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.
Monday, September 05, 2005
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.'
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Tastes
I've always thought it to be strange how people develop such varied tastes in music.
If you subscribe to the Nature argument, then we are all born with brains that respond differently to various strains of music, giving rise to natural preferences of one kind of music over another.
The Nurture argument, in contrast, states that if one continually associated pleasurable experiences with a certain kind of music, or endured continual exposure to that brand of music, a taste for that music would soon develop.
Both arguments, however, do not provide for how some of my friends can like the music that they like. In my opinion, no creature in God's own land can ever be meant to naturally enjoy unholy abominations like Trance - it simply goes against the order of nature.
And as for people slowly acclimatizing to unorthodox forms of music... well, I do agree that people in different cultures have managed to perform amazing physical feats like fire-walking or self-branding, but surely no one relishes self-infliction of pain?
This whole train of thought had its roots in witnessing my friend pay a good $20 for a celebrated Alternative Rock album the other day. Curious as to why he wasn't being more discerning with his money and buying a Mariah Carey album instead, I had a quick listen.
3 random tracks later, I was sure I had uncovered one of the greatest scams in the music industry.
Somebody out there, someone very smart, I grant you that, has been recording the sounds of cars exploding, milk souring, couples screaming and giraffes in heat, then marketing the product as music. And as long as there as people like my friend around, the scam will go on.
Curious to see how extensive this spiderweb of deceit had been spun, I began exploring other friends' MP3 playlists, and the results are shocking. Over and over again, I've uncovered samples of Heavy Metal, Trance, RnB, Dance etc, that serve to do nothing but reduce the average human brain to pulp.
I may be ranting, but I demand to know why the free world has not responded to such a severe assault on the human spirit. If I had my way I would round up the artistes who record such atrocities, dump them on a remote island in the Pacific, and begin testing of new atomic weapons.
Those that survive, should be electronically tagged with a microchip. Every time forthwith that they attempt to compose another 'song', the chip would issue a deterring electric shock.
Forgive me. It's been a bad weekend. I aplogize.
Maybe things would be better if people developed more backbone and resisted peer pressure more. All it takes is for one guy to stand up in the middle of a Metallica concert, shout "Wake up you mad toads! Don't you see you're bleeding from your eardrums?" for the diabolical spell to be broken.
Maybe it's all just a matter of fads and trends. My dad loathes comtemporary music more than I do, and my gut feeling is that grandpa felt the same way about music during my dad's time. I guess I'm just getting old and out of touch with the stuff they play nowadays.
Maybe it simply boils down to personal taste. Or personal injury. After all, there are probably lots of kids out there who have fallen off a swing or bike before and suffered permanent head damage.
In any case, reread this post while listening to Missy Elliot's new song, Lose Control. You'll see what I mean.
If you subscribe to the Nature argument, then we are all born with brains that respond differently to various strains of music, giving rise to natural preferences of one kind of music over another.
The Nurture argument, in contrast, states that if one continually associated pleasurable experiences with a certain kind of music, or endured continual exposure to that brand of music, a taste for that music would soon develop.
Both arguments, however, do not provide for how some of my friends can like the music that they like. In my opinion, no creature in God's own land can ever be meant to naturally enjoy unholy abominations like Trance - it simply goes against the order of nature.
And as for people slowly acclimatizing to unorthodox forms of music... well, I do agree that people in different cultures have managed to perform amazing physical feats like fire-walking or self-branding, but surely no one relishes self-infliction of pain?
This whole train of thought had its roots in witnessing my friend pay a good $20 for a celebrated Alternative Rock album the other day. Curious as to why he wasn't being more discerning with his money and buying a Mariah Carey album instead, I had a quick listen.
3 random tracks later, I was sure I had uncovered one of the greatest scams in the music industry.
Somebody out there, someone very smart, I grant you that, has been recording the sounds of cars exploding, milk souring, couples screaming and giraffes in heat, then marketing the product as music. And as long as there as people like my friend around, the scam will go on.
Curious to see how extensive this spiderweb of deceit had been spun, I began exploring other friends' MP3 playlists, and the results are shocking. Over and over again, I've uncovered samples of Heavy Metal, Trance, RnB, Dance etc, that serve to do nothing but reduce the average human brain to pulp.
I may be ranting, but I demand to know why the free world has not responded to such a severe assault on the human spirit. If I had my way I would round up the artistes who record such atrocities, dump them on a remote island in the Pacific, and begin testing of new atomic weapons.
Those that survive, should be electronically tagged with a microchip. Every time forthwith that they attempt to compose another 'song', the chip would issue a deterring electric shock.
Forgive me. It's been a bad weekend. I aplogize.
Maybe things would be better if people developed more backbone and resisted peer pressure more. All it takes is for one guy to stand up in the middle of a Metallica concert, shout "Wake up you mad toads! Don't you see you're bleeding from your eardrums?" for the diabolical spell to be broken.
Maybe it's all just a matter of fads and trends. My dad loathes comtemporary music more than I do, and my gut feeling is that grandpa felt the same way about music during my dad's time. I guess I'm just getting old and out of touch with the stuff they play nowadays.
Maybe it simply boils down to personal taste. Or personal injury. After all, there are probably lots of kids out there who have fallen off a swing or bike before and suffered permanent head damage.
In any case, reread this post while listening to Missy Elliot's new song, Lose Control. You'll see what I mean.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Tried & Tested (Prove Me Wrong) 3
People mistake a lot of what I come up with as shameless pick-up lines. Please, for the last time, they are merely harmless little ice-breakers.
Of course, in the hands of a professional, they can wreck serious damage.
Walk up to a person and say -
"Hi! My name is XXX! It's nice to meet you, but please pardon me for the way I talk, whenever I talk to cute girls/boys I always sstt... tters... stutttter."
Of course, in the hands of a professional, they can wreck serious damage.
Walk up to a person and say -
"Hi! My name is XXX! It's nice to meet you, but please pardon me for the way I talk, whenever I talk to cute girls/boys I always sstt... tters... stutttter."
Packrat
In many respects, I take after my mother. Not only do I bear a strong resemblance to her, I've also inherited her knack of insight into human relationships, her bubbly and cheerful disposition, her keenness to reach out to others... amongst a whole list of other strengths.
Unfortunately, it dawned upon me today that I may have also inherited a particular neurosis of hers.
In my case, the snowflake that precipitated the avanlanche, may well have been a rubber seed.
When I was a boy scout, 13 years ago, I found a rubber seed during an expedition to Pulau Ubin. My patrol leader had commended me for recognizing it for what it was, and, glowing with pride, I stashed that rubber seed away in my drawer - a little medal of the day.
It was to become the oldest item in my entire hoard of 'treasures'.
Soon, I began to attach emotional significance to the strangest items. A little telescope birthday gift, a candle that saved the day during a black out, a scented eraser from a crush... let's just say that by the time I was in JC, I had one drawer labelled 'Stationery', one drawer marked 'Books' and 45234 drawers of 'Miscellaneous'.
According to psychologists, people who hoard things compulsively, or packrats, have manifold reasons for doing so. Mostly, these packrats attach to the items a physical, potential or emotional value that others don't see.
Armed with the above insight, I finally understood why I just can't seem to make space in my room for new things. Just before I empty a cabinet, I will swear to discard 80% of the items inside, but once I start sifting through my collection, what I end up throwing away barely fills up the pockets on a bikini.
Yes, I effectively merely take everything out and put them back in a different order.
When I moved into a new bunk with Desmond in the army, I thought I had left my troubles behind. Here was a brand new room, one unfettered with years of accrued sentimental keepsakes, finally I would have a fresh start.
Today, if you meet Desmond and mention 'Hanting' and 'room organization' in the same sentence, you can still see his face twitch and spasm as he recollects the trauma.
The latest remedy I'm trying - digitally photographing mementoes before I reluctantly relinquish them. With this new method, I managed to bash a clear path from my bedroom door to my bed. I hope to excavate my table and chair before term starts, and eventually correct the way my house tilts to one side.
Heck, I think I'm going to print this post out and stick it on my wall, as a memento of my re-affirmed determination to kick my hoarding habit.
Unfortunately, it dawned upon me today that I may have also inherited a particular neurosis of hers.
In my case, the snowflake that precipitated the avanlanche, may well have been a rubber seed.
When I was a boy scout, 13 years ago, I found a rubber seed during an expedition to Pulau Ubin. My patrol leader had commended me for recognizing it for what it was, and, glowing with pride, I stashed that rubber seed away in my drawer - a little medal of the day.
It was to become the oldest item in my entire hoard of 'treasures'.
Soon, I began to attach emotional significance to the strangest items. A little telescope birthday gift, a candle that saved the day during a black out, a scented eraser from a crush... let's just say that by the time I was in JC, I had one drawer labelled 'Stationery', one drawer marked 'Books' and 45234 drawers of 'Miscellaneous'.
According to psychologists, people who hoard things compulsively, or packrats, have manifold reasons for doing so. Mostly, these packrats attach to the items a physical, potential or emotional value that others don't see.
Armed with the above insight, I finally understood why I just can't seem to make space in my room for new things. Just before I empty a cabinet, I will swear to discard 80% of the items inside, but once I start sifting through my collection, what I end up throwing away barely fills up the pockets on a bikini.
Yes, I effectively merely take everything out and put them back in a different order.
When I moved into a new bunk with Desmond in the army, I thought I had left my troubles behind. Here was a brand new room, one unfettered with years of accrued sentimental keepsakes, finally I would have a fresh start.
Today, if you meet Desmond and mention 'Hanting' and 'room organization' in the same sentence, you can still see his face twitch and spasm as he recollects the trauma.
The latest remedy I'm trying - digitally photographing mementoes before I reluctantly relinquish them. With this new method, I managed to bash a clear path from my bedroom door to my bed. I hope to excavate my table and chair before term starts, and eventually correct the way my house tilts to one side.
Heck, I think I'm going to print this post out and stick it on my wall, as a memento of my re-affirmed determination to kick my hoarding habit.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Post Army Health Report
I was watching TV the other day when I was reminded of the way a friend of mine keeps In Shape. Do push-ups while you watch TV, he said. So I thought, ok, why not.
But the moment the command 'Do push-ups now' was issued from my brain, my legs gave way, my bowels clenched, my arms spasmed, my heart murmured, my lungs deflated, my kidney shut down.
When I regained my consciousness a while later, I was still propped in the same chair, but with my mouth full of potato chips and my arm on automatic-self-feeding mode. My body, ironically, knows fully how to take care of itself.
The results of my decadent life are apparant enough. When I was being measured for my Presentations costume (because colourful attire distracts from my bad dancing), I was aghast to discover my waist line had ballooned. From a svelte 28 inches in the army, I am now a relative Marshmallow Man at XXX inches.
So I grit my teeth and went out for a run this evening. In fact, I was so pleased with my progress that at one point I whipped off my shirt and literally saw the fat melting away, revealing a systematic arrangement of gleaming abs.
Fate stepped in at this point to check my ego - I noticed this beef cake running in the opposite direction, and my delusions were thus dispelled. When he brushed past me, I swear I saw his abs sneering at mine. My abs were so intimidated they are now under the Witness Protection Program.
The upside to all this is that I started occupying completely new social niches. In fact, for a period of time there were girls who would have chosen me as a partner over Jared... though I didn't need to know that the main impetus was so they could bounce off me if they fell.
I guess things could have been much worse, so I am grateful for all the blessings I have. I may be plump, but at least I'm gorgeous to boot.
But the moment the command 'Do push-ups now' was issued from my brain, my legs gave way, my bowels clenched, my arms spasmed, my heart murmured, my lungs deflated, my kidney shut down.
When I regained my consciousness a while later, I was still propped in the same chair, but with my mouth full of potato chips and my arm on automatic-self-feeding mode. My body, ironically, knows fully how to take care of itself.
The results of my decadent life are apparant enough. When I was being measured for my Presentations costume (because colourful attire distracts from my bad dancing), I was aghast to discover my waist line had ballooned. From a svelte 28 inches in the army, I am now a relative Marshmallow Man at XXX inches.
So I grit my teeth and went out for a run this evening. In fact, I was so pleased with my progress that at one point I whipped off my shirt and literally saw the fat melting away, revealing a systematic arrangement of gleaming abs.
Fate stepped in at this point to check my ego - I noticed this beef cake running in the opposite direction, and my delusions were thus dispelled. When he brushed past me, I swear I saw his abs sneering at mine. My abs were so intimidated they are now under the Witness Protection Program.
The upside to all this is that I started occupying completely new social niches. In fact, for a period of time there were girls who would have chosen me as a partner over Jared... though I didn't need to know that the main impetus was so they could bounce off me if they fell.
I guess things could have been much worse, so I am grateful for all the blessings I have. I may be plump, but at least I'm gorgeous to boot.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Notebook
Pulling my cap harder down over my head, I walked into the Notebook Fair.
The reserved susurrous of a thousand notebooks humming filled the air, punctuated by the seemingly spontaneous exchanges between eager students and harried salesmen. Discarded flyers floated to the ground like uninterrupted snowflakes, their purposes fulfilled.
I walked the length of the hall, and finally reached a booth where three laptops, all hailing from competing brands, caught my eye. Oh, what things of beauty they were.
Their LCD screens shone like the faces of innocent youths besotted with love, their glistening keyboards tantalizing to the touch. Their mice, oh their mice, radiant like trailing comets in a midnight sky. Which human heart could bear to resist their temptation, even for a second?
A gruff salesman materialized next to me. "Do you have the money?" His eyes, though impatient, still betrayed an intrinsic kindness worn thin only by the proceedings of this long day.
I laid out the entire contents of my pockets on the counter. Scruffed up dollar notes recently rescued from greedy piggy banks, a few sweets, a yo-yo, a ball of twine.
"This all I have, mister."
As the salesman cautiously prodded my worldly belongings on the counter, a ghost of a grin escaped his serious mask of a face. "Son, which of these notebooks do you have in mind?"
I didn't even need to think. The salesman followed the direction of my pointed finger, and his gaze settled upon an IBM, quietly purring away in a dusty corner.
The surprise draped every word in his reply.
"Son, no, you don't want that one. No, that notebook is ugly. If you'll notice he's got a poor exterior design, and hardly looks as good as the others. He'll never be able to indulge in the world's beauty with you."
I smiled, and removed my cap from my head, revealing the lines of stitches across my face where the plastic surgeons fought valiantly in vain.
Where the hand of man could not interfere, to make my features less prone to frighten little children, stainless steel plates had been grafted onto my skin.
"Trust me, mister. I want that notebook in the corner."
The reserved susurrous of a thousand notebooks humming filled the air, punctuated by the seemingly spontaneous exchanges between eager students and harried salesmen. Discarded flyers floated to the ground like uninterrupted snowflakes, their purposes fulfilled.
I walked the length of the hall, and finally reached a booth where three laptops, all hailing from competing brands, caught my eye. Oh, what things of beauty they were.
Their LCD screens shone like the faces of innocent youths besotted with love, their glistening keyboards tantalizing to the touch. Their mice, oh their mice, radiant like trailing comets in a midnight sky. Which human heart could bear to resist their temptation, even for a second?
A gruff salesman materialized next to me. "Do you have the money?" His eyes, though impatient, still betrayed an intrinsic kindness worn thin only by the proceedings of this long day.
I laid out the entire contents of my pockets on the counter. Scruffed up dollar notes recently rescued from greedy piggy banks, a few sweets, a yo-yo, a ball of twine.
"This all I have, mister."
As the salesman cautiously prodded my worldly belongings on the counter, a ghost of a grin escaped his serious mask of a face. "Son, which of these notebooks do you have in mind?"
I didn't even need to think. The salesman followed the direction of my pointed finger, and his gaze settled upon an IBM, quietly purring away in a dusty corner.
The surprise draped every word in his reply.
"Son, no, you don't want that one. No, that notebook is ugly. If you'll notice he's got a poor exterior design, and hardly looks as good as the others. He'll never be able to indulge in the world's beauty with you."
I smiled, and removed my cap from my head, revealing the lines of stitches across my face where the plastic surgeons fought valiantly in vain.
Where the hand of man could not interfere, to make my features less prone to frighten little children, stainless steel plates had been grafted onto my skin.
"Trust me, mister. I want that notebook in the corner."
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Like Father...
My dad, upon his return from a recent business trip, asked me what I was up to in school these days.
"Presentations, dad. It's a dance competition of sorts, and I'm dancing!"
His left eyebrow shot up in an uncanny impersonation of The Rock.
"You? YOU? Dance? Sure lose one."
Ah. Now I have completed collecting a set of parents who value honesty over tact.
Before my shoulders could fully droop and spirit completely shatter, my dad leapt to justify his stand. You'll lose, he said, because there are simply too many dancers out there with more experience and greater talent. What you need to win, and he said this in his most conspirational tone, is to have a unique dance.
"A dance just like the one in the Kung Fu Hustle intro. Find a few friends, wield a few axes, swing to a corny song, and the trophy's yours!" His enthusiastic, sincere, beaming face made it hard for me to balk at his idea. But then again, only by so much.
This, of course, is the same parent who was giving me ideas on how to make my wedding dinner special.
"Dispense with all the boring baby photo presentations! Reject all your friends who want to make you play embarrassing games! Hire 2 horses and a sedan!"
According to him, my wife should make her grand entrance seated in a red Chinese sedan pulled by horses. Every table would have a centrepiece made of firecrackers, the firing of which would coincide with the sedan's entry. In his opinion, it would be far more memorable than the usual fare you get these days at weddings.
Let's just say I am going to make my wedding plans in secret, and very, very far away from my dad.
I just wish one day I would be able to assimilate his other characteristics, in particular his professional work ethics, the way he shoulders responsibility, how he goes about being a dad so confidently. There's so much to learn, especially now that adulthood beckons.
Though it's quite a relief to realize that I inherited my sense of humor and quirky outlook from my dad. It so totally quashes his claim that I was retrieved from the zoo.
"Presentations, dad. It's a dance competition of sorts, and I'm dancing!"
His left eyebrow shot up in an uncanny impersonation of The Rock.
"You? YOU? Dance? Sure lose one."
Ah. Now I have completed collecting a set of parents who value honesty over tact.
Before my shoulders could fully droop and spirit completely shatter, my dad leapt to justify his stand. You'll lose, he said, because there are simply too many dancers out there with more experience and greater talent. What you need to win, and he said this in his most conspirational tone, is to have a unique dance.
"A dance just like the one in the Kung Fu Hustle intro. Find a few friends, wield a few axes, swing to a corny song, and the trophy's yours!" His enthusiastic, sincere, beaming face made it hard for me to balk at his idea. But then again, only by so much.
This, of course, is the same parent who was giving me ideas on how to make my wedding dinner special.
"Dispense with all the boring baby photo presentations! Reject all your friends who want to make you play embarrassing games! Hire 2 horses and a sedan!"
According to him, my wife should make her grand entrance seated in a red Chinese sedan pulled by horses. Every table would have a centrepiece made of firecrackers, the firing of which would coincide with the sedan's entry. In his opinion, it would be far more memorable than the usual fare you get these days at weddings.
Let's just say I am going to make my wedding plans in secret, and very, very far away from my dad.
I just wish one day I would be able to assimilate his other characteristics, in particular his professional work ethics, the way he shoulders responsibility, how he goes about being a dad so confidently. There's so much to learn, especially now that adulthood beckons.
Though it's quite a relief to realize that I inherited my sense of humor and quirky outlook from my dad. It so totally quashes his claim that I was retrieved from the zoo.
Poems
I admit that in this wide world of ours
More forms of art abound than
My collection of U2 shirts
Yet one thing escapes me
And that is the way some poems are
Written, formed, divined, printed
The ones that strain your
Eyes
To read
By amalgamating, blending, coalescing
Word from some huge Thesaurus
Enmeshed together by painful analogies and Uhu Glue
The ones with quirky
Wording and sentence structure
And grammar fit to stupefy any language teacher
Perhaps it is just
Myself, me and I
The only one who think such poems obtuse and abstract
Thank god then
More forms of art abound than
My collection of U2 shirts
Yet one thing escapes me
And that is the way some poems are
Written, formed, divined, printed
The ones that strain your
Eyes
To read
By amalgamating, blending, coalescing
Word from some huge Thesaurus
Enmeshed together by painful analogies and Uhu Glue
The ones with quirky
Wording and sentence structure
And grammar fit to stupefy any language teacher
Perhaps it is just
Myself, me and I
The only one who think such poems obtuse and abstract
Thank god then
Saturday, July 23, 2005
A Quiet Afternoon
Saturday afternoons get to me. Especially the wintry, gloomy kinds.
You glance at the clock, wondering however can time pass so slowly, yet the next you look, you are taken aback at how time has just flitted past, like the ethereal shadows we sometime glimpse out of the corners of our eyes.
Words spoken in haste, spoken under the pressure of unsound judgement, resonate in your ears long after the phone has been replaced in its cradle. You wonder how things change so fast, evolving to previously unimagined proportions in the space of an hour.
You open boxes long stashed away, and the memories burst out like dusty butterflies eager for sunlight again. You sift through the pieces of a broken heart, and the lessons once taught are relearnt. Your spine tingles at the overpowering sense of deja vu.
Seated on your bed, the skies slowly clearing outside, you are stock still, yet thoughts churn round and round, one thought chasing another in an endless circuit. You wonder how many other human beings on this dismal day are going through the same thing as you.
Just one more would be nice.
You glance at the clock, wondering however can time pass so slowly, yet the next you look, you are taken aback at how time has just flitted past, like the ethereal shadows we sometime glimpse out of the corners of our eyes.
Words spoken in haste, spoken under the pressure of unsound judgement, resonate in your ears long after the phone has been replaced in its cradle. You wonder how things change so fast, evolving to previously unimagined proportions in the space of an hour.
You open boxes long stashed away, and the memories burst out like dusty butterflies eager for sunlight again. You sift through the pieces of a broken heart, and the lessons once taught are relearnt. Your spine tingles at the overpowering sense of deja vu.
Seated on your bed, the skies slowly clearing outside, you are stock still, yet thoughts churn round and round, one thought chasing another in an endless circuit. You wonder how many other human beings on this dismal day are going through the same thing as you.
Just one more would be nice.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Evolution
In primary school, I once came back from school in tears. My mum, on seeing a little eight year-old me sniffling away broken hearted, scooped me up in her arms protectively. Only after much consoling did I blurt out my miseries.
"Mum, the girls in school today said I was ugly..."
"Nonsense! You read the story of the ugly duckling, right? You're like that, you'll grow up to be, err... to be... a most fine duck!" Honesty has always ranked above tact in my mum's list of virtues.
In fact, when you think about it, being physically imperfect is a most important evolutionary stimulus. As an insightful friend pointed out, the less you can rely on your looks, the more you have to develop other social traits to, well, remain in the human gene pool.
Think of it this way. Let's say everyone is a swimmer in the human gene pool, and success is determined by how many people of the opposite sex want to swim near you. Then of course the good lookers are advantaged, because physical attraction is nothing to be scoffed at.
But other swimmers soon learn how to play the game their own way. In order to survive in the pool, they are forced to develop attractive skills like, to extend the metaphor, being able to perform synchronized swimming, or being able to hold their breath underwater for hours.
In short, you start relying on your personality to make yourself heard. And when that happens, you stop doing stupid things like peeing in the metaphorical pool.
It is no coincidence, mind you, that the most charming or colourful people you know are also not exactly the Brads or Daphnes of the world. I'll stick my neck out to slaughter another stereotype, and say that most of the angelic lookers might not necessarily have the depth of a Pringles can. Think Paris Hilton.
Of course, a theory can always be carried too far. I think if I tried going to school with a paper bag over my head, and tried to make friends on the strength of my personality, I'll soon make the acquaintance of the NUS security staff.
If a fine duck I must be, then a bubbly-funny-caring-sociable-trusting duck I will be.
No wait, that sounded wrong.
"Mum, the girls in school today said I was ugly..."
"Nonsense! You read the story of the ugly duckling, right? You're like that, you'll grow up to be, err... to be... a most fine duck!" Honesty has always ranked above tact in my mum's list of virtues.
In fact, when you think about it, being physically imperfect is a most important evolutionary stimulus. As an insightful friend pointed out, the less you can rely on your looks, the more you have to develop other social traits to, well, remain in the human gene pool.
Think of it this way. Let's say everyone is a swimmer in the human gene pool, and success is determined by how many people of the opposite sex want to swim near you. Then of course the good lookers are advantaged, because physical attraction is nothing to be scoffed at.
But other swimmers soon learn how to play the game their own way. In order to survive in the pool, they are forced to develop attractive skills like, to extend the metaphor, being able to perform synchronized swimming, or being able to hold their breath underwater for hours.
In short, you start relying on your personality to make yourself heard. And when that happens, you stop doing stupid things like peeing in the metaphorical pool.
It is no coincidence, mind you, that the most charming or colourful people you know are also not exactly the Brads or Daphnes of the world. I'll stick my neck out to slaughter another stereotype, and say that most of the angelic lookers might not necessarily have the depth of a Pringles can. Think Paris Hilton.
Of course, a theory can always be carried too far. I think if I tried going to school with a paper bag over my head, and tried to make friends on the strength of my personality, I'll soon make the acquaintance of the NUS security staff.
If a fine duck I must be, then a bubbly-funny-caring-sociable-trusting duck I will be.
No wait, that sounded wrong.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
GEP 2: Myths
In defence of all GEPs I pen these words
Lest insults directed at us grow more absurd
For many are too quick to stereotype and judge
Without first empathizing with us much
So to promote understanding and dissolve enmity
You'll have to read the rest with a mind quite free
The First Myth is that all GEPs are smart
With an unequal balance of head and heart
But that's simply not true - just look around
You'll find many a GEP who's also a clown
Though undeniable that some GEPs are brilliant
Oh, the masses of non-GEPs who're just as radiant
The Second Myth is that all GEPs are snobbishly proud
Of their talents and have their noses up in the clouds
Yet we're just as aware of our own shortcomings
And know there's not much to be openly trumpeting
In fact it's hard to find a GEP openly boasting
(Or at least one who isn't also already dead or roasting)
The Third Myth is that all GEPs are weird
Almost like we're raving lunatics to be feared
Oh come on, eccentricities are found in everyone
So if you spot a GEP please don't run
We're nice and fun and sexy too
In effect we're hardly any different from you
The Fourth Myth is that all GEPs are beautiful
Graceful creatures with blemishes too few
In truth good looks bless only the favoured one or two
And just to reaffirm what you already knew
When it comes to looking good there's only me
And yes, sometimes at the top it really does get lonely
There's probably a lot more that I could explain
But nothing beats you just taking the pain
To open your mind and question steoreotypes
You'll find little substance in all the GEP hype
It might sound condescending but I'll even venture to say
Go out and adopt a GEP friend today
Lest insults directed at us grow more absurd
For many are too quick to stereotype and judge
Without first empathizing with us much
So to promote understanding and dissolve enmity
You'll have to read the rest with a mind quite free
The First Myth is that all GEPs are smart
With an unequal balance of head and heart
But that's simply not true - just look around
You'll find many a GEP who's also a clown
Though undeniable that some GEPs are brilliant
Oh, the masses of non-GEPs who're just as radiant
The Second Myth is that all GEPs are snobbishly proud
Of their talents and have their noses up in the clouds
Yet we're just as aware of our own shortcomings
And know there's not much to be openly trumpeting
In fact it's hard to find a GEP openly boasting
(Or at least one who isn't also already dead or roasting)
The Third Myth is that all GEPs are weird
Almost like we're raving lunatics to be feared
Oh come on, eccentricities are found in everyone
So if you spot a GEP please don't run
We're nice and fun and sexy too
In effect we're hardly any different from you
The Fourth Myth is that all GEPs are beautiful
Graceful creatures with blemishes too few
In truth good looks bless only the favoured one or two
And just to reaffirm what you already knew
When it comes to looking good there's only me
And yes, sometimes at the top it really does get lonely
There's probably a lot more that I could explain
But nothing beats you just taking the pain
To open your mind and question steoreotypes
You'll find little substance in all the GEP hype
It might sound condescending but I'll even venture to say
Go out and adopt a GEP friend today
GEP 1: Prelude
I could see her face screwing up in that all-too familiar rictus of disbelief, and her brain juices (I'm no longer a biology student) sloshing around varied pathways to arrive at the very same reaction a thousand others shared.
"You're a GEP?!?!?!"
Yes, the extra exclamation and question marks were apparant in her tone. Ah, and since human beings are more alike than you think, I steeled myself for the inevitable follow-up remark.
"I always thought GEPs were like bookish and smart. You hardly look like one!"
Ouch.
"But wait, actually I can believe you are one. You behave like a GEP sometimes"
Ouch again.
A short history lesson is needed here. MOE launched the Gifted Education Programme in 1984, the year I was born, hoping to cater to quicker learners. One great miscalculation though, was the divide it would create between the GEPs and the rest of the world.
I've heard people detail GEP stereotypes, crack GEP jokes, spew anti-GEP sentiments. At the best of times, it's quite amusing, how people have enshrined the GEP as a short, thickly-spectacled nerd who uses bombastic words when elementary and inelaborate ones suffice, and possesses the social grace of a duck.
At the worst of times, it's baffling how people leap so quickly to judge.
"You're a GEP?!?!?!"
Yes, the extra exclamation and question marks were apparant in her tone. Ah, and since human beings are more alike than you think, I steeled myself for the inevitable follow-up remark.
"I always thought GEPs were like bookish and smart. You hardly look like one!"
Ouch.
"But wait, actually I can believe you are one. You behave like a GEP sometimes"
Ouch again.
A short history lesson is needed here. MOE launched the Gifted Education Programme in 1984, the year I was born, hoping to cater to quicker learners. One great miscalculation though, was the divide it would create between the GEPs and the rest of the world.
I've heard people detail GEP stereotypes, crack GEP jokes, spew anti-GEP sentiments. At the best of times, it's quite amusing, how people have enshrined the GEP as a short, thickly-spectacled nerd who uses bombastic words when elementary and inelaborate ones suffice, and possesses the social grace of a duck.
At the worst of times, it's baffling how people leap so quickly to judge.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Things Happen
A kite I tried to fly didn't fly well today
Exactly what went wrong I couldn't say
It's not like I've never flown a kite before
Though I admit I need to practise more
I wonder how long it would be
Before my kite flies high and free
When I tried to get it off the ground
It refused to go anywhere but down
I tugged and pulled with all my might
Yet nothing could lift my little kite...
... finally I gave in to my own frustration
And paid the kite no further attention
Lo and behold! a sudden wind came
A fearsome wind, hardly tame
That lifted my kite up so high
That no one could hope to catch it, not even I
And the string just slipped out of my hands
Oh where would my pretty kite land?
How you tease me sometimes my little kite
With your unpredictable little flights
Refusing to budge every time I tried
And escaping the moment I set you aside!
Fly then, if you must, fly high fly free
Just remember to come back to me
Exactly what went wrong I couldn't say
It's not like I've never flown a kite before
Though I admit I need to practise more
I wonder how long it would be
Before my kite flies high and free
When I tried to get it off the ground
It refused to go anywhere but down
I tugged and pulled with all my might
Yet nothing could lift my little kite...
... finally I gave in to my own frustration
And paid the kite no further attention
Lo and behold! a sudden wind came
A fearsome wind, hardly tame
That lifted my kite up so high
That no one could hope to catch it, not even I
And the string just slipped out of my hands
Oh where would my pretty kite land?
How you tease me sometimes my little kite
With your unpredictable little flights
Refusing to budge every time I tried
And escaping the moment I set you aside!
Fly then, if you must, fly high fly free
Just remember to come back to me
Sunday, July 17, 2005
The Dark Side
It is imperative that you understand I am completing the rest of this post with a most oppressive burden of guilt upon my shoulders, lest I lose whatever moral authority I may possess.
My little tale of caution opens with an attempt to purchase the latest Harry Potter with a pre-order coupon, a gift from a friend. Imagine my consternation when I was denied a sucessful transaction - the coupon was invalid without its accompanying receipt.
I tried my best to negotiate, of course. The coupon was a gift, I argued, and it was mere oversight which led the exclusion of the receipt along with the gift. No, my friend is uncontactable at the moment... no exceptions? No way at all? Well, ok, I will come back another day with the receipt, thanks.
After treading a dismayed 100m from the bookstore, I was seized by a sudden anger.
My intial disappointment vanished, shoved over with an inexplicable frustration. Who were they to oppose my will with their red-tape and confused lower-level management decisions? Had I come this far only to be turned away? Was I really expected to come back another day, at my expense, cowering like a little boy?
And it was then that this little switch deep inside me, marked 'CAUTION - Dark Side', flipped.
My mind worked furiously as I retraced my steps to the counter. I waited patiently for the particular cashier I had gone to earlier to be done, then approached her. By this time, there was a certain arrogance, a certain audacity to my demeanour.
For the first time in years, I deliberately told a bald-faced lie - I've managed to call my friend, and she has lost her receipt. Could I please use the coupon now? No? But that doesn't make sense! Look, I've got the coupon, is that not proof enough of purchase? You need my name? I'm Simon. Do you need to make another call to your manager?
I fairly understood the predicament she was in. I was perhaps the only customer so far to present such a situation to her, and being inexperienced, she was unable to reconcile both the explicit yet inflexible rules with a determined patron.
Furthermore, with her manager absent, there was simply no precedent or orders for her to act upon. She was thus stranded in unchartered waters, unable to decide whether or not to process the sale.
She hesitated. I took one look at her face, recognized the indecision that lay within, and pounced.
Hey, I said, there might be a way out of this. Just accept the coupon, and I'll give you my particulars in addition to my friend's name and contact details. I'll return first thing tomorrow with my friend, and then we'll sort out the whole thing. Your manager doesn't need to know anything about this too, just scan in the coupon as if you have seen the receipt yourself.
A few more minutes of gentle prodding, and I was outside the store with my Potter in a carrier.
I was sweating, but I was also sure I had maintained a cool, calm and collected tone of voice throughout. My face had also betrayed nothing beyond earnest, honest cooperation, judging from the way she had acquiesced and even thanked me for shopping at their store. I had gotten away with my demands undetected.
Of course, the guilt settled in soon after. At first I resorted to reason - there were other ways of getting my book tonight, including arranging a troublesome exchange between my friend and the store, kicking up a big ugly fuss and demanding to see the manager, or simply not using the coupon. I had merely chosen a course of least resistance and maximum effect.
Still, I'll probably drift off to sleep tonight worrying about the resultant effect of my lying on my karma. Irregardless of any defence I may conjure, the fact remains that I had used my strengths of persuasion and composure to manipulate another human being.
I wonder whether another adult in my position would have done better.
My little tale of caution opens with an attempt to purchase the latest Harry Potter with a pre-order coupon, a gift from a friend. Imagine my consternation when I was denied a sucessful transaction - the coupon was invalid without its accompanying receipt.
I tried my best to negotiate, of course. The coupon was a gift, I argued, and it was mere oversight which led the exclusion of the receipt along with the gift. No, my friend is uncontactable at the moment... no exceptions? No way at all? Well, ok, I will come back another day with the receipt, thanks.
After treading a dismayed 100m from the bookstore, I was seized by a sudden anger.
My intial disappointment vanished, shoved over with an inexplicable frustration. Who were they to oppose my will with their red-tape and confused lower-level management decisions? Had I come this far only to be turned away? Was I really expected to come back another day, at my expense, cowering like a little boy?
And it was then that this little switch deep inside me, marked 'CAUTION - Dark Side', flipped.
My mind worked furiously as I retraced my steps to the counter. I waited patiently for the particular cashier I had gone to earlier to be done, then approached her. By this time, there was a certain arrogance, a certain audacity to my demeanour.
For the first time in years, I deliberately told a bald-faced lie - I've managed to call my friend, and she has lost her receipt. Could I please use the coupon now? No? But that doesn't make sense! Look, I've got the coupon, is that not proof enough of purchase? You need my name? I'm Simon. Do you need to make another call to your manager?
I fairly understood the predicament she was in. I was perhaps the only customer so far to present such a situation to her, and being inexperienced, she was unable to reconcile both the explicit yet inflexible rules with a determined patron.
Furthermore, with her manager absent, there was simply no precedent or orders for her to act upon. She was thus stranded in unchartered waters, unable to decide whether or not to process the sale.
She hesitated. I took one look at her face, recognized the indecision that lay within, and pounced.
Hey, I said, there might be a way out of this. Just accept the coupon, and I'll give you my particulars in addition to my friend's name and contact details. I'll return first thing tomorrow with my friend, and then we'll sort out the whole thing. Your manager doesn't need to know anything about this too, just scan in the coupon as if you have seen the receipt yourself.
A few more minutes of gentle prodding, and I was outside the store with my Potter in a carrier.
I was sweating, but I was also sure I had maintained a cool, calm and collected tone of voice throughout. My face had also betrayed nothing beyond earnest, honest cooperation, judging from the way she had acquiesced and even thanked me for shopping at their store. I had gotten away with my demands undetected.
Of course, the guilt settled in soon after. At first I resorted to reason - there were other ways of getting my book tonight, including arranging a troublesome exchange between my friend and the store, kicking up a big ugly fuss and demanding to see the manager, or simply not using the coupon. I had merely chosen a course of least resistance and maximum effect.
Still, I'll probably drift off to sleep tonight worrying about the resultant effect of my lying on my karma. Irregardless of any defence I may conjure, the fact remains that I had used my strengths of persuasion and composure to manipulate another human being.
I wonder whether another adult in my position would have done better.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Image
"Hanting Hanting! We've studied your face carefully, and we want to tell you what we think!"
Involuntarily, my curiosity piqued. Face-reading, not unlike its sister science palm-reading, is a detailed study that hails from centuries ago. Man has long since recognized that, as preposterous as it may seem, there is some correlation between our outward appeareance and our destinies/personalities.
Didn't the Chinese even derive a comprehensive reference chart that could highlight the significance of the placement of moles on the face? Or the cosmic meaning of a squarish jaw, a button nose, or high-foreheads?
For all I knew, my new friends from the Presentations group could have had unparalled schooling in the mystic arts of reading faces. Eager curiousity soon betrayed itself on my face.
"We think you look like an uncle sort, who would push a pram and carry diapers in about 10 years!"
They went on. Daddy-looking, guai (or Mandarin for obedient), crappily corny, so on and so forth.
*Phish*. My pricked ears could barely make out the sound of an ego deflating and then spontaneously combusting.
But all in all, it wasn't anything new. It seems that my entire life I've had to receive remarks of the same ilk. People have told me I look honest, that I would grow up to work in the government, that they would trust their daughters with me.
On the flip side, they vehemently refuse to believe that I'm not in the Library Society, that I actually have seen the inside of Zouk, that I actually relish performing the blasted Frog Dance. Oh, the extrapolations people arrive at from the way you present yourself.
I've always wistfully hungered after the detached, self-assured coolness of the reticent biker dude. You know, perpetually balled-up angst, sauveness, everything that Wolverine is in the comics. Nothing I do helps, of course.
My pierced ear revolted anyone above the age of 12 (my 10 year old cousin being the sole supporter) while my plans for dyed hair have been shelved, after my dad promised me I wouldn't look cool, and instead just look like a human carrot. Let's not even discuss the hip-hop classes I took.
The silver lining presented itself just a few days ago.
A friend told me that she really enjoyed talking to me, that she was comfortable enough around me to speak her mind. Something about the, in her own words, 'crappiness that you have', disarmed safeguards that would have prevented her from opening up. It was something, she reminded me, that not everyone could do.
Everything happens for a reason then, I suppose.
Involuntarily, my curiosity piqued. Face-reading, not unlike its sister science palm-reading, is a detailed study that hails from centuries ago. Man has long since recognized that, as preposterous as it may seem, there is some correlation between our outward appeareance and our destinies/personalities.
Didn't the Chinese even derive a comprehensive reference chart that could highlight the significance of the placement of moles on the face? Or the cosmic meaning of a squarish jaw, a button nose, or high-foreheads?
For all I knew, my new friends from the Presentations group could have had unparalled schooling in the mystic arts of reading faces. Eager curiousity soon betrayed itself on my face.
"We think you look like an uncle sort, who would push a pram and carry diapers in about 10 years!"
They went on. Daddy-looking, guai (or Mandarin for obedient), crappily corny, so on and so forth.
*Phish*. My pricked ears could barely make out the sound of an ego deflating and then spontaneously combusting.
But all in all, it wasn't anything new. It seems that my entire life I've had to receive remarks of the same ilk. People have told me I look honest, that I would grow up to work in the government, that they would trust their daughters with me.
On the flip side, they vehemently refuse to believe that I'm not in the Library Society, that I actually have seen the inside of Zouk, that I actually relish performing the blasted Frog Dance. Oh, the extrapolations people arrive at from the way you present yourself.
I've always wistfully hungered after the detached, self-assured coolness of the reticent biker dude. You know, perpetually balled-up angst, sauveness, everything that Wolverine is in the comics. Nothing I do helps, of course.
My pierced ear revolted anyone above the age of 12 (my 10 year old cousin being the sole supporter) while my plans for dyed hair have been shelved, after my dad promised me I wouldn't look cool, and instead just look like a human carrot. Let's not even discuss the hip-hop classes I took.
The silver lining presented itself just a few days ago.
A friend told me that she really enjoyed talking to me, that she was comfortable enough around me to speak her mind. Something about the, in her own words, 'crappiness that you have', disarmed safeguards that would have prevented her from opening up. It was something, she reminded me, that not everyone could do.
Everything happens for a reason then, I suppose.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Law Camp 3: Photos Galore
In response to a very important visitor to this blog, here is the very first time I'm posting a photo update!
Well, this one is of my Law OG... it's still a very fun group! Haha, if you want an intro to any of the guys or girls, just let me know.
A parody of a very high-visibility ad put up by another University... Alex, if you can't guess this one...
My Secret Pal and I! Haha, Wendy, I'm glad we managed to hit it off! =)
The guys before our Formal Dinner. For every girl's information, the guy 3rd from the left is available, I'll send you his number for only 50 cents. As the current mantra in all financial matters is transparancy, all of the 50 cents will be going to the HT Pocket Money fund.
More photos soon!
Well, this one is of my Law OG... it's still a very fun group! Haha, if you want an intro to any of the guys or girls, just let me know.
A parody of a very high-visibility ad put up by another University... Alex, if you can't guess this one...
My Secret Pal and I! Haha, Wendy, I'm glad we managed to hit it off! =)
The guys before our Formal Dinner. For every girl's information, the guy 3rd from the left is available, I'll send you his number for only 50 cents. As the current mantra in all financial matters is transparancy, all of the 50 cents will be going to the HT Pocket Money fund.
More photos soon!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
