch appointments with different groups of friends at the same time, tutorial drafts before 3, more social gatherings by six, salsa at night, followed by a slumber party.
Oh yes, and saving the world before midnight.
Really, life seems so short now. It's a pity the way priorities shift too, and how you know you just can't hold on to the things you so very dearly love and treasure, just as tight anymore. It breaks my heart.
The true test begins!
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Be A Man...
Another stab at tackling the great unknowns of life, at 5 am in the morning. Haha, bye-bye body clock.
I've always been taught to do the right thing. After a certain point I no longer needed my parents by my side to remind me - every conscious action on my part reflected a sincere desire to simply do what was right.
Most of the time, temptation was kept at bay by the glowing satisfaction of knowing I had made the better choice. For example, I never had problems returning money I had found, I've never cheated in a test, I've never torn a page out of a library book.
But has it occurred to you, that as you grow older it gets harder and harder to do the right thing?
Perhaps it is because the morally right choices are often made at one's expense. And as you mature you realize that no one's there to protect your interests for you - it's often a one man show. If you yourself don't seek what's best for you, who will?
Recently, I discovered that a friend was undergoing punishment for misplacing his belongings. Somehow, it had gotten lost a few months back, and for the life of him he had been unable to locate it. Into thin air, it had gone.
That night, on the spur of the moment, I decided to check my cabinet to see if his belongings were with me. The logical part of me acknowledged the low probability, but there was something at the back of my mind, nagging away at me...
Lo and behold. His items were actually with me.
I will gloss over the pros and cons of confessing. In the end though, after almost 2 sleepless hours in bed, I messaged him and apologized profusely, taking all responsibility for my honest mistake. Fortunately, there was a happy ending. Of sorts.
And tonight, yes, just tonight, I had to make just such another choice.
It was a choice that messed my insides up completely, keeping me awake until now. I will always remember pacing my room, asking myself why should I not be selfish and just do what I wanted. The morally right choice suddenly seemed too exacting, too painful to make.
I almost succumbed. I almost made a choice that I am sure I would be ashamed of in time to come. In the end, as heart-rending as it was, I made the better choice.
The dust's slowly settling. How will things turn out? Will it all be worth it in the end? What if I realize, a few months down the road, that I was much better off just watching out for myself, instead of always having to keep others in mind?
If you haven't been to such a crossroads before in your life, I wish you strength of resolution and clearness of mind. For it is then that you will see, truly, how difficult it is to -
"Be a man, do the right thing."
I've always been taught to do the right thing. After a certain point I no longer needed my parents by my side to remind me - every conscious action on my part reflected a sincere desire to simply do what was right.
Most of the time, temptation was kept at bay by the glowing satisfaction of knowing I had made the better choice. For example, I never had problems returning money I had found, I've never cheated in a test, I've never torn a page out of a library book.
But has it occurred to you, that as you grow older it gets harder and harder to do the right thing?
Perhaps it is because the morally right choices are often made at one's expense. And as you mature you realize that no one's there to protect your interests for you - it's often a one man show. If you yourself don't seek what's best for you, who will?
Recently, I discovered that a friend was undergoing punishment for misplacing his belongings. Somehow, it had gotten lost a few months back, and for the life of him he had been unable to locate it. Into thin air, it had gone.
That night, on the spur of the moment, I decided to check my cabinet to see if his belongings were with me. The logical part of me acknowledged the low probability, but there was something at the back of my mind, nagging away at me...
Lo and behold. His items were actually with me.
I will gloss over the pros and cons of confessing. In the end though, after almost 2 sleepless hours in bed, I messaged him and apologized profusely, taking all responsibility for my honest mistake. Fortunately, there was a happy ending. Of sorts.
And tonight, yes, just tonight, I had to make just such another choice.
It was a choice that messed my insides up completely, keeping me awake until now. I will always remember pacing my room, asking myself why should I not be selfish and just do what I wanted. The morally right choice suddenly seemed too exacting, too painful to make.
I almost succumbed. I almost made a choice that I am sure I would be ashamed of in time to come. In the end, as heart-rending as it was, I made the better choice.
The dust's slowly settling. How will things turn out? Will it all be worth it in the end? What if I realize, a few months down the road, that I was much better off just watching out for myself, instead of always having to keep others in mind?
If you haven't been to such a crossroads before in your life, I wish you strength of resolution and clearness of mind. For it is then that you will see, truly, how difficult it is to -
"Be a man, do the right thing."
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Uncommon Problem Solving
As children mature into adults, they slowly begin to assimilate lessons no teacher can pass on in a normal classroom. For example, they learn to react to different social stimuli, and as experience accrues so do they react faster and better.
Let's say you introduce yourself to a stranger - chances are, he/she would react accordingly, and an exchange of names and pleasantries would ensue. This is simply because that particular social exchange has happened so often both parties respond almost instinctively.
Now, isn't the converse true? That if someone has not been exposed to a particular social exchange previously, wouldn't the response time and quality of response be so poor as to leave that person like a stranded fish gasping for water?
Knowledge without application is about as useful as using sandpaper for toiletpaper. Let us explore the possibilities.
Scenario 1: Stuck in a holding area
Course of Action: Get a female to approach the ushers, preferably the male ones, to urgently plead to leave to use the bathroom. Scream "I NEED TO PEE NOW!!" until effect is achieved.
In my opinion, guys will balk at having to deal with such a situation and simply acquiesce.
Track Record: Almost worked once, defeated by a male who thought commendably fast on his feet. Oh well. Not all males think so fast.
Scenario 2: Getting scolded by your parents
Course of Action: Rush up to the miffed parent and hug tightly, cooing "Mum, Dad, I love you so much! Thank you for always being there to guide me."
Track Record: My mum's immune already. Only worked once, but that's probably because I wasn't exactly a very cute or heartstrings-tugging kind of kid. Works best for kids under 16.
Scenario 3: Having a stranger jump your queue at a foodstall
Course of Action 1: Grab the nearest child and pinch hard. When the queue-jumper turns to look, comfort the child loudly, "It's ok, I know you're very hungry, but we've got to wait until queue-jumping worms like this man next to us get their food, ok? Hush now..."
Course of Action 2: Direct a nearby child to repeat loudly, "Mum is it ok to jump queues? I thought you said if I jumped queues I would go to hell? So is this man going to hell too?"
Track Record: Untested, nearby children not as handy as you think. For best results rehearse your own children.
Scenario 4: Your boyfriend/husband/father is not giving in to you
Course of Action: Whine and whine and whine. Follow up with excessive pouting and threats along the lines of "I refuse to bear you children/grandchildren!". Yes, it's sexist, but you're a fool if you're not going to use every weapon in your god-given arsenal.
Track Record: Wait a minute. Isn't this what every girl does already? All the same, works with 95% of males. The remaining 5% are just too young or too old.
Bleah. More scenarios the next time I max out on adrenalin doing an assignment past midnight and cannot sleep.
Let's say you introduce yourself to a stranger - chances are, he/she would react accordingly, and an exchange of names and pleasantries would ensue. This is simply because that particular social exchange has happened so often both parties respond almost instinctively.
Now, isn't the converse true? That if someone has not been exposed to a particular social exchange previously, wouldn't the response time and quality of response be so poor as to leave that person like a stranded fish gasping for water?
Knowledge without application is about as useful as using sandpaper for toiletpaper. Let us explore the possibilities.
Scenario 1: Stuck in a holding area
Course of Action: Get a female to approach the ushers, preferably the male ones, to urgently plead to leave to use the bathroom. Scream "I NEED TO PEE NOW!!" until effect is achieved.
In my opinion, guys will balk at having to deal with such a situation and simply acquiesce.
Track Record: Almost worked once, defeated by a male who thought commendably fast on his feet. Oh well. Not all males think so fast.
Scenario 2: Getting scolded by your parents
Course of Action: Rush up to the miffed parent and hug tightly, cooing "Mum, Dad, I love you so much! Thank you for always being there to guide me."
Track Record: My mum's immune already. Only worked once, but that's probably because I wasn't exactly a very cute or heartstrings-tugging kind of kid. Works best for kids under 16.
Scenario 3: Having a stranger jump your queue at a foodstall
Course of Action 1: Grab the nearest child and pinch hard. When the queue-jumper turns to look, comfort the child loudly, "It's ok, I know you're very hungry, but we've got to wait until queue-jumping worms like this man next to us get their food, ok? Hush now..."
Course of Action 2: Direct a nearby child to repeat loudly, "Mum is it ok to jump queues? I thought you said if I jumped queues I would go to hell? So is this man going to hell too?"
Track Record: Untested, nearby children not as handy as you think. For best results rehearse your own children.
Scenario 4: Your boyfriend/husband/father is not giving in to you
Course of Action: Whine and whine and whine. Follow up with excessive pouting and threats along the lines of "I refuse to bear you children/grandchildren!". Yes, it's sexist, but you're a fool if you're not going to use every weapon in your god-given arsenal.
Track Record: Wait a minute. Isn't this what every girl does already? All the same, works with 95% of males. The remaining 5% are just too young or too old.
Bleah. More scenarios the next time I max out on adrenalin doing an assignment past midnight and cannot sleep.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Karaoke 3: Guidelines
I have done it. After sitting through yet another karaoke session today, I have determined the elusive exact social composition of a successful karaoke party.
50% Enthusiasts - Clearly, you need as many enthusiasts as possible. These are the people who are not going to be shy about belting out their favourite songs, and who basically queue up every single song three times over on the system. Basically, the backbone of the party.
20% Singers - A karaoke session subsisting purely on well-meaning enthusiasm, without the occasional dash of talent, will drive people to turn to an ascetic solitary life of prayer afterwards.
Therefore, always include a few trained or gifted singers to inspire and to entertain.
20% Reserved Ones - These are the people who will patiently, gracefully wait their turn. They serve as the obligatory bunch who need goading from the Enthusiasts before they pull off a One Hit Wonder.
Why have this group when the Enthusiasts suffice? See, once they cave in to social pressure, a general sense of accomplishment and brotherhood will come to exist amongst the rest, thus improving the mood of the party.
10% Clowns - No party is complete without these people. They will sing in monotone, shout words instead of sing, resort to drama mama antics to distract from their lack of singing, and basically serve to ameliorate those awkward silences.
So why is all this important?
The next time you karaoke, observe your friends carefully. Identify a certain niche or class that is missing from the above formula, then fill it - consider it your duty to help make the session a fun one.
Caution though, there are many pitfalls to avoid. If you are an Enthusiast, please keep an eye out on the mood of your fellow karaokees. Dilated pupils and frothing at the mouth are common signs that you should shut up and pass the mike on.
Singers, please do not take things so seriously. Sing for fun, damn it, it's not Singapore Idol, if you forget lyrics or sing a boo-boo please don't repeat the dang song. Or curse. Or cry.
For the Reserved Ones, be a sport, don't make the whole world beg you on their knees before you agree to croon a number. Know when to stop playing hard to get, and in the event that a rock with lichen growing on it has more talent than you, when it's your turn to sing, morph into a -
Clown. Notice the singular form of the word. No party is large enough for multiple clowns, so stop competing to see who can throw more face away. Gags are usually only funny the first 50 times, after that it's mitigating grounds for 1st degree murder, so don't try too hard too.
Ah. My first semi-exhuastive guide to having the perfect karaoke experience.
50% Enthusiasts - Clearly, you need as many enthusiasts as possible. These are the people who are not going to be shy about belting out their favourite songs, and who basically queue up every single song three times over on the system. Basically, the backbone of the party.
20% Singers - A karaoke session subsisting purely on well-meaning enthusiasm, without the occasional dash of talent, will drive people to turn to an ascetic solitary life of prayer afterwards.
Therefore, always include a few trained or gifted singers to inspire and to entertain.
20% Reserved Ones - These are the people who will patiently, gracefully wait their turn. They serve as the obligatory bunch who need goading from the Enthusiasts before they pull off a One Hit Wonder.
Why have this group when the Enthusiasts suffice? See, once they cave in to social pressure, a general sense of accomplishment and brotherhood will come to exist amongst the rest, thus improving the mood of the party.
10% Clowns - No party is complete without these people. They will sing in monotone, shout words instead of sing, resort to drama mama antics to distract from their lack of singing, and basically serve to ameliorate those awkward silences.
So why is all this important?
The next time you karaoke, observe your friends carefully. Identify a certain niche or class that is missing from the above formula, then fill it - consider it your duty to help make the session a fun one.
Caution though, there are many pitfalls to avoid. If you are an Enthusiast, please keep an eye out on the mood of your fellow karaokees. Dilated pupils and frothing at the mouth are common signs that you should shut up and pass the mike on.
Singers, please do not take things so seriously. Sing for fun, damn it, it's not Singapore Idol, if you forget lyrics or sing a boo-boo please don't repeat the dang song. Or curse. Or cry.
For the Reserved Ones, be a sport, don't make the whole world beg you on their knees before you agree to croon a number. Know when to stop playing hard to get, and in the event that a rock with lichen growing on it has more talent than you, when it's your turn to sing, morph into a -
Clown. Notice the singular form of the word. No party is large enough for multiple clowns, so stop competing to see who can throw more face away. Gags are usually only funny the first 50 times, after that it's mitigating grounds for 1st degree murder, so don't try too hard too.
Ah. My first semi-exhuastive guide to having the perfect karaoke experience.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Muggers
Law students, it has been said, follow a set pattern to studying.
At the beginning of their course, they inevitably pounce upon their newly acquired books with the ferocity of a teenage girl at a Mango sale. With no regard to personal health or social standing, they mug like there's no tomorrow.
5 pages into their textbook, they can barely disguise the anxiety eating them from within, as they struggle to catch up with their fellow classmates.
50 pages into their textbook, a glow of smugness spreads over them, much like the way pregnant women seem to radiate vitality. They know they are ahead of the class, Hallelujah.
500 pages into their textbook, they pause. They awaken from some crazed stupor. They proceed to contemplate the meaning of life.
5000 pages - they quit law and open a bakery.
The above anecdote, related to me by a senior, prompted me to delve into the world of muggers and relook at conventional perceptions that hound them.
The first thing that struck me was how contradictory our views of muggers can be. On one hand, muggers are to students as Brad Pitt is to people aspiring to look good - muggers are the epitome, the very essence of studenthood.
On Day One of Primary school, mothers start pointing out the muggers to their children. "Look", they say, "there goes a mugger toad. Your only responsibility now is to study hard - if your myopia doens't worsen by the end of this year, somebody's gonna get a-hurt..."
Yet, muggers are also scornfully despised. They are characterized as selfish, kiasu, socially inept Anti-Christs. Openly declaring yourself a mugger in school has the same effect as wading into a crowded pool and admitting you have a fungal infection of the groin.
Public persecution of muggers has birthed a caste system of sorts, comprising of the Mugger (M), the Closet Mugger (CM) and the Non Mugger (NM). Like any other caste system worth its salt, once you are discovered to belong in a certain class it is very difficult to change your lot.
And of the three, it is the CM who attracts the most contempt, for who appreciates a traitor amongst your ranks? The Ms hate CMs for not being proud of who they are, and view the latter's lack of disclosure as a sign of cowardice.
Whereas the NMs, who have treated the CMs as one of their own right until the truth is revealed, cannot get over the fact that they have been lulled into a state of complacency whilst others have been racing ahead.
To me, Ms and NMs (sounds like chocolate) represent the tension between two ideals, namely, the ideal of complete studiousness and the ideal of education outside books. Wouldn't life be much simpler if we all recognized a nice balance is the best?
My friends, please, tolerance and understanding. If you pass a M today, don't jeer at him. Spare a minute to emphasise the value of life beyond the boundaries of books.
If you pass a NM, don't ask him whether he has been retained before. Spare a minute to remind him of the importance of being consistent in school work.
If you spot a CM though, don't show mercy. Spare a minute to bite him.
Ah... life would then be so much happier.
At the beginning of their course, they inevitably pounce upon their newly acquired books with the ferocity of a teenage girl at a Mango sale. With no regard to personal health or social standing, they mug like there's no tomorrow.
5 pages into their textbook, they can barely disguise the anxiety eating them from within, as they struggle to catch up with their fellow classmates.
50 pages into their textbook, a glow of smugness spreads over them, much like the way pregnant women seem to radiate vitality. They know they are ahead of the class, Hallelujah.
500 pages into their textbook, they pause. They awaken from some crazed stupor. They proceed to contemplate the meaning of life.
5000 pages - they quit law and open a bakery.
The above anecdote, related to me by a senior, prompted me to delve into the world of muggers and relook at conventional perceptions that hound them.
The first thing that struck me was how contradictory our views of muggers can be. On one hand, muggers are to students as Brad Pitt is to people aspiring to look good - muggers are the epitome, the very essence of studenthood.
On Day One of Primary school, mothers start pointing out the muggers to their children. "Look", they say, "there goes a mugger toad. Your only responsibility now is to study hard - if your myopia doens't worsen by the end of this year, somebody's gonna get a-hurt..."
Yet, muggers are also scornfully despised. They are characterized as selfish, kiasu, socially inept Anti-Christs. Openly declaring yourself a mugger in school has the same effect as wading into a crowded pool and admitting you have a fungal infection of the groin.
Public persecution of muggers has birthed a caste system of sorts, comprising of the Mugger (M), the Closet Mugger (CM) and the Non Mugger (NM). Like any other caste system worth its salt, once you are discovered to belong in a certain class it is very difficult to change your lot.
And of the three, it is the CM who attracts the most contempt, for who appreciates a traitor amongst your ranks? The Ms hate CMs for not being proud of who they are, and view the latter's lack of disclosure as a sign of cowardice.
Whereas the NMs, who have treated the CMs as one of their own right until the truth is revealed, cannot get over the fact that they have been lulled into a state of complacency whilst others have been racing ahead.
To me, Ms and NMs (sounds like chocolate) represent the tension between two ideals, namely, the ideal of complete studiousness and the ideal of education outside books. Wouldn't life be much simpler if we all recognized a nice balance is the best?
My friends, please, tolerance and understanding. If you pass a M today, don't jeer at him. Spare a minute to emphasise the value of life beyond the boundaries of books.
If you pass a NM, don't ask him whether he has been retained before. Spare a minute to remind him of the importance of being consistent in school work.
If you spot a CM though, don't show mercy. Spare a minute to bite him.
Ah... life would then be so much happier.
Monday, August 08, 2005
End Of Days
And there it is again, this queer insatiable longing lodged right in the centre of my being.
I walk past the places where we used to rehearse our dance, and stagger at the realization that there is nothing in the world that can bring back those times.
I spot all of you, the Presenters, now disbanded and slowly reintegrating into mainstream Law society, and ache inside. What I would give... oh, but it is foolish thinking.
It's been too long since I've gotten so involved in a group activity. In secondary school I envied the school teams, no matter their choice of sport, and I envied them for the way a common goal could unite so many disparate hearts, could elicit such a strong sense of belonging.
And I felt it that day, the day we finished the dance. It didn't matter to me if we won or lost, really. Just completing it with all of you, doing one perfect run with all of you, it was magical.
Thank you every single one of you. John's right, there's no better way to start Law school.
I walk past the places where we used to rehearse our dance, and stagger at the realization that there is nothing in the world that can bring back those times.
I spot all of you, the Presenters, now disbanded and slowly reintegrating into mainstream Law society, and ache inside. What I would give... oh, but it is foolish thinking.
It's been too long since I've gotten so involved in a group activity. In secondary school I envied the school teams, no matter their choice of sport, and I envied them for the way a common goal could unite so many disparate hearts, could elicit such a strong sense of belonging.
And I felt it that day, the day we finished the dance. It didn't matter to me if we won or lost, really. Just completing it with all of you, doing one perfect run with all of you, it was magical.
Thank you every single one of you. John's right, there's no better way to start Law school.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Hiding
When things go blue, out of the blue
When troubles are so numerous they have to queue
You pause and you stop and you contemplate
And you're sure that if things went on at this rate
You'll simply burst
Who can blame you then for wanting to retreat
To keep from dealing with more defeats
No more misunderstandings no more losses
No more struggling against unseen forces
Lifting of a curse
I only doubt how far one can possibly run
Away from the fact that damage is still being done
So is standing one's ground the right thing?
To find a solution whilst persevering?
Not easy at all
In either case one needs much strength within
To bear it all and continue to grin
Whilst searching for a solution to set oneself free
... I just hope it wouldn't be
A demand too tall
When troubles are so numerous they have to queue
You pause and you stop and you contemplate
And you're sure that if things went on at this rate
You'll simply burst
Who can blame you then for wanting to retreat
To keep from dealing with more defeats
No more misunderstandings no more losses
No more struggling against unseen forces
Lifting of a curse
I only doubt how far one can possibly run
Away from the fact that damage is still being done
So is standing one's ground the right thing?
To find a solution whilst persevering?
Not easy at all
In either case one needs much strength within
To bear it all and continue to grin
Whilst searching for a solution to set oneself free
... I just hope it wouldn't be
A demand too tall
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Whither Identity
When I saw the Caucasian couple approaching, I leapt at them, charm bursting out of every unblocked pore I had.
The fake smile I bore was threatening to slide off my face, severe cramping being the primary reason, and it had been such a tedious and disheartening morning that I had at most only 1 minute's worth of good will Hanting left. Failure was not an option.
"Good morning! I'm from NUS! Would you like to make a donation?" The tin can I thrust out rattled, and I could hear the spiders inside artfully dodging the few pathetic coins rolling about.
Town was currently host to a thousand parasitical students doing community service, and you couldn't sneeze without spraying a student volunteer or two. Truth be told, this couple had probably already been approached and bugged so many times I should be happy if they didn't immediately assault me.
You can therefore imagine my surprise when they actually began to engage me in lively conversation, skyrocketing my status as Portable Spare Change Receptacle to Intelligent Human Being. I fielded questions regarding our current collection drive, as well as queries about student life in Singapore.
They left soon after, visibly pleased by the informative exchange we had, but not before donating a respectable amount and rendering a bittersweet praise.
"Why, we think it's amazing that you can speak English so well! Keep up the good work!"
Yes, I'm aware of the myopic view that Singaporeans, hailing from a country that is part of China, all speak Mystic Oriental Tongues and have specially evolved hands to manipulate chopsticks. So I closed one eye and graciously accepted their compliment.
Now, the above incident alone wouldn't have provided enough impetus for this post. The following incident in conjunction to the first, does.
A while later, when a Chinese couple I had approached returned puzzled blank looks, I rattled off my introduction in Mandarin instead. That seemed to do the trick - once the language barrier was overcome, they warmed up to me and we started chatting.
It turned out that they were tourists from Taiwan, and were just as inquisitive about Singapore as the earlier Caucasian couple was. Our encounter ended much like the first, with a generous contribution and a particularly unsettling compliment.
"Why, we think it's amazing that you can speak Mandarin so well! Keep up the good work!"
Right. I guess I must look like a veritable monkey to foreigners, master of an extensive vocabulary consisting of "Ook", "Oook" and "Ooook".
Upon reflection, I came to the conclusion that our national identity simply needs a more emphatic definition soon. Our young are growing up in a time when Singapore's truly beginning to embrace globalization, and foreign cultures have penetrated into our lives so deeply it's hard to tell where our own unique identities truly begin and end.
How much longer before the outside world stops mistaking us for always being part of another country? Will the next generation of Singaporeans be more confident in assuming a united identity? Or will they be a rush-job patchwork of borrowed cultures, of American MTV and British humour and Finnish technology?
In the meantime when I'm in town I'll be wearing a placard that says -
'Hi! My name is Hanting. I speak English and Mandarin. Please do not feed.'
The fake smile I bore was threatening to slide off my face, severe cramping being the primary reason, and it had been such a tedious and disheartening morning that I had at most only 1 minute's worth of good will Hanting left. Failure was not an option.
"Good morning! I'm from NUS! Would you like to make a donation?" The tin can I thrust out rattled, and I could hear the spiders inside artfully dodging the few pathetic coins rolling about.
Town was currently host to a thousand parasitical students doing community service, and you couldn't sneeze without spraying a student volunteer or two. Truth be told, this couple had probably already been approached and bugged so many times I should be happy if they didn't immediately assault me.
You can therefore imagine my surprise when they actually began to engage me in lively conversation, skyrocketing my status as Portable Spare Change Receptacle to Intelligent Human Being. I fielded questions regarding our current collection drive, as well as queries about student life in Singapore.
They left soon after, visibly pleased by the informative exchange we had, but not before donating a respectable amount and rendering a bittersweet praise.
"Why, we think it's amazing that you can speak English so well! Keep up the good work!"
Yes, I'm aware of the myopic view that Singaporeans, hailing from a country that is part of China, all speak Mystic Oriental Tongues and have specially evolved hands to manipulate chopsticks. So I closed one eye and graciously accepted their compliment.
Now, the above incident alone wouldn't have provided enough impetus for this post. The following incident in conjunction to the first, does.
A while later, when a Chinese couple I had approached returned puzzled blank looks, I rattled off my introduction in Mandarin instead. That seemed to do the trick - once the language barrier was overcome, they warmed up to me and we started chatting.
It turned out that they were tourists from Taiwan, and were just as inquisitive about Singapore as the earlier Caucasian couple was. Our encounter ended much like the first, with a generous contribution and a particularly unsettling compliment.
"Why, we think it's amazing that you can speak Mandarin so well! Keep up the good work!"
Right. I guess I must look like a veritable monkey to foreigners, master of an extensive vocabulary consisting of "Ook", "Oook" and "Ooook".
Upon reflection, I came to the conclusion that our national identity simply needs a more emphatic definition soon. Our young are growing up in a time when Singapore's truly beginning to embrace globalization, and foreign cultures have penetrated into our lives so deeply it's hard to tell where our own unique identities truly begin and end.
How much longer before the outside world stops mistaking us for always being part of another country? Will the next generation of Singaporeans be more confident in assuming a united identity? Or will they be a rush-job patchwork of borrowed cultures, of American MTV and British humour and Finnish technology?
In the meantime when I'm in town I'll be wearing a placard that says -
'Hi! My name is Hanting. I speak English and Mandarin. Please do not feed.'
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